In a 2010 profile of Ray Bradbury written by John Blake and published by CNN, Bradbury, the renowned writer of science fiction, spoke of his writing as a “God-given thing”. Blake writes, “Bradbury, who turns 90 this month, says he will sometimes open one of his books late at night and cry out thanks to God.” In this relatively long article, Bradbury describes his trust in God this way: “I jump off the cliff and build my wings on the way down." To my way of thinking, that’s about as close as one can get to living in the present. Perhaps most important, Bradbury sums up the “center of his faith” in a word— love. Everything he has done in his life— his writing, his 56-year marriage, his relationship with others— all center around love.

I’m not a fan of so-called science fiction writing, at least not as defined in imagining the future. Rather than the future, my eyes tend to look more to the past— if they are not fixed on the present. One story from Ray Bradbury sticks in my mind, though, a section from Dandelion Wine about a character named Helen Loomis. It’s been close to 50 years since Dandelion Wine was part of the curriculum I taught to high school literature students. It’s easy enough now for me to understand why as a young, relatively inexperienced adult, that Bradbury’s tale touched me so deeply, touched me without me articulating the meaning of living in the now. Several years ago— a few years before our mother’s death— I recounted to my mother and sister the story of Helen Loomis that I was remembering from my first years of teaching.

Set in a small Midwestern town in the first half of the 20th century, it is the story of an old woman living in an old home on a tree-lined street. She entertains daily a couple of small children from the neighborhood. They come to play on her big Victorian front porch, dressing up in the old lady’s dresses and shoes from her younger years. She serves them lemonade and cookies as they all wile away the hot summer days. One evening, she decides to rummage through the attic of treasures that have accumulated from her childhood, through marriage, and into her old age, which she is living out alone. I don’t recall whether she had grown children living somewhere else, or perhaps no children at all. She comes across a photograph of herself as a little girl. Proudly the next day she shows the little girls this photo, exclaiming this is me at your age. Oh no, says the one little girl. That can’t be you. You were never young. You’ve always been an old lady. And worst of all, you’re lying! as they turn to leave, unwilling to stay around an old lady who lies. Later that day, alone, the old lady sadly remembers something her deceased husband told her long ago about her attic of treasures. As I recall, her husband told her something like this: someday, Helen, all these things will only break your heart.

‘After all once the past was over, it was done. You were always in the present.’ writes Bradbury in Dandelion Wine. In this conversation that took place in 2005 with my mother and oldest sister, I was brought to recount Helen Loomis’s story because I saw my mother’s and my own life moving through my mind’s eye. She was just a few months shy of being an official client of hospice. Mother had two homes full of stuff, and my own trove of stuff far surpassed hers. When we thought that Mother’s lawyer had convinced her to sell one of her homes, she changed her mind before he was hardly out the driveway. “What would I do with all my things,” I think she said, leaning against the wall near the backdoor of her home in the country. At the heart of this decision was a fear of letting go. To some of us, once we start letting go of our things, we are accepting that we will at some point have to say good-bye to everything we have known. Also at the heart of this is our failure to trust that now is all we have and now is enough, regardless of how much we have.

I saw an interview on cable with a well-known actress, now in her mid 70s, speaking about her long career, her well-known actor father, and her life that has been full of challenges and rewards— a life that continues to be full of challenges and rewards. She described herself as happy, at peace, and present. Granted, this is a wealthy woman in terms of worldly goods and worldly success. No doubt, Ray Bradbury knew much comfort from the success he achieved as a writer. I doubt, however, that in the night when he opened one of his books and cried out thanks to God, he was reconciling his bank and investment accounts, or passing his eyes over his home and his art. I choose instead to think that he was just so incredibly thankful for the gift that he had been given— a gift that he shared, not just with close family and friends, but also with the world.

R. Harold Hollis, Albuquerque NM (June 13, 2012)