My mother never talked about her past and I knew almost nothing about her.
She was this person who seemed to let life’s accidents shape her – and I was just one of the many mistakes that occurred during her lifetime.
Then she developed Alzheimer’s and was doomed to live in the past all the time.
By then, she only spoke in this strange dialect of her own – skipping every two or three words, misusing the ones she did say out loud in her thick accent. I would close my eyes to catch every word and make sense of it – but too many pieces were missing and I never puzzled it out.
Trapped as she was in her own past, she still didn’t share it, and nearly all of it died with her.
She was trying to combat stress by meditating every day.
Granted, she did it with her eyes open. During her morning commute. While stuck in traffic snarls.
But it was her only available free time.
First, my housekeeper started putting the dog in my clothes. My really nice clothes.
And now she has launched an instagram account for the dog.
Still wearing my really nice clothes.
Her escape fantasies intensified:
New job? Why not a new profession. Or she strikes it just right somewhere with a combo hardware store / bakery that also sells industrial art in the corners. Specifically: Dirt would form in permanent half moons under her nails and her cakes would be slices of pure comfort on a plate.
New house, maybe. Better: new town, in a different state – or maybe a different continent. One with no people….where the news was really just about the ever-changing weather which she also tried to capture in photographs.
To keep herself in her seat, she would tell herself that “new” could also just mean different feelings of failure and inadequacy.
And when that started sounding just fine, she would know she was truly in trouble.
Currently she was haunted by a song, the words to which were mostly indecipherable – hummed notes slurred into half words. It was the music, really, that captivated her…a gentle wistful entanglement with her heart.
More rain. *sigh*
She might otherwise have been worried about wearing a leather jacket on this sort of day. Except she knew that the route to work didn’t entail much natural air, and she would spend most of the day as a shut-in, with only the briefest glimpses of the world outside.
Ah yes, it’s Monday in suburban corporate America…where “variety” means visiting a different vending machine or coffee pot for the afternoon break in monotony.
She took one of those “naps” that turned into an entire afternoon of fatigue.
She slipped into a deeply sleepy stupor and even dreamed about being unable to open her eyes again. It was an odd feeling, that of being blind but knowing she still had vision – the ability to see – just underneath her tired, heavy eyelids.
“Who else,” she wondered, “had felt this sensation, too? Politicians, maybe?” And with that mildly disturbing thought, she wandered off to prepare a cup of coffee for herself.
She dresses in black but only writes in color.
Day 3 @ yoga retreat and my big wisdom arrives: Yoga is really about farting without shame. I mean, I spent an incredible amount of time trying to control my own flatulence, and heard many many people around me releasing their own gas.
When I browsed the gift shop, in fact, all the books made more sense when I added some flatulence focus to them:
1/ “Fart without effort” – how to squeeze out the most resistant flatulence
2/ “Yoga escapes” – how to move from the smell of your own farts during yoga
3/ “Fart with your yoga partner – and enjoy it” – about the practice of yoga farting in pairs
4/ “The yoga of gas pains” – how to combat gassy bloating during yoga
5/ and the book for me – “Yoga farting for beginners”