I've been learning the ropes of being left-handed for eighteen days. My handwriting has always been something akin to madwoman scribbles across a page, but now that I'm writing lefthanded, it looks like a child is recording her night visions in my 2010 dream journal. Years ago when I was first grappling with my own history and also my secret desire to be a writer, I read pretty much every how-to writing text and completed the assigned writing projects. One in particular, was to write with your non-dominant hand to stimulate new nueral pathways in the brain, access the dormant inner child, and reveal the shadow lurking in the psyche. I don't remember much from this other than Tinkerbell presented herself as my shadow, and I, (or she) wrote a quirky, nonsensical rhyme that admonished me to lighten up, literally. I have the poem on my other computer and will post it later. I also remember that Tinkerbell lived in a shoe, I believe it was shaped like a boat. I suppose it's comforting that Tinkerbell is hanging out in a shoe boat somewhere in my pysche. Ahoy! I'm curious to see what emerges, what ocean I set out on for glorious adventure.
For the the past hour I've been watching starlings ravage the few wizened apples left in the tree outside my bedroom window. It's been a frenzy of black flutterings in and out of branches. At the moment a lone wren is feverishly beaking an apple while a waxwing flits from pine branch to pine branch. I envy birds. I envy the tree, too. And I envy my dogs. Ellie and Harley are curled into each other, asleep in front of the fireplace. Earlier this morning, after coffee and gossip with my father, Harley brought his water dish to the foot of the bed, dropped it and looked to me, knowing I'd fill it with water, pat his ragamuffin head as he drank, then dutifully scratch his belly afterwards. Ellie, Harley, and my daughter's cat Rouger, know I exist to fulfill their needs, just as certainly as I knew as a child my parents existed solely for me. I remember the shock of learning that my parents were people, filled with desire and ambitions for their own lives.
I suppose my envy, or rather admiration for the animal and vegetable world is the particular gift birds, dogs, trees, flowers, etc. have for taking life as it comes, for living in the moment. But living in the moment is a herculean task for the average human.
Since my surgery last Monday, I've spent my days propped on my bed, doing very little other than sleeping, looking through books, texting, talking on the phone, watching the world from my bedroom windows. I've never had stitches or surgery before. Well, I had staples from my c-section, but that was just part of the deal for bringing my daughter into the world. I've been trying to make sense of how I did this to myself, glean some meaning, not only from this, but my father's cancer and the rest of the swirl that has presented itself lately. I always try not to take anything personally. I tell myself whatever presents itself is an opportunity to learn from, (of course this is when I'm in my posing as a zen initiate brain while the frenzied beserker Viking brain is sleeping off a serious hangover). Life is random and shit happens. But, for me, hurting my hand is a wake up call to gratitude. So is the reality of my father's cancer. His health puts a cap on time, real time, finite time and asks how will I spend it. I know what this means, but I really can't process it. I want to be grateful. I really do. I don't want to be angry or scared or even get close to the reality of loss or grief. I'm not ready to face it, so I'll focus on my own small problems, but I believe I can gird up for when we meet with his doctor on Monday.
The world has much to offer. And here is the opportunity to live in the moment rather than waste a second. The thing is, I'm not a bird.
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