Tuesday, January 5, 2010
It's All In Our Minds
My eyes are watering. No. That's a lie. They are seeping sadness. I am at a place that is not a good place. Aren't you tired of hearing about all of this?
I'm tired. For no reason. I slept very well last night burrowed down in weights of covers, cold air slipping through the cracked window to cool me when I had a hot flash so that they did not last so long. But I'm just weary. Weary of myself and this mind that tells me repeatedly that there is really no sense to any of it. I open the paper and a German woman has killed her grandchild on St. George Island, a place I went to for healing several summers. Killed her grandchild? I close the paper. Perhaps the doctor visit wore me out, even though it took approximately ten minutes and there was nothing at all for the doctor to be suspicious about. He took his little can of freezy stuff and left after he looked at me while lecturing the entire time on the ABCDE's of skin cancer.
It's good that he gets this information across but I swear to God I want to smack the holy living shit out of him after he says the same thing for about the fifteenth time, me standing there, clutching the gown around me to preserve some semblance of modesty although the bull done left the barn on that one after all the places he'd looked. He did tell me I have a fine head of hair. At my age, I'll take that as a compliment.
When he left, I asked his assistant if she doesn't go insane, listening to this speech over and over and over again, all day long, five days a week.
"I just zone it out," she said. "I have to."
So the doctor and the holidays which, although they were not so bad this year, really, they weren't, they have worn me out too. Even my house, which is my place of peace, is not giving me solice. I look around and see dirt and clutter. I open a drawer, a cabinet and I think, I should clean this up, but I don't have the energy, I shut it back but can still feel the chaos in there, even though I cannot see it.
Outside, everything is brown and dead and dying. Even the camellias are dying on the bushes. Their bright colors turning brown, brown, brown. I hate brown. Anyone who paints a house brown is suspect in my book.
Winter. It's just winter. The season of no-hope. I know, intellectually, that things will change. That buds will open, the azaleas will blossom, the tiny violets will cover the yard with white and purple, the dogwoods will make snow of the flowers in their limbs. I know all of that.
I know that Miss Allegra will get through her chemo and will find her strength and health and joy again. But today, she is in hell and that makes me sad, so sad. I think of all the suffering in this world and it bears down upon my chest like a heavy weight.
Well. Owen is coming tomorrow. He is everything- promise and reality of joy now. Life can be hard. It usually is, truthfully. We keep traveling. What else can we do? My chickens cluck and bawk and lay me eggs, still, even when it is so cold. They, too, are promise.
And so I write myself into hope. Words can promise, fingers type out the ones that tell the story of now and of tomorrow. Perhaps.
I suppose this is why people who have religion are, at heart, happier than those who do not. They can put their focus on the glories which have been promised, or at least believe there is a reason for suffering.
Not for me. No, not for me. I can only hold the thought of my grandson in front of my heart like a carrot on a stick, also the azaleas and the dogwoods and the tiny perfect violets and go collect the eggs and look up into the clear winter sky and see the remnants of the blue moon we celebrated, knowing it will fill and fatten again, that moon.
And tomorrow will be different. Hell, in an hour things will be different. Change is inevitable.
It's okay to leak the heart's sadness through tears. It's okay to be sad for someone we know is suffering. It's okay to close the paper. It's okay to think of eggs and sassy chickens.
It's okay to go on. It's what we do. We humans.
Bless our hearts. Yours, mine, bless us all on this cold winter morning when we have to remember that yes, there is suffering but joy can be found if we turn our mind to that. That's what my fingers have typed. I must believe it.