Eating Time

The process of healing is a curious thing, whether the healing is physical, emotional, or both. In both cases, healing requires rest, so our mind, heart or body can repair itself. The curious thing is that in both instances time is a crucial ingredient. The best medicine or the best counseling available will not be effective if the factor of time is ignored or dismissed. And where time is a sensitive commodity patience is required. Patience is an acquired skill, that demands obedience to eat willingly the dry bread of healing, slowly, deliberately as we chew, one unseasoned bite after another, pieces of time stolen from us. Healing is eating time, to find it back, to regenerate it, to claim it back. Some people cannot retrieve the time lost, and their bodies fade as their mind and heart can no longer keep up, they can no longer digest time's appetite requirements. Other people eat too much time, and it slows them down awkwardly, they seem to stand still, seemingly perpetually eating time, but not going anywhere, and the healing becomes trapped in their sluggish bodies and minds. I have done both, neither of which is pleasant. Ideally, time flows through us like rhythmic motion, and we are in balance, making good use of our talents and the clock. But just like any mechanism that becomes corroded, due to neglect, overuse, misinterpreted instructions or directions, we lose the smooth working of the wires and connections in the time sensitive machine that is our life, and the only way to grease the gears again, to permit the healing to take place, is to eat time, but, eat it very cautiously, very respectfully. Time is not a palatable dish, it tastes bland, dull, and it does not look appetizing either, about the colour of smashed potatoes, it seems. Yet, if we learn to develop a tolerance for it, with enough practice, we can find the energy to eat enough time this measure around to avoid having to sit on the side lines one too many rounds before our machine is beyond repair and eating time no longer is an option, because our clock ran out of strokes.   

Halloween

The weather today is perfect for this holiday celebrating ghosts and goblins. The air is thin, cold, wet, the clouds hang low and a capricious wind is kicking around the dry autumn leaves as would a bored sprite. I was looking forward to getting out my witches' hat and setting out the bowls of candies for the neighbourhood kids who would come around to trick-0r treat. It is always fun to see all the costumes, from the little bees and fairies, to the werewolves and ghouls. I like to dress up, and I miss the Halloween parties my friends and I would give in graduate school. Dressing up is a fun way to express your inner whimsy and also innocence, and inner child. It taps into the longing for mythology, for fantasy and escape of humdrum of every day modern life. It expresses a longing for a deeper reality, for the invisible being brought to relevance. We can be wizards, and knights, elves, we can be mischievous or noble, gentle or fierce, ugly or very pretty, meek, or powerful. Dressing up allows us to express what remains hidden in our daily attire, that rarely reveals our deeper longings and character. We can be a pirate, a ninja, a mighty warrior, a king, a queen, a witch, a mighty beast or monster. We know it is not real, but the fact that we enjoy dressing up so much tells me we wish it was. The extremes are revealed when we dress up, because what we wear becomes a reflection of inner thoughts and aspirations, be they naive, forceful, scary, inspiring, funny, revolting or sexy and daring. In our daily lives, our faces are our masks, our disguises, that reveal  very little as to what kind of person we are behind that face.When we dress up, our costumes become the signature to our face, one face comes off, to reveal another. So, whether we dress up or not, or like to dress up or not, we are always in disguise. It is only when we agree to dress up that we reveal the mask our face is, and that can be a lot of fun, and very therapeutic,too. It is also a way to bond, to let our friends and neighbours know what we like, and that feels good. If we all dressed up all the time, we might feel closer to each other, closer to our own spirit and heart, and it might also bring to view that we are all connected in the deep longing to be understood, recognized, to matter, to have an identity that can be seen, and that would remove some of the soul deadening anonymity of modern life.

Espoir

The sky against the bright red, orange, and yellow autumn leaves blowing in the playful morning wind created the illusion of an impressionistic water colour painting. The vision put the French word for hope in my mind, espoir. Hope is such a small, humble looking word, and yet it conveys so much power, so much necessity. It is really strange that something invisible like the concept of hope, matters so much when it comes to the flesh and bone reality of our daily lives. Often hope is something we convince ourselves of, an energy and determination we impose on our will, our aspirations and dreams. When we feel those goals are within reach, we are confident our hope is justified. A lot of times, the conviction that our hope is justified is all it takes to keep us going, putting one foot in front of the other, each and every day. The days and times that are hard, is when we lose sight of that elusive wizardry that keeps our energy going. How many challenges have been overcome, how many partially crushed longings and ambitions revived, because we told ourselves that there was hope, in spite of logical evidence to the contrary. Hope seems to be as much an energy we create in our circumstances as it is a real and factual reality. So, hope seems twofold : it comes in real, tangible assistance and relief, and it comes in the invisible force of determination that gives us that jolt that gets us out of a jam we thought we were stuck in. There are many things you can live without. But hope is not one of them. In  its invisible energy form, it allows humans, and animals, too, to survive trials and horrors that without it, would surely have caused surrender and death. Hope might be the most convincing argument yet that the universe has an angle to it that defies rationality, a spiritual dust so to speak, that is sprinkled invisibly on our most dire circumstances to make sure our physical being does not collapse. Hope. It is a beautiful thing. It should have a much grander name, like galaxy boost, or Milky Way Vitamin. This small, oddly enough four letter word, hope , was done an injustice by its ordinary name. Perhaps on purpose, so this planet could learn eventually, that things invisible matter as much as things visible. If you doubt my take on this, study up on the latest theory in astrophysics dealing with dark, or invisible matter.

Woman

The Algerian born Kabyle poet and singer Idir has songs that deeply touch my heart. He sings mostly in Arabic, and also has songs in French. I speak and write French fluently, but when it comes to Arabic my knowledge is less than basic at this point. But with the music of Idir, the lack of understanding Arabic does not stop me from wanting to know the translations, which fortunately do exist, or from being deeply moved by this unique singer's songs. He has this kind habit of explaining his songs 'meaning to his audience, and there is one song he sings about his mother that just hit my heart head on. The song is about isolation, a burden millions of women live with, in the past, and to this day. The song stirred a deeply buried pain in me, as I am not a stranger to isolation and its devastating impact on self confidence, hope and talent. I love my husband very much, but there is no denying that I have endured long stretches of isolation during my marriage, and I am going through one now. I have often thought of my father's mother, the grandmother everyone affectionately called "Meterke", "Little Godmother". She became a widow at age 38, with a son  and three daughters. She never remarried, and had she so considered, it probably would have been frowned upon in a small Flemish village of post World War II. My mother thought her bitter, but I remember her as a quiet, strong woman, devoted to her children and grandchildren. She lived with my father's youngest sister, who never married and was living with her until Meterke died at age 70, and my single aunt was 36. I remember spending weekends at their city apartment in Oostende, Belgium. My aunt worked full time in the social welfare sector, leaving my grandmother alone all day until evening time. She never complained and encouraged her adult daughter to go to the theater and movies, and go on trips with her co-workers and friends. She was alone a lot. That sense of her aloneness soaked into my impressionable child's mind and memories, and like a stubborn dye, it never faded. In my stretches of isolation and loneliness in my marriage, I would visit her memory and resolve, and draw strength from it, as I still do now. My isolation is not the result of being a young widow, but the result of living with a kind but exceedingly solitary man, who is very hesitant to socialize and has very little understanding of my gregarious nature and the sadness the isolation has caused and causes me. That I am susceptible to his strong will on this is not just his personality, but my own weakness when it comes to standing up for my own needs, that being the result of being emotionally neglected as to my social needs as a child and teenager. I have had times when I was able to break through that isolation, and then I would fall back into that trap, thinking I was moving too far away from my husband, only to realize he does not have the same needs, and having to start all over again, which I am dealing with again now. It is not something visible to neigbours and casual friends,and I do not speak of it, until now, but it is a very difficult and at times heartbreaking challenge. Idir's song dedicated to his mother brings home the awareness I am not alone, or outdated in that concern, as it seems to be a burden time and again, of being a woman in many parts of the world, regardless of status or culture. It is one I fight bravely against and like the tides of the oceans, I have had the pleasure of seeing the high tide, as well as the low tides through which I am wading now. I was invisible as a child, and now I am struggling with invisibility as an adult. That I am a woman only reinforces the acceptability of this struggle. Idir's beautiful  song made that  crystal clear to me as I recall his words so well as he introduced his haunting ballad :  " Il n'est  pas evident d'etre une femme dans ce monde, que ce soit dans une societe moderne, ou que ce soit dans une societe de fortes traditions. "      

Present Tense

It is one of those rare autumn days where the sun pours its liquid warmth on the bright blue sky and the golden, red and orange leafed trees that seem to be everywhere this year, as we have had very little rainfall. A gentle breeze adds to the delight of the beautiful day here, and it feels awesome to feel sun reminiscent of a summer day. The whole feeling has this effect of slowing down time. Present tense. The here, the now. It is taking me time to let go of the past, and not to fixate on the future, to see the gift of each day and live it with its challenges and joys. It is an ability that I have seen and see in all the dogs and cats we have taken into our home over the last 25 years. In a way, when you live in the present, you slow down time, because you deal with the moment in all its aspects. I smile at a couple of squirrels playing in the cherry tree, chasing each other around. I delight at the mess of leaves twirling down into the backyard lawn. I notice a dragonfly sunning itself on a towel hanging outside. A few fat spiders are blowing around in their webs, seemingly unconcerned about winter coming. The moment is all we truly have. Sure, it is important to plan tomorrow, and learn from the past, but all that wisdom should enable us, not disable us, to enjoy and make the best of each day. It is sunny and peaceful today, and even though there are many things I could be upset about, I choose not to and live in the moment that is given to me now. As a first generation immigrant, I often feel the pressure to make each day something special, unusual, and many days have been just that in the last 37 years I have been living in the US. And many days were lonely, difficult, frustrating, confusing. Some were and are very happy and fulfilling. So, it is only in the last couple of years that I feel entitled to just ordinary days, too. Days where I just enjoy and allow them and myself to be. The ordinary, the invisible, the quiet of my days are precious too. In their silence is part of my journey, too. Part of my soul, my heart, my story, my strength. The present tense is a part of me and more and more, it is part of my deeper self, of the fruit of my labours and efforts to make something worthwhile out of the unique journey I chose, away from country, language, culture and family, to reinvent myself into the person I am today. Not the person I was yesterday, not the person I will be tomorrow, but the person I am and can be each and every day again, with each gift of sunrise and the new chances that light brings one precious, unique moment at a time, adding one stitch at a time to the continuing needle work patterns that life leads me to explore.

Holes

It was one of those almost stiflingly quiet, grey days, the kind that makes the sky look like it has breathing problems. I walked outside with our dog Yara after an exchange of uplifting messages with an old friend from El Salvador from my undergraduate days in Fort Worth, Texas. Yara and I always feed the birds together and she was running alongside me excitedly, barking at the idea of seeing a squirrel or two to chase. My conversation with my friend laid bare some of our mutual sorrows when it comes to family. The idea of holes came to mind. The kind that happen in clothes with excessive use and time. Holes in your heart can make you feel naked, cold, just as they do in worn out clothing. I thought about that for a minute and the visual held. Just when I thought I would get attacked by an unsuspected bout of melancholy at loss and its inevitable regrets, another idea took hold. Holes, not as in gapes, wounds, but holes as in openings, possibilities. When you can't see where you are going, and you can't see a hand before your eyes, tearing a hole in what obstructs your view is not a bad option. It won't be painless, or effortless, but it will lead to other options, other paths, other perspectives. Holes also create a deeper view, bring fresh air, more light, and even make whatever you carry lighter, by the sheer laws of physics. I suddenly felt better. My friend and I discussed various concerns, and it was apparent that he and I each carried our burdens of varying weight, but the holes in our lives looked better somehow, maybe because we had a chance to talk about them, without feeling the need to fix those holes. They were there, but they do look different now to me. Holes. Big, small, round, jagged, just starting or threatening to take the whole item of concern, they are also opportunities, challenges, road indicators.With that new frame of mind, even the sky started losing its constricted look, I heard the happy twitter of the birds who were finding the bread crumbs I had put out for them. I went inside, put on my favorite Rachid Taha CD, and started writing. Like big O's, the holes in my own life seemed like they were dancing to the rai rhythms, like big bubbles, expanding and popping, revealing colour and light, making them sights of hope and resolve.

Fog

The last two weeks we have been dealing with some persistent fog in the mornings, that tends to stick around until the early afternoon, causing havoc with traffic in some areas. As I was driving back from the luxuriously green entrance to Evergreen State College, I was enjoying the nice fall colours of all the trees, that were shrouded in a thin, opaque layer of fog. I have always been partial to fog, because it softens contours, and makes everything look like an impressionistic dream. Of course, I do not enjoy it when it is thick and dangerous, that is an entirely different matter. But the fog like it was at 10 o'clock this morning, makes me feel like I am safe and justified in my fuzzy perception on certain things.It occurred to me that whether or not we realize it, we are all fuzzy on a lot of things while we believe we have a razor sharp vision on life. That is of course a fantastic illusion. There are many things we have a very slippery hold on. The family we are born into, the place that happens, the way our parents treat, or mistreat us as children, our genetic inheritance, the fallout of certain relationships, a measure of our health, how long we live, and when our time runs out. Oh, sure , we can alter and control some of these things, but when all is said and done, there are many things that remain hazy as to the finer points of human existence. Whether we are born at a time of war or peace, how that affects our ability to express and pursue our talents and dreams, whether we are born into a society that smiles on human rights or violates them, and when we leave a repressive system, whether we will have any better luck in our newly adopted land. Yes, some of that too depends on will and personality, but some of it will also be plain luck. So, fog to me is very pleasant in its milder forms, because it brings to mind the elusiveness of precision as far as our lot on this earth is concerned. Fog is vague, and it always has a relaxing effect on me. There are only so many things we can control, and when I start stressing about aspects of my life I wish were more exact, more precise, or even more clear, I look at the fog hanging about sleepily on the trees and houses around my street, and it brings a smile to my face. Do your best, but don't be afraid to let the fog's wisdom do some of the rest. All of your worries may just dissipate to some extent like fog before the sun, because unlike us humans, fog knows very well it will vanish when the sun comes through, it seems to have very little illusions as to its temporary nature.