[A brief continuation of yesterday's entry. 5. My mother died on June 16, 2009. Last fall, Joy and Evan and I invited our friends Melissa and Shayna DeLowe (they were married last month and Shayna took Melissa's last name) to help us bury Mom's ashes. Melissa was Evan's Hebrew tutor over the months leading up to his Bar Mitzvah in Israel. Shayna is a cantor at Temple Rodef Shalom in NYC. The five of us spoke some Saturday about what we wanted it to be like, down where the ashes of my mother's best friend and Tyler, mom's cat are buried. We made plans about what we'd say, what we'd do, what we'd sing. When the time came, I forgot it all. "What do you want me to do?" Shayna asked. "Just sing," I said. She sang for what may have been five minutes or twenty. She opened her mouth and the sound poured out of her as though she couldn't possibly hold it back, clear, pure, at once heart-felt and light. After she stopped the singing was still there.]
In the years when I taught fiction writing, I encouraged my students to write daily, explaining that though there was no reason to expect they'd write something brilliant every day, it was a good practice, an announcement to the unconscious: I will be available to you every morning between 7 and 9AM to receive whatever you want to offer me. I'd forgotten about that teaching until just now, as I realized that the consequence of this blog writing, my thoughts turn to practice, to looking to see through the lens of practice.
Another thing I encouraged my students to try was writing on the subway. I know it's sort of obvious, but the subway is underground. The unconscious is its own underground. Riding the F train to Coney Island and back was how I worked through a lot of snarls in stories I was writing. In the Fukanzazengi, Eihei Dogen wrote, "take the backward step that turns the light and shines it inward." In. Under. Jane and I were talking recently about prepositions, how these words which describe out relationships to all phenomena are among the most challenging for students of English as a second language. Where is inside? Where is under? No place. Everywhere.
The same thing happened as once before -- I lost my text. It wasn't brilliant or long or distinctive, and I might as well just take a deep breath and try to do it again. Ah, patience, where are you?
ReplyDeleteSo... your mom. I cannot believe it's been over a year! How distinctive time feels to our changing selves, doesn't it? When I was a small child, time crawled. Now it speeds like a runaway train.
Also, about your mom. I had written in an earlier comment that I was like your mom. I don't know if you had occasion to see my correction: I had meant to write *my* mom and yours had lots in common. I can't bear to think (because I am vain in my own special way) you imagine me as deluded as to fancy MYSELF like your mother: a former model, elegant, self-conscious about her public appearance, stylish.
Thinking about you and her and ashes. C's are still down on the table in a silk-lined box.
i didn't know how you were comparing yourself to your mom. turns out you weren't.
ReplyDeletei heard something on NPR, a theory about why time seems to go faster as we age. i think it has to do with our brains slowing down.
ashes. when you're ready, timp, when you're ready.
No, no. I am hopeless. I was comparing your mom and mine. Your mom and mine sound as if they had some similarities. Sorry for being so inarticulate.
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