Sunday, January 6, 2013 • 8:47 PM • Winthrop, WA (Bluff Street House)
I’ve had the interruption of a visit from my sister, blessings and bonding, clashes and conflicts, and relief from solitude. Surprise. Me seeking relief from solitude. Sigh. At the same time, wishing for silence and contemplative aloneness. Paradox.
Today I ran a shuffling glide through the snowy streets forgetting the freezing temperatures, stepping to the tempo and tunes of Juan Luis Guerra, Gypsy Kings, and others streaming from my iPod. When I reached the bridge over the icy Methow River, I stopped to enjoy the contrast of that frigid water to the lively latin song I was listening to. A song about water, both frío and caliente; it filled me with a strange kind of joy.
Contentment has settled (somewhat); perhaps knowing I’ve got fewer days remaining before I go home than since I got here. It’s not that I don’t want to be here with Mother, but rather that I miss my own life. It’s not that I don’t love Mother, but rather that Mother––as I’ve known her––has gone chilipinte––gone missing. This woman here is not a total stranger, but she is not the woman she was. No more excitement over her sports’ teams, conscientiousness over seeing friends and family, interest in cooking, reading, conversation. All of those things are gone.
Yet, I feel a kind of peacefulness, or comparatively so. And a willingness to relax and wile away a few hours in the company of my sister. Tomorrow I can go back to working on my novel. Life is what it is, whatever it is, and there is something different about this year. I can feel it.
Monday, January 7, 2013 • Winthrop, WA (Bluff Street House) • 4:15 PM
I’m dry, dead, empty. It’s a terrible thing to say and an even worse feeling, but so it is. My sister has gone home and my patience and calm must have packed themselves into the trunk of her car. I make a decision––I will not be productive. I will not be creative. I will simply wait it out (how I hate wasting life!), watch TV, eat, make it through the hours. Somehow. I’m just spent. Can’t help myself. Just can’t. Nothing literary here worth posting, but here it is, just the same.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013 • Winthrop, WA (Bluff Street House) • 8:25 AM
My unhappiness is linked to non-acceptance; railing against things as they are. Why is Mother so childlike and incapable, requiring care, demanding what she wants when she wants it? The thought that she is less than thirty years ahead of me (in age) makes my eyes flutter wide open in fear. My own time feels so short. And it could be shorter. We never know when death will come.
Like circus ponies, my anger and frustration pull a wagon full of remorse behind them; where the ponies go, the carriage follows. Then I think of death––hers. What if the last thing I said to her was said in desperate impatience? What a memory that would be.
We have a cold, snow-covered landscape outside of this warm, old house. I can choose to appreciate its silent beauty or sink like a heavy stone into a soft drift of powder, losing myself in depression and self-pity.
I know an antidote to this self-pity. It is to open my eyes to the suffering of others. Imagine living under a freeway overpass in Spokane, Seattle, San Francisco, or anywhere, routed out periodically by police. Move along. Pack up your cardboard and shopping cart and go somewhere the tourists won’t be bothered. This is just one image that hangs a life-line in front of me, if I will reach out and take hold. Hand over hand, pay attention, pull myself up.
There is a claw foot bathtub here. I am going to fill it with hot water and bubble bath. Time for me.
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