Being the brilliant person that I am, I of course failed to have the foresight to recognise that I might end up spending the night at the enchanting little place my cousins call the Salem House, and therefore neglected to bring both earbuds and camera. While the earbuds are not so great a loss — I can play anything I need to aloud, really — the lack of camera is indeed regrettable, since there is no way to visually share the large round iced lemon shortbread cookies gracing cooling racks in the quaint little kitchen, or the delicate pattern painted onto the pale yellow of my borrowed, bowl-shaped mug, or the way the light falls just so over the bank of curling ivy and two-toned hostas bordering the wooden steps embedded into the earth behind the house. They tell me there is a graveyard at the top of the hill. In the back yard, a cement walk outlines what used to be an in-ground swimming pool; there is a tree planted in the center of the now-grass-covered rectangle that two decades earlier was chlorinated water.
There are some places, indubitably attached to individual people, that leave me with a deep impression of what it means to be a genuinely welcoming soul, and this place is one of them, these people are among them. Hospitality is an abstract concept, but it takes tactile form in my memory: it is sock feet propped comfortably on the rim of a wood-burning stove, hot drinks after nightfall, fingers snipping and arranging and pasting to fashion delicate silhouetted cards, peach cobbler, conversations held in low tones on the single bench in the church foyer, hands curved around the car's steering wheel, flowers like petal-caged sunshine on the uneven brown of the window sill, the rise and fall of a voice reading funny stories, snorting laughter erupting from the depths of the couch, casual and comfortable trading of insults and compliments alike, ice cream, second helpings, random adventures, random hugs. It is fitting so seamlessly into the activities and the personal space of others, not because you do but because they do. It is watching everyone being enthusiastically included. It is dropping everything to run to the door and welcome impromptu guests into the house, and it is everyone being dragged into the kitchen to eat cookies and then to seat themselves freely on the floor and talk and talk and talk; it is the door swinging wide; it is the door always being open. It is borrowed belts and borrowed books and unspoken understandings. It is finding another piece of home.
Perhaps growing up is meant to be primarily about paying for oneself instead of letting other people pay for you. That is quite possible, and it is probably the case, which means that I have been missing the point of becoming an adult, because for me growing up has so far been less about seeing that my pocketbook gains weight and more about broadening my definition of belonging. For my entire conscious life I can only remember perceiving being part of a group as being acceptable if that participation had been earned. Do I make enough money to call myself a responsible member of society who is allowed to take breaks and have fun? Can I treat other people instead of being treated? Am I a smart enough, scintillating enough, genuine enough, friendly enough person to justify my letting go and enjoying other people's company? Do I deserve these relationships?
Funny how such questions can be so consuming and yet so futile. Because no, I don't deserve the relationships, I don't deserve the welcome, I don't deserve the fun, I don't deserve the love. I never will, and to be quite objectively honest, it's unlikely that anyone else will ever truly deserve those things either. We humans with our limitations can tally and flowchart and quantify to our hearts' content what we do or don't earn from others and what others do and don't earn from us, but in the end what defines our interactions with others is not reward so much as need for relationship — a constant fluctuation between giving and receiving. And, oddly enough, it is the receiving of relationship — without the earning of it — that is somehow creating within me the strength to do what I could not accomplish merely for the sake of becoming a person worthy of being liked.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Unwritten Letters to My Father, Part One
There's a hole in the world.
I'm afraid I may fall through.
Someone has died
Was
Has gone
Is where?
Will be
Is
How?
This is neither the first
Now the only time that space has opened.
We are riddled with death
Like a sieve.
The dark holes are as multitudinous
As the stars in the galaxies,
As open to the cold blasts of wind.
If we fell through
What would we find?
Show me
Let me look through this new empty place
To where
The wind comes from
And the light begins.
— Madeleine L'Engle, "Lines after M. B.'s Funeral"
There are so many things I want to tell you right now...
...that afternoons and evenings spent holed up in the basement painting doors and drinking coffee make me think of you.
...that I have been yearning to go camping at the beach with you, even though the thought of sand dribbling through my clothing and insects pressing close in sweaty, plague-like crowds makes me shudder.
...that I still incorrectly install doorknobs.
...that baking special treats for people is still my specialty, and that strawberry shortcake is next on my list.
...that instrumental guitar music makes my heart ache because I remember you playing to yourself in the living room that one night when I was still six and I came out of my bedroom rubbing my eyes because I'd had a nightmare, and that memory still makes me feel safe.
...that I want to sit down once more to the dinner table with you and listen to you turn the dishes of food into a cast of characters enacting a comic drama as we devour them.
...that your distress over my childhood sloppiness needs not continue: I put food away immediately after I have finished using it, wipe up every spill, even if it's only water, and cover both edibles and compost religiously to keep off the flies.
...that there are tears stinging the corners of my eyes because the last time we spent together you took me to a concert with a violin soloist and went out of your way to compliment me and make pleasant conversation, and I pulled away because I was tired and sad and had a headache — I wish now that I had ignored the pinching of my heels and the pain in my temples and thrown myself into having the best time possible.
...that my quondam condemnation of your coffee habit has been replaced by a curious sense of kinship over the daily ritual of consuming bitter brew.
...that introducing me to John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel and Kansas and George Winston has permanently impacted my musical tastes and style — for the better.
...that you handing me your guitar and saying, after twenty years of loving the instrument, that it was mine now because you heard what happened when my fingers met the strings and you wanted me to go on playing as much as I wanted, makes me wonder even now how much you cared and how much I failed to see it.
...that the way you weep when songs move you cracks my heart open.
...that I love the way you forgive your brothers and go on reaching out to them even though you still don't know how to get along.
...that I'm still waiting to hear the end of "Michael Joey and the White Lightning", and that Willy and Billy ought to make a comeback.
...that I love the quiet after everyone is in bed just as much as you do.
...that I miss taking long walks together, whether along the oceanside or on the back roads close to home.
...that I miss the rise and fall of your voice when you're carrying on long phone conversations with your "man friends".
...that I miss your mis-pronounced Italian phrases and your long-winded rants about whatever topic happens to be wound up in your mind.
...that it's been too long since we've eaten pizza together.
...that I miss you.
...that I miss you.
...that I miss you.
I'm afraid I may fall through.
Someone has died
Was
Has gone
Is where?
Will be
Is
How?
This is neither the first
Now the only time that space has opened.
We are riddled with death
Like a sieve.
The dark holes are as multitudinous
As the stars in the galaxies,
As open to the cold blasts of wind.
If we fell through
What would we find?
Show me
Let me look through this new empty place
To where
The wind comes from
And the light begins.
— Madeleine L'Engle, "Lines after M. B.'s Funeral"
There are so many things I want to tell you right now...
...that afternoons and evenings spent holed up in the basement painting doors and drinking coffee make me think of you.
...that I have been yearning to go camping at the beach with you, even though the thought of sand dribbling through my clothing and insects pressing close in sweaty, plague-like crowds makes me shudder.
...that I still incorrectly install doorknobs.
...that baking special treats for people is still my specialty, and that strawberry shortcake is next on my list.
...that instrumental guitar music makes my heart ache because I remember you playing to yourself in the living room that one night when I was still six and I came out of my bedroom rubbing my eyes because I'd had a nightmare, and that memory still makes me feel safe.
...that I want to sit down once more to the dinner table with you and listen to you turn the dishes of food into a cast of characters enacting a comic drama as we devour them.
...that your distress over my childhood sloppiness needs not continue: I put food away immediately after I have finished using it, wipe up every spill, even if it's only water, and cover both edibles and compost religiously to keep off the flies.
...that there are tears stinging the corners of my eyes because the last time we spent together you took me to a concert with a violin soloist and went out of your way to compliment me and make pleasant conversation, and I pulled away because I was tired and sad and had a headache — I wish now that I had ignored the pinching of my heels and the pain in my temples and thrown myself into having the best time possible.
...that my quondam condemnation of your coffee habit has been replaced by a curious sense of kinship over the daily ritual of consuming bitter brew.
...that introducing me to John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel and Kansas and George Winston has permanently impacted my musical tastes and style — for the better.
...that you handing me your guitar and saying, after twenty years of loving the instrument, that it was mine now because you heard what happened when my fingers met the strings and you wanted me to go on playing as much as I wanted, makes me wonder even now how much you cared and how much I failed to see it.
...that the way you weep when songs move you cracks my heart open.
...that I love the way you forgive your brothers and go on reaching out to them even though you still don't know how to get along.
...that I'm still waiting to hear the end of "Michael Joey and the White Lightning", and that Willy and Billy ought to make a comeback.
...that I love the quiet after everyone is in bed just as much as you do.
...that I miss taking long walks together, whether along the oceanside or on the back roads close to home.
...that I miss the rise and fall of your voice when you're carrying on long phone conversations with your "man friends".
...that I miss your mis-pronounced Italian phrases and your long-winded rants about whatever topic happens to be wound up in your mind.
...that it's been too long since we've eaten pizza together.
...that I miss you.
...that I miss you.
...that I miss you.
Monday, August 4, 2014
For Maman: An Update, of Sorts
While it has been for some time on my daily to-do list to compose a new post for this blog (as if finishing any of the twenty-odd pieces already begun for it were not enough), the task has clearly not been accomplished, most likely in part due to some misguided sense of self preservation, which runs to the extent of being at a loss as to just how to go about placing my thoughts with discretion upon a page for other eyes to see when I am so hard pressed to keep any presentable for semi-public viewing the first place. * Of course, some of it also has to do with negligence on my part, in not actually sitting down to execute the task until already rendered half-incoherent by a late hour; and then, at last, I did not start writing on a page at all but in an OpenOffice document, and that has made a great deal of difference. Odd how, while I used to swear by compiling first drafts digitally, it seems nothing is ever accomplished now unless I begin on paper and work my way up from there.
It is odd too, though I suppose also somewhat inevitable, that the more time I spend avoiding the laptop the less I want to be perpetually near it. Necessity demands still that I keep company with it often, as online classes, kanji, and socialisation with friends and family are based almost entirely upon internet resources; however, despite that unavoidable (and enjoyable, might I add) time spent with my electronic companion, I find myself experiencing greater yearning for the perceived freedom of the world beyond house walls, for the sky and its attendant breezes, for the attention given to the fleeting detail of sunset and silhouetted tree and the moon. There are even some nascent longings for my fingers in the soil—what is this? The high heat of August and a borrowed yard are hardly conducive to daydreaming about gardening.
This week's responsibilities are crowding quick and close: there is music theory homework to be finished and turned in by Tuesday; birthday gifts to be made; another day to be spent at the library; packing to be done—my grandmother's birthday fast approaches, and once again I am venturing northward to spend time with her; doors to be taken down from their hinges and painted and then reattached to their jams... There is no dearth of activity to be had. I shall be engaged in it, in the midst of it, even, merely because I dare not face the consequences of acting the laggard and ignoring these tasks listed neatly at the beginnings of my week (yes, I keep a planner now—what of it? Planners are cool.)**
Amidst the satisfaction of well-paced activity, I foresee returning again and again to my small touchstones of sanity: fingers curling around a mug made hot by coffee, a odd half hour spent with a book in the play set loft, pen on paper, a dozen forays to the security of the piano keyboard. Some small personal necessities must be obtained at the store before this coming Sunday's departure for lands abroad—an over-dramatisation indeed, but not wholly ridiculous in light of the sense of disorientation that comes inevitably from departing what serves as home base—and a day invested in wrapping up some threads of investigation at the public library would be well spent, but other than that there is a near-entire week of productivity planned ahead of me. I will do well not to waste it.
Care to share what's on your week's agenda, and what you are looking forward to with anticipation in the days immediately ahead of us?
* Yes, all eyes but my own, all minds but my own, qualify as some form of "public" where my inner workings are concerned. Such is introversion.
** It is to be pointed out that some admirably organised Australian women keep planners as well, only they call them diaries, which is a friendlier, more homely way of referring to them as opposed to using some creased-and-pressed business-suited term like Daytimer to reference one's book of daily appointments with oneself. Australians are also cool.
It is odd too, though I suppose also somewhat inevitable, that the more time I spend avoiding the laptop the less I want to be perpetually near it. Necessity demands still that I keep company with it often, as online classes, kanji, and socialisation with friends and family are based almost entirely upon internet resources; however, despite that unavoidable (and enjoyable, might I add) time spent with my electronic companion, I find myself experiencing greater yearning for the perceived freedom of the world beyond house walls, for the sky and its attendant breezes, for the attention given to the fleeting detail of sunset and silhouetted tree and the moon. There are even some nascent longings for my fingers in the soil—what is this? The high heat of August and a borrowed yard are hardly conducive to daydreaming about gardening.
This week's responsibilities are crowding quick and close: there is music theory homework to be finished and turned in by Tuesday; birthday gifts to be made; another day to be spent at the library; packing to be done—my grandmother's birthday fast approaches, and once again I am venturing northward to spend time with her; doors to be taken down from their hinges and painted and then reattached to their jams... There is no dearth of activity to be had. I shall be engaged in it, in the midst of it, even, merely because I dare not face the consequences of acting the laggard and ignoring these tasks listed neatly at the beginnings of my week (yes, I keep a planner now—what of it? Planners are cool.)**
Amidst the satisfaction of well-paced activity, I foresee returning again and again to my small touchstones of sanity: fingers curling around a mug made hot by coffee, a odd half hour spent with a book in the play set loft, pen on paper, a dozen forays to the security of the piano keyboard. Some small personal necessities must be obtained at the store before this coming Sunday's departure for lands abroad—an over-dramatisation indeed, but not wholly ridiculous in light of the sense of disorientation that comes inevitably from departing what serves as home base—and a day invested in wrapping up some threads of investigation at the public library would be well spent, but other than that there is a near-entire week of productivity planned ahead of me. I will do well not to waste it.
Care to share what's on your week's agenda, and what you are looking forward to with anticipation in the days immediately ahead of us?
* Yes, all eyes but my own, all minds but my own, qualify as some form of "public" where my inner workings are concerned. Such is introversion.
** It is to be pointed out that some admirably organised Australian women keep planners as well, only they call them diaries, which is a friendlier, more homely way of referring to them as opposed to using some creased-and-pressed business-suited term like Daytimer to reference one's book of daily appointments with oneself. Australians are also cool.
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