Once again on Facebook, I paused for quite a while debating whether or not I should wade into a discussion. The initial post was about rectifying a racial wrong. Great, got it. But the tone of the post (underlined by abbreviated swears) was shaming: Like “Hey, you stupid white people, wake the fuck up.”
Maybe some people respond well to shaming. I don’t. I am coated with four hundred years of racism. I have been dipped in it. I am ashamed of how stupid and blind I am even as I pull back the blinkers of my white privilege.
Maybe it is freaking tiresome to be the person of color ALWAYS having to bring up the issue and make the dumb white people aware. I get it. But we have four hundred years of racism and genocide in this country to undo. Let’s do it together. Let’s believe we are all redeemable. Let’s not shame each other.
It doesn’t help. It really doesn’t help.
I skipped yesterday. Intentionally. I wanted to see what would happen.
You see I was describing my experiment to two dear friends. “I’m trying to discover and use different neural pathways around writing. Over so many years of deadlines and decades of wishing to be recognized as a successful writer, I feel like the wellspring of fun when I write has dried up. I can’t find the excitement, the yippee. I keep looking for the outside source to reinvigorate me. Like some external acknowledgement will finally explode the neural pathways of doubt and I will feel…well, you get it. Instead, I decided to sit down everyday and write for nothing. For me. For the discovery of what might happen. My hypothesis is that if I write that way each day, I will reconnect, rebuild, recalibrate my reliance on the outside atta-girl and I will write more and more from a place of joy and discovery.”
So I skipped yesterday.
And today, it was harder to come to the page. There was this little monster grumbling in my head: Why bother? Who needs you to do this little experiment? Don’t you think it’s time to stop?
Well, little monster, no one needs me to do this little experiment except me. And doing it for me is worth the bother. So no, I’m not stopping.
I ‘finished’ reading a marvelous book.
It will never be finished because it is the kind of book that can be read at different ages and it will always give you a new perspective. It has a kind of omniscience, this book. You can come to it again and again and it will refresh your stale footprint. It will throw cold water on your party dress. It will warm you like late afternoon sun. Such a fine book.
At the very ending of the book, the Grandmother gets up in the middle of the night and goes outside. It is very dark. She hears a boat going out to sea. Or so she thinks…
“Isn’t that funny,” Grandmother said. “It’s only my heart, it’s not a herring boat at all.” For a long time, she wondered if she should go back to bed or stay where she was. She guessed she would stay for a while.”
Imagine, ending a book with a heartbeat.
“Do you think I’m crazy to start a relationship with someone who has ended a twenty two year marriage?” M asks me.
I smile. The fact that he called me, someone who used to fling herself into love with the caution of a puppy, should give him his answer. “Have you slept together?”
“No. But we’ve kissed. She’s a really good kisser.”
Again, I smile. I’m glad we’re on the phone. M is the kind of person who gets agitated at the slightest hint of mockery. Even in curved lips.
“You sound worried. What are you worried about?” I ask.
Pause. Silence. I can hear him looking inside for the answer. I wait. I know that some fragment of truth is coming.
“That I’ll be in and she won’t be.”
“Yeah. I get it. That’s the risk.”
“I hate it.”
“That’s a lie. You love love.”
It’s M’s turn to be silent.
“It sounds to me like you are crossing a small threshold. Not big. Like marriage. Or moving in together. Or having a child. Small. Tell her. And then ask her if she’s crossing it with you.”
I don’t have to say the part about how, if she understands the question, if she says yes, this delicate threshold will pass beneath their feet. M understands these little events of the heart.
I’ve learned to savor them.
I’ve learned to notice every delicious step toward intimacy.
I’ve learned to pause after the eye twinkling flirt and linger a little longer in a conversation.
I’ve learned to relish how two different people come to understand each other.
I’ve learned to delight in each tiny threshold into love.
I don’t belong to a church. Or follow a religion. Or believe in any particular creation story. I love the mystery of existence and spirituality of sand dunes.
I understand the collective community of church. I defer to the safety of God and an agreed upon order of the universe. But really, the notion that I was born, that I grew and became me, that I exist is so fantastically accidental that I how could not be rapt by mystery?
Thich Nhat Hanh has returned to Vietnam to die. This man practiced the miracle of being alive every day. It is a miracle, that I am here thinking and tapping these thoughts, that I am able to walk outside and feel the mist on my face, that I can wash dishes or peel an orange or simply take a breath and feel the miracle of being alive.
Is that God?
Is that joy?