Thinking about enough, now

It is late in the afternoon by the time that I make it to Nathan's room at Wayne Woodlands. He doesn't know that I am coming and when I walk in, he is sitting on the edge of at bed drinking a glass of water. "Look who's here," he says rather cheerily."

"Yes, look who's here," I reply, and ask him how he is.

I have a lot of pain in my stomach, he replies.

It is the aftermath of surgery we agree and he asks me if it is alright if he lays back down. He wants me to help him slide his feet onto the bed and to cover him up. At first I am reluctant, thinking that he ought to be making his own way if he wants to get out of this rehabilitation center, but when I realize that this is an opportunity to have someone carefully help him back into bed, my stance softens a bit.

I ask him if he would like me to play my harp. He indicates it would be nice.

I play wordlessly for a while, his roommate inching closer in his wheelchair. Thinking that he is simply listening, I continue to play. When I finish the song, his roommate asks me if I would mind moving my chair so that he can get out. I am amazed at my self-centeredness and quickly make room for him to slowly pass. He apologizes for being so slow, and I stand and wait, encouraging him that he is maneuvering through a tight spot with great dexterity. I somehow think it best if I not assist him, although I do not ask if my assumption is correct.

When Nathan and I are alone I wonder what it is that he would like to hear and I create a four line chant based on the teaching of Eckhard Tolle, Nathan's hero and mentor.

I sing it over and over again. "This is all we have. This is all there is. There's no time but now. There's no place but here." Nathan closes his eyes and seems to be resting.

When I am done, and he seems to be sleeping, I tell him that I am leaving. He opens his eyes and asks me how the Fellowship is doing. I tell him, that it's just fine and inquire whether he liked my Tolle chant.

"Yes," he tells me.

I ask him whether it was comforting and he tells me, again, "yes."

I ask because I wonder. When lying in a bed, recovering from surgery, in pain, with the concept of recovery seemingly miles away, is it comforting to know that now is all we have, and where we are is all there is?

It is enough that someone visits, sings a song just for you, and then leaves?

And what is enough?