Everywhere I look; attachment.
Fungi, like barnacles on a whale's back, cling to a tree trunk. Patches of mossy-green lichen stamped on wet rocks. Me to my old father who looks me in the eye and says, "I'm settling in here. I'm...", and for a moment pauses, then, "happy. And grateful," he adds.
Why does my heart race when Claire and I walk him to the dining room for the evening meal? We meet Dad's dinner mates; Ed, Jim, and Bob. Bob is curled over himself, but smiling. I shake each of their hands. Bob's are red, worn, crumpled.
"I hate to go so soon, Dad."
"It's fine, all fine," he says, hugging us goodbye.
"You're awfully quiet," I whisper, leaning into a table of women. They smile, eyes wide, hands clasped on table.
Claire and I pass a rack outside the dining room.
"Look Mom," she whispers, "like a bike rack, but walkers."
I want to run, but don't.
Pushing out the doors, the air is damp and cold.
"Well, we did that okay, Mom," Claire says.
And all the loveliest
things that there be
Come simply,
so it seems to me.
- Edna St. Vincent Millay
I used to teach yoga in the music room of a nearby elementary school. We'd slide the chairs to the side of the room, spread our mats out, turn the lights down. Actually that's wrong; the light wouldn't turn off. It was an emergency light because the room had no windows. The whole school had no windows. Unless you were in the cafeteria. Otherwise, no windows, like living in a cave. Nobody would know if the sun was out, or sheets of rain were making huge puddles in the parking lot. We'd get the very tall teacher to stand on a desk and cover the one overhead light with a black cloth held up by small magnets. Only then could we sink into the soft darkness of the room, interrupted occasionally by a voice on the loudspeaker.
The walls were plastered with posters of songs, Oh Beautiful for spacious skies, index cards with music words, allegro, fortissimo, interlude, rules for behavior, listen, raise your hand, respect each other, keep your hands to yourself, stay in your seat.
I always arranged my mat by the piano facing the big white marker board, the one with lots of writing on it. I'd get dizzy if I stared too closely, black quarter notes mingling with This Land is your land.
And this posted near the teacher's desk...
School Schedule
Time 1: 9:10 - 9:52
Time 2: 9:55 - 10:37
Time 3 10:40 - 11:22
lunch
Time 4: 1:20 - 2:02
Time 5: 2:05 - 2:47
Time 6: 2:50 - 3:32
How did they figure it down to the minute like that?
10:37? 2:02?
I'm just wondering.
Reading more passages & snippets from old journals...
Opened a random page and found this one for today ~
Life is not an emergency.
(drop your shoulders.)
Ever since Thursday, when Dad was moved to a personal care home to continue rehabbing his broken neck, I've been too restless and tired to sit down and write. This restlessness, I know, is born out of my need to figure things out, to make sense of what I'm judging to be a difficult situation. Ditto for the tiredness.
let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go
Love yourself, hon! Take care of yourself, Dad said.
That made me weep.
Dad is settling into his new surroundings.
"What's the alternative?" he said, "To be a whiner? Then they'll come and close my door and where will that get me?"
He was smiling, leaning back in his chair while I sorted through some of his bills. Michael was hooking up the television. Claire was rummaging through his welcome basket for a snack. The sun was out!
I'm a bowl full of shiny, gold-flecked fishy emotions. One minute, mouth gaping, watching all the old ladies with walkers; 3 Bettys in a row! next, brave and grown-up; shape-shifting by the minute.
This is why I haven't been writing much. Of course, it's these fishy times when writing is the best thing to do, even if you're gasping for air. Write anyway...
Neeny said, "You're not a mess. And you're not depressed. You're just alive. And so is your Dad. It's so good. Really."
Journal entry/ 2003
Bill lived in Bernardsville. I drove home with him one Christmas on my way to NYC. His small bird sat on my head the whole way, tiny feet tangled in my hair.
Bill was dark, Italian, handsome, gay.
He's dead now.
When you look for me, you will see me instantly - you will find me in the tiniest house of time.
- Kabir
