Hi, I'm erthsister, and I'm a judgmental driver.
Yes, I am, and so what? Is it too much to ask to keeping your attention on what you are doing?
You, the Packers fan in the small red Mercedes, did you think I didn't notice that you pulled right through that stop sign without stopping? Hello, honey, you in that grey SUV, you are being an idiot tailgating. I'm sure they'll move soooo much faster with you right on their tail. Oh you in the faded blue sedan, I know you are probably just lost. I know that feeling; take your time. But you over there in the silvery car? Stop that weaving about right now. Are you trying to tempt fate to deal you an accident? Both you and the other dark car need to cool it. And you in the Prius, puh-leese stop doing other things while you are driving, especially when I am in the car with you. You're weaving all over the road. Multitasking is not worth risking your life! Or mine, thank you. And while I'm at it, you and you and you need to put away the cell phone-palm pilots and drive. You do know that all that huffing and puffing and swearing won't get you there that much faster, don't you? Yes, the Universe is conspiring against you. Try to not take it out on other drivers. And pay attention because the woods are crawling with deer on this end of the county.
I need one of those zappers to issue citizen's tickets for obnoxious and unsafe driving. Okay, calm down, erthsister. You know you've had your moments.
*No accidents were actually witnessed during the writing of this post. Erthsister is not actually agitated, but she is rolling her eyes at the little red Mercedes.
--
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Vignettes: Rain-Kale-Nursing
The rain patters, drips, drops, runs down the gutters with gurgles and rattling, flows shushingly down the streets, hissed by passing tires, roars through leaves and branches, sweeps across the landscape in waves of wind gusts, flurries and taps across the roof tiles, splats on the pavement, rustles the grass, slaps against other wet, streams and pours and sluices and dapples.
The leaves of green kale froth in a profusion of branchings, sharp edges, greens crenelated, shiny front and matte back, articulated veins, curls run riot, bound, spilling, escaping, rustling, pungent, releasing bitter sharp scents, promising a meal, carotenes glistening.
Suckling, sighing, the baby nurses, pulling, compelling, chewing, demanding, nestled snug, remarking, groaning, satisfaction of a belly filling, warm and contented, mother's scented, drowsing, lazy, then alert, searching and finding, fitting, reclining, earliest memories wrapped in warmth, contented, relenting, sleep descending.
--
The leaves of green kale froth in a profusion of branchings, sharp edges, greens crenelated, shiny front and matte back, articulated veins, curls run riot, bound, spilling, escaping, rustling, pungent, releasing bitter sharp scents, promising a meal, carotenes glistening.
Suckling, sighing, the baby nurses, pulling, compelling, chewing, demanding, nestled snug, remarking, groaning, satisfaction of a belly filling, warm and contented, mother's scented, drowsing, lazy, then alert, searching and finding, fitting, reclining, earliest memories wrapped in warmth, contented, relenting, sleep descending.
--
Monday, November 9, 2009
And The Wall Came Down
I saw the Wall some twenty-four years ago, riding on the train between Frankfurt and Goettingen, en route to a Summer spent soaking up German culture and language. Off in the distance, I saw the pale gray line, peeking in and out of the hills. I didn't have to ask anybody; I knew it had to be the Wall. I wondered what it was like, living near the Wall. And how the forest felt with the Wall wending through it.
I saw the Wall at a little village near Wolfsburg, the pavement cut in two, even a house walled off at the back. The Wall cut through people's lives. And the village looked just as sweet and quaint as any with brick and cobblestone streets, neat houses with white and red and dark green cutely arranged, flowers in the petite shoebox gardens, as if it didn't have a scar marking across its face. We drove to where the road ended and sat on a bench in front of the Wall to take pictures. My friend mugged for the camera; he wasn't about to take this seriously in front of a foreigner. I could see the glint of guards moving inside the tower directly across. I wonder if they tired of tourists gawking at them, if they thought their job was a worthy one.
I saw the Wall in Berlin extending past the Reichstag to either side, covered in graffiti and paint. The paint ended at the ground. The green grass and neat pavement came right up to the wall on the West side. The base of the wall on the East side was a barren no-mans land of raked earth and barbed wire. The wall seemed like a piece of modern art, bending and angling seemingly at random. Who decided it would bend *there* and angle *there*? On that lovely Summer's day, we walked under the shady trees and out onto the plaza, into the museum that occupied the Reichstag building. My friends treated me to some ice cream in the cafe. No laws or debate in those halls those days, just velvet ropes and lump-sugar packets. They had seen it all before.
I saw the border where the lines of cars met the checkpoint booth, where lines of barriers threaded pedestrians through a convoluted path across stark concrete, which lead us through a prefab building where we presented our passports and told our story. I was going to visit as a tourist, yes, just for today, a few hours. Then I could go, and I wondered at the lack of ceremony. I was going behind the Wall, das Mauer. My West Berlin friends would pick me up in a couple of hours. They couldn't understand why I couldn't just take a tour bus.
I saw the divide when I went into East Berlin shops to look for books, children's toys, postcards, candy. The pages were slick and the ink was muddy and dark, the illustrations forbidding, the humor, dark. I casually said goodbye to the woman in a shop, and she stared at me oddly as if to wonder why I was so friendly and cheerful. I walked down sidewalks trying to find an art museum that was, of course, closed the exact day of the week I was there. Trying to find another bookshop, I strolled past a university and concrete bridges over a coffee au lait-colored river, and stumbled on a burnt-out synagogue with a plaque afixed to an ironwork fence: Vergiss es nie! I found the bookshop but they were inexplicably closed with an official paperwork fluttering on the door. I took a wrong turn trying to find my way back to the Centrum plaza and found myself on the greyest street, buildings crumbling and pocked with mortar wounds and time. I felt lost in this grey and dismal place. I glimpsed a small courtyard with laundry and bicycles parked inside, but there were few people about about to wonder who I was or what I was doing. Off in the distance, the radio tower "Alex" gleamed gold and silver. I stumbled back across the neighborhood into the comparative glitz of the central plaza and passed a man in military uniform, shyly averting my eyes hoping he wouldn't wonder too much about this young tourist wearing jeans and sneakers. I never did find the avenue of Linden trees before I ran out of time.
And then I asked where I could exchange the remains of my East German money. The lady at the bland border bank was a little stunned at the question, and tried to explain to me that I was not allowed to exchange money back to West German Marks.
I don't remember when the Wall came down. I'm sure I watched it on television back home from my own isolation of a remote corner of the state. I'm sure I rejoiced and cried tears to see people jubilant and emotional, hefting sledgehammers and shouting and crying. I'm sure I felt an oppressive cloud lift as the earth under the Wall groaned from the release. I'm sure I did not know how challenging the long divide would continue to be.
I see a footprint of the former wall cutting across cobblestones, delineated with brick and brass. The Wall says: I was here. I remain here a ghost. I am gone, but you cannot erase me.
On the twenty-year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
--
I saw the Wall at a little village near Wolfsburg, the pavement cut in two, even a house walled off at the back. The Wall cut through people's lives. And the village looked just as sweet and quaint as any with brick and cobblestone streets, neat houses with white and red and dark green cutely arranged, flowers in the petite shoebox gardens, as if it didn't have a scar marking across its face. We drove to where the road ended and sat on a bench in front of the Wall to take pictures. My friend mugged for the camera; he wasn't about to take this seriously in front of a foreigner. I could see the glint of guards moving inside the tower directly across. I wonder if they tired of tourists gawking at them, if they thought their job was a worthy one.
I saw the Wall in Berlin extending past the Reichstag to either side, covered in graffiti and paint. The paint ended at the ground. The green grass and neat pavement came right up to the wall on the West side. The base of the wall on the East side was a barren no-mans land of raked earth and barbed wire. The wall seemed like a piece of modern art, bending and angling seemingly at random. Who decided it would bend *there* and angle *there*? On that lovely Summer's day, we walked under the shady trees and out onto the plaza, into the museum that occupied the Reichstag building. My friends treated me to some ice cream in the cafe. No laws or debate in those halls those days, just velvet ropes and lump-sugar packets. They had seen it all before.
I saw the border where the lines of cars met the checkpoint booth, where lines of barriers threaded pedestrians through a convoluted path across stark concrete, which lead us through a prefab building where we presented our passports and told our story. I was going to visit as a tourist, yes, just for today, a few hours. Then I could go, and I wondered at the lack of ceremony. I was going behind the Wall, das Mauer. My West Berlin friends would pick me up in a couple of hours. They couldn't understand why I couldn't just take a tour bus.
I saw the divide when I went into East Berlin shops to look for books, children's toys, postcards, candy. The pages were slick and the ink was muddy and dark, the illustrations forbidding, the humor, dark. I casually said goodbye to the woman in a shop, and she stared at me oddly as if to wonder why I was so friendly and cheerful. I walked down sidewalks trying to find an art museum that was, of course, closed the exact day of the week I was there. Trying to find another bookshop, I strolled past a university and concrete bridges over a coffee au lait-colored river, and stumbled on a burnt-out synagogue with a plaque afixed to an ironwork fence: Vergiss es nie! I found the bookshop but they were inexplicably closed with an official paperwork fluttering on the door. I took a wrong turn trying to find my way back to the Centrum plaza and found myself on the greyest street, buildings crumbling and pocked with mortar wounds and time. I felt lost in this grey and dismal place. I glimpsed a small courtyard with laundry and bicycles parked inside, but there were few people about about to wonder who I was or what I was doing. Off in the distance, the radio tower "Alex" gleamed gold and silver. I stumbled back across the neighborhood into the comparative glitz of the central plaza and passed a man in military uniform, shyly averting my eyes hoping he wouldn't wonder too much about this young tourist wearing jeans and sneakers. I never did find the avenue of Linden trees before I ran out of time.
And then I asked where I could exchange the remains of my East German money. The lady at the bland border bank was a little stunned at the question, and tried to explain to me that I was not allowed to exchange money back to West German Marks.
I don't remember when the Wall came down. I'm sure I watched it on television back home from my own isolation of a remote corner of the state. I'm sure I rejoiced and cried tears to see people jubilant and emotional, hefting sledgehammers and shouting and crying. I'm sure I felt an oppressive cloud lift as the earth under the Wall groaned from the release. I'm sure I did not know how challenging the long divide would continue to be.
I see a footprint of the former wall cutting across cobblestones, delineated with brick and brass. The Wall says: I was here. I remain here a ghost. I am gone, but you cannot erase me.
On the twenty-year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
--
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Autumn Afternoon Walk About
Lately we've been taking excursions in the afternoon. Sometimes it's grocery shopping, or to the library and then grocery shopping. Or a walk in the neighborhood. Last week we managed to combine several things by taking a walk down the road to go shopping.
That day, the air was perfect - a slight nip in the late afternoon - and the sun was shining golden and warm as we set out. Down the street, over the bridge with its very scary traffic passing underneath at top speeds, down the block, and around the corner. The area is not a walker's paradise, although there are nice sidewalks the length of our route. But most people who have cars, use them. The only people out walking are those without transportation of which there are many, and a few, like me, who would rather use this an excuse to walk. Still, it is a bustling area, where several neighborhoods and commercial development intersect.
The little girl's pink hat stands out like a beacon, announcing: Small Cute Person Here. Several neighbors and random passing strangers beam at her as we pass. Nice day for a walk, one woman notes with a smile. One driver waiting to turn magnanimously waves us across the street, refusing my offer for him to go first. I wryly mime that we will have to walk slowly across the wider intersection, and he just grins and waits for us to pass.
We make our way down the sidewalk and the wheels of the stroller click along with each seam of concrete, bump ity bump ity bump with the occasional hiss and scratch of an autumn leaf caught in the wheels. I pause at another corner and bend down to check on the little girl. She is quiescent, taking it all in, snug in her cozy hat and fleece jacket tucked around her legs. Pink, pink and more shades and patterns of pink war with each other. Even her cheeks are pink out in the air.
We angle in across a parking lot into the grocery store, then make our way inside. I don't shop much here any more, but I know they have anise extract, unlike any other store I would rather shop. Having found that, I buy two, enough to make pizelles and other Christmas goodies for a few more years. I look for chili powder, but am disgusted that none among the seven varieties available leave out salt. The little girl looks at displays and listens to me mutter about food additives. I take a little walk down the seasonal aisle with its cans of pumpkin pie filling and Christmas ornaments and candy, telling her about what we are seeing.
Off we go again. On the way home, we cruise into the local pet supply store. I don't need to buy anything, but it's my best source for showing the little girl live animals. We look at colorful finches and budgies, then at some mice, though the mice are all snoozing. The hamsters make her exclaim in astonishment. One brown and white female busily chews down a long stalk of hay. There are no bunnies today, but plenty of fish in various sizes and colors. The little girl seems to take note. As a bonus, a couple of small puppies pass closely by as we leave.
Off we go into the near sunset. The shadows are lower than I expected, the return sidewalk now in shade where I expected us to face full sun. Leaves skitter and dance as cars pass by, and the traffic below the bridge is even heavier. I briskly pass down our long, quiet street, finally, worried that it is getting too chilly for the baby, although when I tuck her hands into her fuzzy sleeves, they don't feel cold. The woman who knitted the pink hat isn't home yet, so I can't show her how well the little girl wears it, but I make a note to check back later.
At last, home is in sight beneath the slowly turning colors. Our neighbor's children stand off in the distance wheeling their scooters through the leaves on the street until they recognize us coming, and all five of them come streaming towards us.
I recite their names and they wiggle and smile in pleasure when I remember them, each one. How cute she is! Lily cries. She has your cheeks, Henri says. I know he means it as a compliment! Marisol notes, Aww, look at the hat!, and I tell them that one of our neighbors down the street knitted it for her. We discuss who she is and they recognize that she is the small woman who walks with the taller woman who has the big white dog. This is how we know our neighbors.
How old is she now? they want to know again. The littlest child, Joseph, leans forward as if to kiss her, and I caution him that he has not washed his hands. You know how they tell you in school to wash your hands, I appeal to the group. I don't know this for a fact, but I guess that the schools are being very cautious with the flu this year. Yes! another neighborhood boy affirms. And babies can get sick!
Yes, and you can you, too, I confirm, so it's good to be extra careful. In fact the little girl has been sniffly all week, but it appears to be a little allergy from the changing weather. Then she starts starting to whimper and cry from the press of faces around her, and we take our leave and go in to have some dinner.
How pleasant it is to not only walk but to enjoy interactions with neighbors and strangers on a fine Fall afternoon. We come inside flushed and alert from the walk into the house that now feels excessively cozy. I pull off the pink hat and the little girl's hair springs up from the static.
--
That day, the air was perfect - a slight nip in the late afternoon - and the sun was shining golden and warm as we set out. Down the street, over the bridge with its very scary traffic passing underneath at top speeds, down the block, and around the corner. The area is not a walker's paradise, although there are nice sidewalks the length of our route. But most people who have cars, use them. The only people out walking are those without transportation of which there are many, and a few, like me, who would rather use this an excuse to walk. Still, it is a bustling area, where several neighborhoods and commercial development intersect.
The little girl's pink hat stands out like a beacon, announcing: Small Cute Person Here. Several neighbors and random passing strangers beam at her as we pass. Nice day for a walk, one woman notes with a smile. One driver waiting to turn magnanimously waves us across the street, refusing my offer for him to go first. I wryly mime that we will have to walk slowly across the wider intersection, and he just grins and waits for us to pass.
We make our way down the sidewalk and the wheels of the stroller click along with each seam of concrete, bump ity bump ity bump with the occasional hiss and scratch of an autumn leaf caught in the wheels. I pause at another corner and bend down to check on the little girl. She is quiescent, taking it all in, snug in her cozy hat and fleece jacket tucked around her legs. Pink, pink and more shades and patterns of pink war with each other. Even her cheeks are pink out in the air.
We angle in across a parking lot into the grocery store, then make our way inside. I don't shop much here any more, but I know they have anise extract, unlike any other store I would rather shop. Having found that, I buy two, enough to make pizelles and other Christmas goodies for a few more years. I look for chili powder, but am disgusted that none among the seven varieties available leave out salt. The little girl looks at displays and listens to me mutter about food additives. I take a little walk down the seasonal aisle with its cans of pumpkin pie filling and Christmas ornaments and candy, telling her about what we are seeing.
Off we go again. On the way home, we cruise into the local pet supply store. I don't need to buy anything, but it's my best source for showing the little girl live animals. We look at colorful finches and budgies, then at some mice, though the mice are all snoozing. The hamsters make her exclaim in astonishment. One brown and white female busily chews down a long stalk of hay. There are no bunnies today, but plenty of fish in various sizes and colors. The little girl seems to take note. As a bonus, a couple of small puppies pass closely by as we leave.
Off we go into the near sunset. The shadows are lower than I expected, the return sidewalk now in shade where I expected us to face full sun. Leaves skitter and dance as cars pass by, and the traffic below the bridge is even heavier. I briskly pass down our long, quiet street, finally, worried that it is getting too chilly for the baby, although when I tuck her hands into her fuzzy sleeves, they don't feel cold. The woman who knitted the pink hat isn't home yet, so I can't show her how well the little girl wears it, but I make a note to check back later.
At last, home is in sight beneath the slowly turning colors. Our neighbor's children stand off in the distance wheeling their scooters through the leaves on the street until they recognize us coming, and all five of them come streaming towards us.
I recite their names and they wiggle and smile in pleasure when I remember them, each one. How cute she is! Lily cries. She has your cheeks, Henri says. I know he means it as a compliment! Marisol notes, Aww, look at the hat!, and I tell them that one of our neighbors down the street knitted it for her. We discuss who she is and they recognize that she is the small woman who walks with the taller woman who has the big white dog. This is how we know our neighbors.
How old is she now? they want to know again. The littlest child, Joseph, leans forward as if to kiss her, and I caution him that he has not washed his hands. You know how they tell you in school to wash your hands, I appeal to the group. I don't know this for a fact, but I guess that the schools are being very cautious with the flu this year. Yes! another neighborhood boy affirms. And babies can get sick!
Yes, and you can you, too, I confirm, so it's good to be extra careful. In fact the little girl has been sniffly all week, but it appears to be a little allergy from the changing weather. Then she starts starting to whimper and cry from the press of faces around her, and we take our leave and go in to have some dinner.
How pleasant it is to not only walk but to enjoy interactions with neighbors and strangers on a fine Fall afternoon. We come inside flushed and alert from the walk into the house that now feels excessively cozy. I pull off the pink hat and the little girl's hair springs up from the static.
--
Saturday, November 7, 2009
No Time, No Time
Oooo, no time today! Maybe I'll add on some later, but in a couple of hours, I need to be presentable and alert and prepared, and right now I am none of those things. I'm working on the presentable and prepared in hopes the alert will follow.
--
--
Friday, November 6, 2009
Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight
My best friend from childhood lived just down the street from me in a brown and gray stone house with a large basement. Her birthday came in the first week of September, which meant that, at that time in our lives, it more often than not fell on Labor Day weekend. She would have large birthday sleepovers which always found a number of us sprawled on our sleeping bags on the basement carpet late at night, still talking despite exhausting our usual topics, talking, talking, despite the struggle to stay awake.
Of course, Labor Day weekend was always the Jerry Lewis telethon. Even at two o'clock in the morning, the teevee was still on, with Jerry pushing himself to continue, half asleep, to make funny, or when he ran out to comic energy, exhort and beg people to call in with pledges. At the same time, a fifties retro doo-wop singing group* was on tour, and the commercial breaks came around regularly even during the telethon. The commercials I remember from that time were always about the greatest hits album of somebody, and this group, asking you to *call now* to get tickets for the concert.
*Sha Na Na
The commercial always started the same way. A guy in greased back hair complete with ducktail and muscle shirt, shown from the waist up and backed by colorful lights, would intone the opening bass lyric a cappella:
and swiveling smoothly to show off his muscled arm from various angles, whereupon the camera would start to pan across one singer after another - greasers and boppers - as they soulfully kicked in with all harmony:
Even after seeing and hearing that same commercial for months, it seemed as if the singers didn't belong up that late, even though the lyrics clearly said it was three o'clock in the morning. It was incongruous to see them singing their hearts out, wooing the camera with each hair flip and sigh, and the announcer telling you to *call now* to order tickets - show times extended. It was as if they were begging us to buy tickets, as if when we saw the commercial one more time, we would be convinced to come to the show.
I almost felt sorry for them, all dolled up in their retro costumes, reduced to hawking themselves to the uncaring late night viewers. Didn't they get to rest? Didn't they get to perform their concert and go home? It seemed like I had been seeing them for months, and here they still were, brightly vamping, with the pale light from the teevee washing over the drowsing lumps of preteen girls and the insistent announcer with what felt like an unseemly loud voice for that hour.
That night, the lyrics dug themselves into my brain, and some thirty-some years later, I've never been able to extract them.
And also the sadness, and the polish of the irresistible tune stays with me. It's wistful but sincere, optimistic, even promising. There will be more times. We will always croon and sway and sing goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.
--
Of course, Labor Day weekend was always the Jerry Lewis telethon. Even at two o'clock in the morning, the teevee was still on, with Jerry pushing himself to continue, half asleep, to make funny, or when he ran out to comic energy, exhort and beg people to call in with pledges. At the same time, a fifties retro doo-wop singing group* was on tour, and the commercial breaks came around regularly even during the telethon. The commercials I remember from that time were always about the greatest hits album of somebody, and this group, asking you to *call now* to get tickets for the concert.
*Sha Na Na
The commercial always started the same way. A guy in greased back hair complete with ducktail and muscle shirt, shown from the waist up and backed by colorful lights, would intone the opening bass lyric a cappella:
Duh DOO-ah, duh DOO-ah, duh DOO-ah, duh DOE
and swiveling smoothly to show off his muscled arm from various angles, whereupon the camera would start to pan across one singer after another - greasers and boppers - as they soulfully kicked in with all harmony:
Goodnight Sweetheart, it's time to go.
Goodnight Sweetheart, it's time to go.
Goodnight Sweetheart, it's time to go.
I hate to leave you,
But I really must say,
Goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.
Even after seeing and hearing that same commercial for months, it seemed as if the singers didn't belong up that late, even though the lyrics clearly said it was three o'clock in the morning. It was incongruous to see them singing their hearts out, wooing the camera with each hair flip and sigh, and the announcer telling you to *call now* to order tickets - show times extended. It was as if they were begging us to buy tickets, as if when we saw the commercial one more time, we would be convinced to come to the show.
I almost felt sorry for them, all dolled up in their retro costumes, reduced to hawking themselves to the uncaring late night viewers. Didn't they get to rest? Didn't they get to perform their concert and go home? It seemed like I had been seeing them for months, and here they still were, brightly vamping, with the pale light from the teevee washing over the drowsing lumps of preteen girls and the insistent announcer with what felt like an unseemly loud voice for that hour.
That night, the lyrics dug themselves into my brain, and some thirty-some years later, I've never been able to extract them.
And also the sadness, and the polish of the irresistible tune stays with me. It's wistful but sincere, optimistic, even promising. There will be more times. We will always croon and sway and sing goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.
--
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Time Whips By
It's going to be one of those days. Writing something for the deadline.
Grappling again with where the time goes.
I turn around, and I am technically middle-aged. What? When did this happen? Where did that last decade go, anyway? I know where it went - living and having adventures with my husband, but you know, it's been a long time! I started the relationship as a young person. Okay, youngish.
It's as if I am standing still (or moving leisurely) while the world whips by me at tremendous speed. Not so much the people and events close to me. I see my friends and sisters and parents age, gradually. I've watched my husband grow progressively more silver. He had dark hair when I met, and more of it. He actually had a hairline then. It's not like a surprise when I turn around and he's looking so distinguished.
The small changes are perhaps too small to notice daily. It's when people and places/events are farther away from my primary circle that I really notice how things have changed because I don't see them every day. Going back to my childhood city at first was a shock; now I've gotten used to the changes. I'm getting used to the present-day faces of classmates I knew twenty or thirty years ago. Clearly, they must have changed in that time. They are who they are NOW. I just missed the transformation.
Maybe Einstein would have had something to say about relative time according to distance or proximity. Where's my diagram?
We are not so much attuned to the small and subtle shifts. Maybe I notice the time passing only when I am far enough away to really notice when things have changed, or when I am right there to see it with my own eyes? But even then, how do you really pay attention?
My little girl is not an infant any more. Those first three months passed by in a blur. And now that I can see the holidays approaching, I know that after that comes... *gasp* the first birthday. And I will be both thrilled and sad that my little girl is growing up, up, and up. I will turn around, and she'll be heading off to primary school, high school, college, the other side of the country or world, going on adventures. I think if I watch over her and take enough pictures, I will not miss her childhood, this dear heart, my child. Although I doubt I will be able to hold on to it. Life is always changing, new things arising, other things fading away.
And my own youth, mostly misspent? Gone. Gone! I still feel like a youngster. Well, except for my knees and feet, and heavier body, and those awful, awful chin hairs. Yeah. Even if somebody tells you when you are younger to appreciate where you are, who believes that? As my mother recently said, I can't believe I'm seventy!
The time just keeps whipping by as if I am not looking. Am I not looking? Maybe I need to be more aware? I will turn around and wonder why I didn't save more for retirement or maybe I'll be getting ready for my own death. Will I ever be a grandparent? There ought to be a theorem for how time seems to slip away faster and faster, the farther you go into life.
I can't grab onto anything. I think to myself: I must pay attention. Like a Thich Nhat Hanh devotee, I should savor the orange of my childhood, or was that the cookie? I must remind myself that every moment is like that orange or cookie. Sweet and quickly devoured, so fast that we barely taste it.
Thay's poetry reminds me I am of the nature to grow old. If we didn't age or see changes, how would we ever know that time had passed?
A shift of the light, a shift of the season, a sprinkling of white hair that was not there before.
We are in the thick of Autumn now, coming up fast on the end of the year with its holidays and family gatherings. I think I must make the most of my moments, quiet or jovial.
I can't grab time, and there's no point in watching it, but I suppose I should look at its passing out of the corners of my eyes, smiling when my daughter finds each new accomplishment. She revels in making silly sounds and faces and waiting for her mother to laugh and smile back. I brush back her hair which has suddenly, it seems, become thicker and blonder.
--
Grappling again with where the time goes.
I turn around, and I am technically middle-aged. What? When did this happen? Where did that last decade go, anyway? I know where it went - living and having adventures with my husband, but you know, it's been a long time! I started the relationship as a young person. Okay, youngish.
It's as if I am standing still (or moving leisurely) while the world whips by me at tremendous speed. Not so much the people and events close to me. I see my friends and sisters and parents age, gradually. I've watched my husband grow progressively more silver. He had dark hair when I met, and more of it. He actually had a hairline then. It's not like a surprise when I turn around and he's looking so distinguished.
The small changes are perhaps too small to notice daily. It's when people and places/events are farther away from my primary circle that I really notice how things have changed because I don't see them every day. Going back to my childhood city at first was a shock; now I've gotten used to the changes. I'm getting used to the present-day faces of classmates I knew twenty or thirty years ago. Clearly, they must have changed in that time. They are who they are NOW. I just missed the transformation.
Maybe Einstein would have had something to say about relative time according to distance or proximity. Where's my diagram?
We are not so much attuned to the small and subtle shifts. Maybe I notice the time passing only when I am far enough away to really notice when things have changed, or when I am right there to see it with my own eyes? But even then, how do you really pay attention?
My little girl is not an infant any more. Those first three months passed by in a blur. And now that I can see the holidays approaching, I know that after that comes... *gasp* the first birthday. And I will be both thrilled and sad that my little girl is growing up, up, and up. I will turn around, and she'll be heading off to primary school, high school, college, the other side of the country or world, going on adventures. I think if I watch over her and take enough pictures, I will not miss her childhood, this dear heart, my child. Although I doubt I will be able to hold on to it. Life is always changing, new things arising, other things fading away.
And my own youth, mostly misspent? Gone. Gone! I still feel like a youngster. Well, except for my knees and feet, and heavier body, and those awful, awful chin hairs. Yeah. Even if somebody tells you when you are younger to appreciate where you are, who believes that? As my mother recently said, I can't believe I'm seventy!
The time just keeps whipping by as if I am not looking. Am I not looking? Maybe I need to be more aware? I will turn around and wonder why I didn't save more for retirement or maybe I'll be getting ready for my own death. Will I ever be a grandparent? There ought to be a theorem for how time seems to slip away faster and faster, the farther you go into life.
I can't grab onto anything. I think to myself: I must pay attention. Like a Thich Nhat Hanh devotee, I should savor the orange of my childhood, or was that the cookie? I must remind myself that every moment is like that orange or cookie. Sweet and quickly devoured, so fast that we barely taste it.
Thay's poetry reminds me I am of the nature to grow old. If we didn't age or see changes, how would we ever know that time had passed?
A shift of the light, a shift of the season, a sprinkling of white hair that was not there before.
We are in the thick of Autumn now, coming up fast on the end of the year with its holidays and family gatherings. I think I must make the most of my moments, quiet or jovial.
I can't grab time, and there's no point in watching it, but I suppose I should look at its passing out of the corners of my eyes, smiling when my daughter finds each new accomplishment. She revels in making silly sounds and faces and waiting for her mother to laugh and smile back. I brush back her hair which has suddenly, it seems, become thicker and blonder.
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