rainy monday

It's Monday morning. It was raining when I awoke, and the sky over the inlet was low and gray. Rachel made eggs with black beans and onions, and after breakfast we knit awhile and listened to This American Life. My heart is heavy.

We're in a café in Bath now, with free wireless internet, spacious couches, and a hit-or-miss soundtrack (most Christmas music and the currently-playing Phil Collins hit included in miss). Our work here over the weekend filled more than half of the "frequent customer card," leaving us only four cups away from a free drink. We're getting a lot of work done. Both the work accomplished and the prospect of a free coffee cheer me. As does my new little digital point-and-shoot.

But my heart still hangs.

I want life to make sense, you know, the way plots make sense. The way elements in a novel work together, details accumulating meaning. I'm not saying I want life to be simple or obvious, no, but ultimately I want some reason, some order, at least a variation on a theme. I want to learn my lessons and move forward with a modicum of purpose. I suspect it's old-fashioned of me to want this.

The catch is, though, that I tend to skim through the real difficult part of books or movies. The part where things get sticky and the hero or heroine is revealed as the failure he or she is. I leave the room or close my eyes. I hate the scenes leading up to confrontation, when the potential for real disaster hangs in the air. I want things to skip ahead to when things are moving smoothly again, when all parties are privy to the important information, kung-fu duels confined at least to those between good vs. evil.

But in my own life it seems precisely those confusing scenes which are dragged out for years. I'm waiting to be privy to all the revealings facts, for all the characters to be introduced, for the central conflict to present itself in a way I can confront. Meanwhile I hem and haw.

And rainy Monday mornings present themselves as if to remind me of the fact. But I try to do what the best characters in novels do: wake up, make coffee, complete their work, and fill up their frequent customer cards.

pouty-post-pascha

I am grumpy.

It's still raining. The bellydancing video I bought to motivate myself toward movement annoys and overwhelms me. Not only are the moves incomprehensible, but the dancers outfits are silly and the background music techno-new-age with a subtle Indian beat. I hoped for a sultry Middle Eastern rhythm and curvy black-haired divas gently drawing me into a shimmy. These are blonde girls in teal work-out suits sporting a few obligatory bangles and California smiles. Sheesh.

And then, well, it's bright Monday, and as I mentioned, it's raining.

I'm going for a jog, which involves the kind of workout step I've already gotten down.

the broad-leafed-boy can’t eclipse my story

I often experience anxiety when I lose perspective on the relative importance of the narratives in my life. I am apt of inflate a minor narrative at the expense of a major one. Or I forget what tasks belong to which narratives.

I know I am speaking abstractly here, but heck, this is my blog, and sometimes abstractions are necessary for me to handle details. I like broad categories, universal stories, collective symbols. And, yes, I like metanarratives.

Little stories are sometimes very addictive. Like the story of the broad-leafed-boy and his river. It's a good story and I want to write it. But I forget the story of the amber-colored-girl with the baby in her arms and that what she needs is some movement.

forward and up

saying goodbye

In the past three years there has been ample time for looking back.

While climbing a mountain involves concentration on the path upward, it is nonetheless customary for climbers to stop and survey the familiar scenery behind them. This gives the climber the opportunity to rest and also allows them to gauge how far they've come. As the climber nears the summit, these interludes become more necessary and more rewarding. The view of the terrain behind is expansive.

I've combed the details, asked every question I knew words to ask, turned my understanding on its head. Lately you've been with me more, showing up in the smell of stranger I pass in the diner or the way the light falls. I remember the empty times, gleaning nickels and dimes from the floor by your bed, the fearful closeness of the abtruse corridors of your mind. But I'm saying goodbye. I wake and smile: goodbye.

Once at the summit, the climber is met with the descent into new terrain. Before taking the path downward, however, a climber will often turn and take a last look at the familiar landscape behind. Once the climber passes the summit, the view from the side of the mountain ascended is recalled in memory alone. The path downward to valley below is now the proper domain and preoccupation of the climber.

For the time being, I am ok with your ghostlike presence. I notice you. But the sunlight is warm and real.

driving to church

This story is about me. About me sitting in Mary's sunroom looking at the sun shine through the leaves of the golden pothos vine and thinking about about driving to church as a kid, and smiling.

Mary wants me to make new stories so that my body remembers my past differently.

I smiled because when Mary asked me to change a childhood memory of my father, I immediately thought about our family going to church. Of course the trip to church. I recalled that awful ride and all the dread associated with our Sunday morning spectacle. I remember our car, old and beat up, and fighting with my brother and sister about window seats. I remember pulling into the parking lot at church and circling around to park in the back. Other people's fathers drove up and dropped them off under the awning to protect their Sunday best from the rain. I don't think Dad ever did that for us. I remember cringing and hoping nobody would be getting out of their car when we got out of ours. I remember walking across the blacktop, looking down, dreading. I remember the glass doors under the small awning that led into the vestibule. I remember the stale smell of the unused building, the striped upholstery on the bench next to the door. But I remember most clearly wanting to hide. Wanting to avoid everybody, their gaze, their implicit judgement, even their friendly greeting.

Our whole entrance into the church was uncomfortable. Our position there apparently without dignity, at least in my Father's eyes. Yes, we were poor, but more importantly, Dad felt slighted. He put on a stern, self-righteous act which became the context in which we walked. Entering the sanctuary was as difficult as arriving at the front doors. Dad chose back rows, or when he felt particularly ill-at-ease he skulked off to the balcony. He said it was because he did not want to be asked to pray.

I felt so unentitled at church, so second-rate, so much the daughter of my unhappy, grudge-bearing father.

Sitting there with the sunlight I tried to imagine us lightly getting into our car amid good-natured bickering, to ride to church peaceably, with space in our movements and ourselves. To imagine pulling into the closest parking spot to the door, like a normal family. Or getting dropped off under the awning. To imagine entering and seeing my Father smile and shake someone's hand warmly, engage in conversation without an edge or grudge. To see my Mom walk with dignity, not hiding her husband's angry inadequacy with smiles or sweetness. To hang our coats with pride. To run and find my friends and not slink away somewhere with a book to read. To enter the sactuary with my family comfortably, casually sitting in a pew near the middle of the church. With space and dignity in all our movements.

meta-conversations

Most of what I've written so far has been abstract. What Posluns calls my meta-conversations.

But as a justification, sitting here in my pajamas before my breakfast of coffee and eggs, I offer this: it is not easy to paradigm shift. It is a meta sort of thing; new maps and new stories are about changing broad concepts and understanding.

But perhaps some details are in order.