How Far Does Our Care Extend? Reflections on “Go On Lysette”
Welcome to Music in Conversation
We’re beginning something new here–an opportunity to use documentary songs as a way to explore what it means to move through the world together. We’ve chosen “EXTEND” as the theme for this year’s project as an invitation to stretch beyond our familiar boundaries and reach toward one another across the distances that often keep us apart.
One of the many gifts of music, and other forms of art, is the way they illuminate parts of our lives. Perhaps that’s what drew me to this project, the beautiful reciprocity we experience when we engage with art – how it both informs our understanding of life and reflects our experiences back to us.
Through this blog, I hope to share reflections and connections that these songs have sparked for me, and to create a space for conversations that help us consider again and again how we want to live our lives.
How far does our circle of care extend?
This first song, “Go On Lysette,” was written in collaboration between storyteller, Clara Schneid, and teaching artists R.O Shapiro and Michelle Vaughn. It tells the story of two cyclists traveling in the scorching heat of central Oregon, who find themselves unexpectedly accompanied by a cattle dog. The dog begins herding them along their route, creating an unexpected connection.
As I listened to Clara’s gentle telling of this encounter, I found myself wondering about the choices we make every day about to whom we extend our care.
How far does our circle of care extend? We often think of our capacity for care as concentric rings—family at the center, then friends, then communities, and so on. But sometimes, unexpectedly, a stranger breaks through those neat categories. A cattle dog in the heat of Oregon. A person at a bus stop. Someone whose name we don’t know.
In the song, the cyclists immediately recognize that “hot pavement is no place for dog paws.” Despite being strangers to this animal, their concern is instinctive. They give her a name—Lysette—an act of human tenderness that acknowledges her individuality and inherent worth.
In one of my favorite poems, “Small Kindnesses,” Danusha Laméris writes about these types of brief interactions between strangers—“the way we say thank you to the bus driver,” how “someone holds the door open” for another person. She describes how these unacknowledged moments create invisible threads of care that weave through our daily lives, just like the spontaneous connection between the cyclists and Lysette.
Laméris describes these fleeting interactions as “the first gesture of what we might call love” and “the things that hold us, / after all.” Both the poem and the Lysette story remind me that our capacity for care often manifests not in grand gestures but in these small, seemingly insignificant moments. When the cyclists gave water to a stray dog in the Oregon heat, they expanded their circle of care beyond the expected boundaries. They reminded us that sometimes caring for a stranger—human or animal—is as natural as breathing.
Perhaps our circles of care aren’t rigid boundaries after all, but permeable membranes, constantly shifting as we move through the world. It is these unexpected connections, these small kindnesses, Laméris writes, that “keep us walking upright on the earth.”
But there is also a sadness in the song, as Clara and her friend say goodbye to Lysette.
Does what is fleeting still matter?
The song’s bittersweet turn comes when the two young women flag down a passing car, entrusting Lysette to a forest service worker who promises to get her home safely. “We got back up on our bikes, continued up the hill, crossing our fingers, she’s still doing her thing.”
This moment captures something profound about the nature of care in our lives. We forge connections—sometimes deep, sometimes brief—and then we must let go. The cyclists never knew what happened to Lysette after that day. Did she find her way home? Was she reunited with her owner? Their circle of care expanded to include her, and then contracted again as their paths diverged.
So much of the beauty we experience in connection is inextricably tied to loss. This paradox reminds me of the work of environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy, whose sculptures are created from natural materials found in their environments—leaves arranged in concentric circles, icicles formed into delicate arches, stones carefully balanced atop one another. His art is intentionally ephemeral, designed to be reclaimed by the elements: ice melts, wind scatters leaves, tides wash away stone arrangements.
When asked why he creates art destined to disappear, Goldsworthy explained, “It’s not about art. It’s just about life and the need to understand that a lot of things in life do not last.” His work invites us to find beauty in impermanence, to appreciate the moment of connections, even though they may dissolve.
Like Goldsworthy’s sculptures, the encounter with Lysette was temporary, shaped by circumstance and destined to end. But does its fleeting nature diminish its value? I would argue the opposite. Perhaps its ephemerality makes it more precious, more worthy of our attention and care.
In our increasingly fragmented world, where we’re often encouraged to focus only on lasting relationships and measurable outcomes, there’s something radical about valuing these ephemeral connections. The passing smile exchanged with a stranger, the brief conversation with someone we’ll never see again, the unexpected animal companion on a journey—these moments matter precisely because they remind us that care doesn’t always need permanence to be meaningful.
How can we make shade for others?
What stays with me most is that tiny, beautiful detail: “seeking shade in my shadow.” In the heat of the day, Lysette found relief in the shadow cast by another being. Isn’t that often how we move through the world? Creating small shelters for each other, sometimes without even realizing it?
The cyclists and Lysette shared just a brief passage of time together, but in that moment, they created a pocket of mutual care in an unforgiving environment. The ending doesn’t erase the triumph of that connection.
I wonder how often we’ve been the shade for someone passing through our lives. How many times have we provided or sought out brief but meaningful shelter from one another?
The next time I find myself unexpectedly accompanied on my journey, I hope I’ll remember to pay attention. To notice how quickly care can form, how naturally we can extend ourselves, and how these fleeting connections somehow manage to stay with us long after we’ve moved on.
And in a world that can sometimes feel lonely or harsh, these spontaneous acts of tenderness might be exactly what we need.
We’d love to hear your own stories and reflections on the theme of “EXTEND.” How have you encountered unexpected connections in your life? When have you extended care beyond your usual boundaries? Share your experiences through this link or email Caroline.