I wake up. Gray light falls through the curtains into my bedroom. A sleepy tabby is curled up on my legs, no doubt exhausted from a long night of conducting important cat business. I get up, get dressed, fill the food bowls, get coffee. Or maybe tea? It’s all the same, anyway. I turn on my computer. I should get to work…or maybe I should look at the news first. No.
I start typing. Letters, words, sentences…what’s the word I am looking for? Oh right: pages. Inconsequential streams of consciousness. Someone else’s idea of enjoyment. It gets old really fast.
Time doesn’t exist in my office. The curtains keep away the Outside, until the number of completed lines on my screen tell me it’s time for dinner. I go into the other room. It’s dark out, so it must be evening, yes? I cook. We eat in front of the TV while watching some show. It’s all the same, anyway.
I attended a Zoom workshop on creative writing hosted by Open Book Unbound yesterday. We had twelve minutes to write a poem on morning rituals. It is short enough to include a revised version here.
I greet the sun with obligatory stretching
In the valley, chapel bells chime Ave Maria
I inhale on the first divine smoke of the day
As I look to the hills while
tomatoes redden and pumpkins fatten.
I am the early riser, my feet planted in wet grass
I am the quiet one in quiet time
The dog barks, yet no one wakes
Deus escreve certo em linhas tortas. God writes straight in crooked lines. I heard the Portuguese saying long before I came to Portugal, and long before I even had a smattering of the language.
Caring for the other one, my beloved, that taught me compassion. I prayed constantly to Jesus, pleading to know what it meant to have a compassionate heart. He showed me all right. It is the finding of a soft, sweet voice and a firm kind touch, when all around swirls blood and guts and gore, rank with the smell of excrement. Pure love, so it is. Not earthly love. Pure love. Simple.
I have to recall this, for a spiritual reckoning is necessary as I embark on my next copyediting job, a book about the message of Our Lady of Fátima. You see, in the three years since my beloved died, I have not deciphered much in the crooked handwriting of God.
It seems He has taken up His pen again. Via a long and winding path by word of mouth half-way around the globe and back again, news of this work reached my ears.
So, thanks, Jesus, for the lesson on compassion. And the lesson on grief. (And the many blessings you shower on me daily – lest you think me ungrateful.) Can we move on to the power of discernment and finding le mot juste now?
I came across the theory of Gaia, that the Earth is a self regulating entity when I was a youngster and it has always fascinated me. Recent world events reminded me of the theory and prompted this post,
Gaia stretched and yawned. The sun kissed her bosom and she drew in the heat, waking slowly. The ants were troublingher again, scurrying here and there, tunnelling into her skin, nipping her as she slumbered, stirringsome deep long forgotten anger in her. It had been a long restful sleep this time around; now it was time to wake and scratch and shake. She heaved herself over onto her knees, scattering ants everywhere. She stretched her broad back and stood right up, brushing away the tiny creatures, stamping them off, so they were crushed in their millions. Shaking out her long hair, she stood for a while and let the water wash them all away. Then she lay down to sleep again. Only a very fewants survived. They touched heads and crawled groggily into her hair and began to build a nest anew.
Dad died as the dawn broke. Before he went to sleep the night before, I spent my final hour with him. Heart failure and whiskey made him ramble, but I got his gist. I tucked him in, as he had tucked me in once and kissed him goodnight. “Leave the curtains open, would you darling, I want to see the dawn.” Those were the last words I ever heard him say.
Surrounded by his children, it was a good death and with it came a strange release from his paternal authority over us. Afterwards, waiting for the undertaker, we became naughty. My sister, giggling, put on his shoes and glasses and shuffled around, pretending to be him. We raided his pockets for his last thirty pounds and someone went out and bought champagne with it. We played his favourite tunes much too loudly, almost disrespectfully, cocooned in a strange, hysterical grief bubble.
Later, one by one we crept back to see him on his death bed. We smoothed his shirt, combed his hair, inspected his hands, kissed his cold forehead.The grandchildren, some as young as three came in, curious. We answered their questions as best as we could. After a while, we told the children that soon they’d come to take Grandad’s body away. There was a long silence, then the youngest piped up “But aren’t they going to take his head, too?”
Every now and then, on our healthful morning walks, we go off track. Retired life is comfortable, even predictable, but last week, living dangerously, we turned down an unknown path, studded with wild boar hoof prints. The track opened up to reveal a ruin, alone in the field, a byre and a shepherd’s hut with the roof fallen in and a deep open well. I leant over and looked into the depths, but I couldn’t see my reflection. Approaching the ruin alone, I peered tentatively through the byre door and fancied I smelt the ghost of the donkeys that once toiled between the surroundingwalls and terraces, where stunted ailing carobs and almonds grew untended. Then,just by the door, I spied an old pitchfork propped up for the last time and a lump rose in my throat for he who once wielded it and his lost way of life. I turned back to my man, feeling melancholy for the rich years we’d left behind us and our lost youth and strength.
I always try to see the best in people, and when they do something I don’t expect I try to find a reason for it. So when I am on a packed bus, with no seats available, I have to assume that the two young teenagers sitting in the disabled and elderly priority seats have something wrong with them. So that must be why they sat there for the whole journey, while a number of elderly people stood, clinging into the rails for dear life, while the driver practised his F1 strategies and driving skills – Including trying to take corners on 2 wheels.
If I had been sitting in those seats I would have been using my iPad, so I can’t complain about them using their mobiles the whole time to play games. Nor can I really say anything about their tight black lycra track suits and pure white tee shirts. if I was that slim I might have been dressed like that too. And for all I know they were going to work and that was their uniform.
However, there is such a thing as Karma. As the bus started slowing and coming into the terminus, they started to get up and found me and my case planted across the aisle, trapping them in their seats. I really enjoyed that. And so did the other elderly passengers, who were able to pass me as I turned sideways and lent forward over the teens, and the young mum with the difficult double buggy!
I remember holding his hand as he led our family in prayer when his father died.
The strength of his faith coursed through his firm grip, but I saw he had tears in his eyes and his voice plummeted to gravel now and then. One or two adults among us shifted awkwardly, for their faith was not as strong, but they persisted in the ritual. For all were joined by sadness and family ties as we held our similar-looking hands together.
The catapult of years is swift and now he, my uncle who loved his Lord — for that’s what he said years later — is dead.
All I can think of, apart from the warmth of spirit in his hands, was that he told us kids that there was an insect inside a mango pip, and we should try to get it out. I don’t know if that’s true. In the forty-six years since, I have never been able to open a mango pip.