Friday, July 17, 2015

                                                              Hands

                                     The Subtle Exoneration of my Current Self  
 

"Mama Kay, which hand is the other hand?" Aleister asked me, years ago.
"What other hand?" I asked.
"You know," he responded, "like, 'on the other hand'?"

Of course.  As in, here am I, nearly one year past the month I broke my hip and became, as director of H.M.S. Pinafore called me the other night "slow" (...and you are slower than the others', he said, during notes) - -seeing five patients, walking a fast mile,  shopping for a weekend's worth of groceries, lugging the goodies up two staircases,  wrangling with some guy from India who wanted me to sign up for the Super Deal and not the mere Regular Deal because he saw I was a business owner and "any lady who owns her own business must surely own the "Super Deal".........and I am wondering what has become of me.

As for the East Indian, h was wasting his time.
I don't even own an I-Phone.
He gasped when he heard that.
That one could have taken us two days.
Anyway, never mind.

As Aleister, said, on the other hand. On the other hand, tonight is opening night for H.M.S. Pinafore and, although I am only a member of the ensemble, I am in the show. I auditioned. Sort of. I learned my lines.  And all after, what, thirty-some years. After Cabaret, when I was so skinny my last act dress slid down when I raised my arms for that last song. Life is a Cabaret, old chum, come to the Cabaret!

 And so we did.  We went to the Cabaret.  Our children were grown, Jim retired and began his dig in Eastern Washington, I began teaching in Centrum at Port Townsend and Jackson Hole and Quartz Mountain and life became a dream.

On the other hand. There was panic. There was university. There was university and family. Even though the family was grown, there were still family members. There were emotions. There were orals. There were dissertations. There were bones. There were ashes. There were deaths. There were celebrations.  There were poems. There were poets. The word slow was not a word anybody knew.

Nobody knew that word.
Shhhhhh.
Nobody had ever heard of the word slow.
It hadn't come up.
Not among our friends, either.
Not really.
Shhhhhh.

Oh, well.  We're all fast and we're all slow, just in different places. I'm a whiz at remembering literary quotes, coming up with great psychosocial treatment plans, writing songs, stirring up great margaritas, making babies laugh, coming up with spontaneous dinner parties and assisting victims of trauma and abuse. I'm a great letter writer. Yeah, I'm talking a real old fashioned letter. Have any problems with that? I'm so fast I don't even own an I-Phone. Figure that one out. I out lasted faxes by never buying one. I still have records. See? That's the way it works. You just keep one holding on.

It's true.
Everything old gets new again.
Except hips.
And bodies.
And your loved ones.
Watch them go.
Are they gone yet?
They will be.

And, slow or not, we shall all take a step backwards. And then forwards, as it goes.  There is one thing we all seem to agree one, and it is this - - this odd notion that we all feel "just as we ever did!"  No matter how old we are, whether we are thirty or fifty or sixty, we seem to sing the same refrain: "..it's strange, but I still  feel as I always did!"

It's nonsense, of course, but there it is.          
It's just what our mind's tell us.
That song.
Happy dreaming.
The mind makes good myths.


On the other hand, there is the other hand, and, if one is fortunate, that makes two, or, one whole.  Two hands to pick things up with. Two hands to hug with.  Two hands to wave with at the parade.  Two hands to salute with - one at the head, one at the side. Two hands to swim with, to ski with, to hold the newborn infant with, to follow the thread with, the thread that we follow as we turn and turn again, watching Aleister grow older,  pursuiing this job and that career, breaking this bone and tearing this heart, healing this patient, getting this role, singing that song, stepping out of that drama, facing that mirror,  recognizing that truth.

This is my first blog in a long time.
Tonight is Performance Number One.
Wish me Break a Leg, and remember,
I am a Human Being, not a Human Doing.
Everybody! Break a Leg!