“... joy and sorrow are inseparable. . . together they come and when one sits alone with you . . . remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”~Kahlil Gibran
Not a quarter, not a whole... just somewhere in between.
During an early evening doze, I dreamed I was driving in my car passing another car on the left. Suddenly I was in danger, headed right for a semi--but at the last minute the semi moved. I continued forward toward a three-way intersection with a cliff straight ahead, and by the time I noticed the street light was out, I was going too fast. I had to make a left turn, but it was too late to slow down. I knew if I slammed on the brakes, I'd flip over or skid off the cliff. I also couldn't tell if cars were coming from the other side, and if I might be headed for a major collision. I had no choice but to leave it to fate as I approached the intersection at full speed.
Last night I dreamed I was having dinner alone in a hotel lounge, and the waitress brought me a basket of bread.
To my mother, life is like a question and she's always seeking answers. To my mother, people are mysteries, and like an archeologist who digs for things left behind, or a pirate hunting treasure, she discovers what's inside. To my mother, pain and loss are part of what we endure, and she endures hers with grace, even when her heart is breaking. To my mother, the future can be frightening, but she values what she has in the moment--her children, her coffee, the way a piece of costume jewelry sparkles on her wrist.
Today I went to the movies but didn't go in, I glued fake fingernails on Annie, spoke to Cristian, ate a well done burger, hugged Rosanne, laughed with my mom, laughed at David, discovered a love letter on my car, and scratched my face with the antenna of the 1970s portable TV set I found in the basement.
I remember once, I must have been about 20, I was living in Santa Cruz and my parents lived in New York. I was heartbroken and sobbing over what, I can't recall. I phoned my father and after listening to me cry for some time, he became very quiet. Then, in a stern voice he said, "Get up and dance!"
From: Ann Bowen
Today I parked my car at a meter on the corner of Broadway and 85th Street, walked toward the frozen yogurt place, and just before I entered, I heard a loud crash. I turned to see that two cars had collided just feet from my own parked car. Everyone appeared to be safe, and plenty of people were assisting the passengers, so I proceeded inside and stood on the long line of frozen yogurt lovers.
I'm tired of being the strong one--I'm tired of answering questions, sacrificing, moving over, and rolling over. I'm even tired of understanding. I'm tired of being Wife, Healer, Goddess, and Source.
It's not melancholy, not a longing of the heart--actually, it feels the opposite. If I had to describe it, I might say uncomfortable silence, fragments in frames, solitary, without need. I desire, not to create peace, but to take peace, not to be in love, but to be love. Yesterday I wanted a hand to hold, and today I hold my own--rain outside and everything.
I close my door, dim the lights and light a candle--I sit in this chair and wait for what comes. Never at a loss for words, I have nothing to say--I am my mother's orphaned child. I gather my million moments of joy and put them in a book, I anticipate church bells but hear the alarm.