Shouldn't…but Do

Heath Ledger’s Final Days, Update your Closet,  Holly Hunter Fab at 51, Jodie Foster on her friend Mel Gibson’s Meltdown, Do’s and Don’ts of 2009 – two stacks of magazines two feet tall, latest news, fashion, decorating tips – unwrapped and unread beginning August 2009, the month X departed.

This is a peculiar weekend.  Released from the aggression of divorce and trepidation of the Great Trial, I float lightly.  A book not noticed for a year and a half, a drawer not cleaned in as long.  Clothes not seen, calendar pages unturned.

Both counter and cranny call for attention.  There is not a spot in this house that has not beckoned.  And I can address none.

Transfixed by the physicality of life, I am caught in the dispersal pattern of raindrops, the satisfaction of slowly wiping dust away, and of breath, dropped to my belly, rather than held tight in my chest.

I have been away a long, long time.  This changed place, this life, is mine to explore, to grow.  I circumnavigate a landscape where each feature – each object, each person –  has a new dimension, just waiting to be discovered.

The magazines?  History to be recycled and made new.  Just like me.

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Sometime last autumn, a plastic shopping bag blew into my yard, up the drive and became trapped against the wooden lattice fence near my  front door.

As the snow built up, the bag quietly disappeared under the weight and brittle cold.  A couple of times this winter, a white corner emerged, camouflaged, only to submerge again with the next snow.  Too cold and tired myself, I could only mark its struggle while attending to my own.

This week both the melt and the spring wind picked up.  The bag shook itself free of its leaden cold weight and attempted flight, only to be hooked by garden chaff, the organic remains of a growing season long dead.

Watching the bag bounce in the wind this morning,  I discussed this bog with the Neighbor and the space it provides for my fears and hopes – my vulnerabilities.

The discussion rose from the likelihood that those no longer associated with me will continue to examine this bog not only with voyeuristic eye,  but with continuing  intent to use my words against me.  Not friend, family, or interested lurker, but those whose company, and attention, I do not prefer.

Though off the beaten path, and of fairly rarefied nature, this is a public bog, all are entitled to visit.  Should I reshape this bog to compensate, to protect against  a wintry mix?  An expert at my own camouflage, should I pale and blend my feelings in fear of exposure to the elements?

Like that thin plastic bag, I have too long been weighed down, shivered and hooked by the detritus of the past.  Perhaps that bag sought safe harbor from impending winter and found itself trapped.  As they say, wherever you go, there you are.

As the Neighbor and I spoke, the importance of authenticity – the daily,  humble practice of conscious self  through writing, working, or just being – shone through.  At that moment the bag, its season of captivity ended,  gave a mighty tug and flew out of the garden,  beyond my yard and out of sight.

Stripped of  blame, most limitations we face are created within. Though some are set at birth, others  take form in snow, detritus, or a former partner.

The wind blows in storms, and blows them out.  Facing wind is better than fearing it.  The bag is  free to pursue its nature, to tumble on down the road, and maybe, just maybe, so am I.

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It is the eve of the Great Trial.

Some years ago, I came upon a quote by C. G. Jung, wishing is not mere hoping.  It stuck with me for years, a burr in the side of hope – a quality I have cherished often and long.

In life, if one can outwit cynicism and eschew heartlessness, one hopes for the best.  How could hope be a lesser sibling to wishing?

Through the year and a half since my marriage ended, hope has been a constant companion.  As time wore on, and I wore down, even hope began to lose its lustre.  Not long ago, in the thick of it one day, I realized wishing is indeed, not mere hoping.

Hope is beautiful, fragile, can be dashed.  Flighty, fallible, of the air and of this world, hope arrives and departs.

Wishing is visceral, of the deep gut and beyond – to the stars – wishing is the deep imprint of our time here.  Life is the gift, but wishing is the work, the onward will into existence, to be lived, to be survived.

I had hoped my children and I would be spared a greater or  lesser trial, but it was never to be.  So tonight – on a wish and a prayer – I send this post.  From me to you – please think, please wish, please pray for me and my wonderful children.

Many things I have learned from this ordeal, much more I am sure to see.  But forever will I hold in my heart the love, and the compassion, I have felt throughout it all with a little help from my friends.  Thank you and bless you.

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The most interesting things turn up in bogs.

Yesterday X related to me that he had found this space.  Or rather, apparently, a friend had found this space.   A somewhat indelicate moment when evidence is presented that a former partner is Googling peeks into a life no longer of concern.

As you might imagine, a collision of life and metaphor occurred as X discussed X.

Nonetheless, a big shout out to X, his friend, and relatives, who may wish to traipse this bog now and again.  Please remember to wipe feet and close the door softly as you leave.

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It is 7:30 PM, another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody, thank you Sam Cooke.

It is lightly snowing, dark outside, quiet.  My children are with X this weekend, these kind of nights are always still.

Me, the cat, warm walls that softly glow of the desert — spare, but beautiful to my mind.

I think of people in their houses, apartments, those with children and partners, those without, the world turns slowly.

Loneliness is an interesting critter.  Even if I spend the rest of my days without a companion, I will  never be as lonely as I was married.  Cold walls, clipped words, no stillness, only strained silence – for more years than I care to believe.

Sometimes I still think there is someone out there for me — most times I don’t.   The idea of  personal conversation, affectionate company,  seems whimsical.  That is for others. Given the legal onslaught overwhelming my world, its silliness is a luxury.

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody — sometimes not a bad thing.

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In the west of Ireland, a  river flows from Lough Corrib into Galway Bay and out into the Atlantic.  Where  River Corrib mingles with the Bay was the fishing village of Claddagh, which today, is one of the tonier areas of Galway.

It is said from this place came the distinctive design of the Claddagh ring, a heart held by two hands, topped by a crown.  It is a potent symbol,  hands of friendship, a heart of love,  the bond of loyalty.

Devotion – of spirit, heart, of self.  The highest devotion is that of a person to the world, to the many, that is grounded in the practice of devotion to one, or a few – for it is really only a few that any of us can know in a lifetime.

And it is to those few that I know, the souls I have been lucky enough to experience, from long ago, and just yesterday, that I send these words, and my deep gratitude for your presence in my life.

Anam Cara is an Irish phrase whose meaning mixes probably too easily in my mind with the Hindu namaste, both infer a recognition and respect for the divine within, the imperishable light that flows back and forth between people, between lives, years — between people of the heart.

February 14 is Valentine’s Day.  In an uneasy world, it is easy to be cynical about last minute roses, and the easily swept away glitter on drugstore Valentine’s cards.  But at the center of its cardboard heart, Valentine’s Day too speaks of hands that hold, loves that give and take, and loyalty to the life that give us the grace to experience it all.

My Valentine to the world would be to sing Nina Simone’s Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood to a thousand people, and then make love to just one.  Neither is going to happen, so this blog will stand instead.

Regardless of cultural provenance, for better, or worse, for those not deceived by division, all we have is that imperishable light, to honor, to love, to swear our fealty, to many, or to one – we are as countless rivers to the sea.  Happy Valentine’s Day.

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I am a woman of a certain age.  Never a beauty, I was passable.  Not cute.  Heads do not turn when I enter a room, unless I trip, or to gawk at hats and decor I am fond of wearing on my head from time to time.

I have been watching my hands for years.  Hands are honest.  They show wear and tear, not afraid to admit their age.

My hands are thin, venous, too cold come winter.  Once solid, industrious, my hands  flicker now, sparklers cutting through a 4th of July night, working harder than ever, infrequently at rest.

Older things travel south.  People seeking warmth, skin sloughing, unwilling to hold up any longer.  Crinkling, crystallizing skin – once unimaginable except on my mother – is now my own.  But loss of surface tension is not such a bad thing.

Years ago I saw a magazine picture of an old woman, her body receded with age, leaving bright blue eyes of startling intensity and depth.  Presence, warmth, connection,  far more beckoning than magazine covers of physical perfection.

Life experience is worn by  people of every age – in gesture, posture.  But with time,  the hands, and the eyes, have it.  Eyes carry much – dull anticipation, utility, warmth.

Young eyes carry questions.  Sometimes older eyes seem burdened by  answers.  The converse is true as well, youth hardened by their truth, older folks twinkle with knowing, even wisdom.

After the first half of life, the business is about living and leaving.  Requires taking stock.  Some did not get what they wanted, brittle, shellacked, dull, sometimes quick to anger.  Eyes need.

Others loved, lost, loved, lost, the exercise stretched and warmed them, resilient, kind eyes ahead into the world.

Emptiness lingers around both kinds – the first, a hollowness.  The second, a fullness that seeks to expand into, not fill, emptiness.

Hollow people, by this age, are difficult to fill, except perhaps on deathbed.  A daring statement to be sure, but I wager its truth.

Full people – like the aged woman in the photograph –  spill beyond their relaxing skin.  Not waiting for death to release them, they flow out, between, refusing to recognize interloping walls and miles.

Entwining with colours, people, and space that surrounds them, Full people hold hands with the world, past, present and potential.  They are not empty, cannot fill those who are.  The secret of these folks is that by being, they are becoming.

Forever half empty, forever half full.

Eventually even hands fall away, eyes say it all.  A warm breeze on the cheek,  attention called away, one more smile, and on it goes.

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Stainless steel, composite bottom, two rivets, well balanced handle.  An inexpensive frying pan, used almost every day.

I formerly owned  non-stick, but let’s face it, everything sticks, sooner or later.  Stainless steel scours clean every time, no history, no knicks in the coating, tabula rasa.

Useful tools, pans take the heat – saute, boil, simmer – and when attention lapses, burn.

The value of a pan, holding the heat, cannot be seen, only felt.  Food, mixed, transformed, broken down, no longer raw,  can feed.

Pretty fancy trick – apply heat, cause change.  Magic.

Putting a lid on it increases pressure, riles things up, sometimes speeds the process, sometimes makes it boil over.

Pans conduct – convey intent into expression,  recipe into finished goods.  There is a lot more to the process though, a  cook, raw materials, and of course, heat.  All food for thought.

Lots of expensive cookware out there, specialized pans for specialized needs.  Mine? Quiet, shiny, used.  It is good.

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