The dedication in my memoir reads: “To Harvey: my rock, my touchstone, my heart.”
I called Harvey “my rock” for years. He was so solid, so dependable. In the face of my fears, anxieties, frustrations or just “flustrations,” he always remained calm and could manage to bring me back to equanimity.
There were simple things he said and did that were the bedrock, the foundation, of this quality for me. He could gently tease me out of an episode of self-flagellation by saying, “You’re a good person, Renée.” That one phrase, said to me on too-many-to-count occasions, always lightened my spirits and made me smile. When I bad-mouthed myself or beat myself up over something I had done or not done, this little phrase was a reminder that my being, my essence, was good, and I could relax into that knowing.
Years after we married and were well on our way to creating a family and careers for ourselves, my mother remarked how good Harvey was for me. She said, “Renée, you were always so serious and intense. Harvey had a way of softening that.” I love she saw that.
But what do I mean when I say that Harvey was my touchstone?
The touchstone dates back to the days of alchemists. It was a piece of schist, a scaly metamorphic rock composed of layers of different minerals. When marked by a metal that had gold in it, that alloy’s makeup was determined by the color it made on the schist “touchstone.” You touched the stone to learn what the unknown substance was made of.
Today, we use the term touchstone to mean a standard by which we can compare. Harvey and I were each other’s touchstones. I can’t speak for him, but for me, if I was unclear about an issue that was haunting me, and I discussed it with him, I usually came away with a better understanding of why I believed what I believed. That doesn’t mean that we always agreed or that our conversations changed my beliefs. It’s just that he was so level-headed and had a way of expressing and presenting ideas so that I could see them more clearly. I tend to lead with my instincts, but Harvey could put words to the issue. His language lended substance to what I had known in my gut to be true.
But Harvey’s mind slowly turned to sand with the progression of his Alzheimer’s disease. Over time, as his thoughts gradually slipped through his fingers, and he was unable to hold onto a solid idea, I became his rock. I had a good teacher. I tried to project calm assurance that everything was going to be alright. He wouldn’t have to worry. I would handle what he couldn’t. I would guide when he needed to be led.
I also became his touchstone, a measure of his mood against mine. I knew that he could read my emotional state, so I strove to maintain a peaceful, steady presence to reflect back to him.
May you have gratitude for the “rocks” and “touchstones” in your life, and knowledge that your stone-like qualities are needed and appreciated by those around you.