Purification of the Mind, Cleansing of the Soul
There is such a fragile beauty in the seemingly mundane, in the everyday moments we halfheartedly mind. Over the most recent 12-month span of my life, a certain cascade of life-altering events happened to transpire. After much reflection, it is now apparent this mauvais quart d'heur, was/is/has been my deliverance. It's as if I am experiencing the world around me for the first time, relishing in the minutia, the details, the little things. Just as a child's neural framework is determined largely by sensory input, this awakening has triggered a massive renovation of my cortical scaffolding, from axiom-to-axon-to-axiom (because truths which beget further truths share the branching qualities of axons (à la Fibonacci sequences).
So, this evening...
I am sitting at the kitchen table watching my Dad open his Father's Day gifts (early, he's in town for an appointment with his oncologist), and as I glanced at his right hand I notice it spontaneously begin to ooze blood. The skin just opens up, allowing those damn RBC's to burst forth like a miniature Mt. Vesuvius. He had brushed it against the wrapping paper ever so slightly. It happens all of the time, his arms now resembling a topographical map of discoloration and scars. Today, this is actually a good sign, that he sits there with the bloody hand, taking a moment to wipe it off (on his jeans mind you) before continuing with the opening of gifts. That he doesn't have to rush to the hospital after wounds refuse to clot. That his Hemoglobin is above 11, his WBC's are at 9, and his BUN and Creatinine are where they should be. The details...
My father is an exceptionally difficult man, stubborn, contradictory, depressive. Years spent in therapy hashing out the reasons why I was so fucked up always traced back to our mother leaving us when we were kids. Leaving us with a man so fundamentally damaged by his own history, there was not a single reason for me and my sis ever to grasp the proper mechanisms needed for entering society, as functioning adults.
Ready for an intermission to the bleeding carpal show, my Dad asks if I will join him in the garden. And so we sit, vis-à-vis, chatting a bit, he chewing his Nicorette, me with my Camels, both keenly aware of time's limitations. Absent is the hostility that's clouded our relationship for the past 25 years. Then it hits me: as I look at his face, his gentle eyes, his white hair just beginning to grow back after 2 years of chemo, I'm filled with a sense of appreciation and admiration, for he has worked so hard to overcome what could have destroyed him.
To be continued...
I suppose I'm sharing this because that's what I do...write, that is. The existing impetus to transcribe my thoughts is quite enigmatic; basically, I have no fucking idea why there is such a strong driving force within me to put pen to paper (well, fingers to keyboard). What I do know is that this purging of my internal hard-drive is essential if I'm planning on making a go of what people seem to be doing all around me, the elusive succession of events referred to as "living". And the oh-so-important requisite cognizance that I am not a machine.
So, this evening...
I am sitting at the kitchen table watching my Dad open his Father's Day gifts (early, he's in town for an appointment with his oncologist), and as I glanced at his right hand I notice it spontaneously begin to ooze blood. The skin just opens up, allowing those damn RBC's to burst forth like a miniature Mt. Vesuvius. He had brushed it against the wrapping paper ever so slightly. It happens all of the time, his arms now resembling a topographical map of discoloration and scars. Today, this is actually a good sign, that he sits there with the bloody hand, taking a moment to wipe it off (on his jeans mind you) before continuing with the opening of gifts. That he doesn't have to rush to the hospital after wounds refuse to clot. That his Hemoglobin is above 11, his WBC's are at 9, and his BUN and Creatinine are where they should be. The details...
My father is an exceptionally difficult man, stubborn, contradictory, depressive. Years spent in therapy hashing out the reasons why I was so fucked up always traced back to our mother leaving us when we were kids. Leaving us with a man so fundamentally damaged by his own history, there was not a single reason for me and my sis ever to grasp the proper mechanisms needed for entering society, as functioning adults.
Ready for an intermission to the bleeding carpal show, my Dad asks if I will join him in the garden. And so we sit, vis-à-vis, chatting a bit, he chewing his Nicorette, me with my Camels, both keenly aware of time's limitations. Absent is the hostility that's clouded our relationship for the past 25 years. Then it hits me: as I look at his face, his gentle eyes, his white hair just beginning to grow back after 2 years of chemo, I'm filled with a sense of appreciation and admiration, for he has worked so hard to overcome what could have destroyed him.
To be continued...
I suppose I'm sharing this because that's what I do...write, that is. The existing impetus to transcribe my thoughts is quite enigmatic; basically, I have no fucking idea why there is such a strong driving force within me to put pen to paper (well, fingers to keyboard). What I do know is that this purging of my internal hard-drive is essential if I'm planning on making a go of what people seem to be doing all around me, the elusive succession of events referred to as "living". And the oh-so-important requisite cognizance that I am not a machine.
© Copyright 2011 Jennifer Shultz, all rights reserved
No part of this literary work may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means without the written consent of the author.
No part of this literary work may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means without the written consent of the author.
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