Still Sundays

An old Czech proverb: He who looks, finds. Loretta from AT&T. Bridges are made for crossing. “Lies About Love” by D.H. Lawrence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I just lost everything I had written.

For the second time.

The first time was very early in the morning—the wake-up sky was still coddling the night—when I decided to not actually write down the thoughts that were downloading through Stillness. I was a sleepyhead in awe of the magnitude of Stillness looking out my window on equally sleepy Prague streets. But streets in Prague are always sleepy, waking up from a different time.

I had enjoyed the iceskateflow of thoughts zigzagging harmoniously, words leading an orchestra of thoughts in some perfect synchronization that was bold and clear. I had decided to go back to bed because I had concluded I would remember it all like I normally do.

I awoke a few hours later and couldn’t find evidence of as much as a single thought framed in words. They were there! I swear I didn’t make them up!

I began writing: where do these thoughtwords go when we don’t place them somewhere? Do they reincarnate themselves? Where is the graveyard for ideas and loves that were too weak to take flight? No idea remains an orphan, however abandoned.  Energy of an idea finds another host who will incubate it to fruition. Energy is sacred, it demands recognition.

And I continued staring inside the Stillness marble and continued writing. Just when I finished, I hit some key and everything vanished and “undo” whispered no can do. The list of analogies related to “can’t undo some things” when people lose materials that can’t be retrieved has been used ad nauseam so I will spare them, for my own sake mostly.

The question I can’t ignore as I type now is why am I writing? No one needs a more compelling reason than “everything I just wrote got deleted” to understand and accept if one decided to not attempt again. Then why? Myself? I am tired, frankly. This doesn’t pay my bills. This is not for any magazine. There is no deadline. This is not a sketch for any of my other writing projects. It is just getting placed here in my online notebook. For some readers who read regularly? They’ll understand.

I don’t know the answer to this question. I have decided ‘I can be this stubborn’ ought to suffice for now.

What I write now is from memory. Although my memory is disturbingly good I also know one can’t ignore what wasn’t there before but is now, and what was there will never be the same again.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have not written much in the last few days. It has mostly been reorganizing and editing. I am watching my writing DNA transform right before my own eyes into some creature I don’t recognize and I have nothing to show for it.

Nostalgia, a soufflé of memories without much meaning, docks and rocks like boats resting in the Vltava river running through Prague.

Trust: what is the current exchange rate for new skin to replace scars of healed wounds? Where does one buy the make-up to camouflage blemishes of recoveries, the road bumps in the rear-view mirror?

What is it about walking across on a bridge? Is it the knowledge of the awesome efforts required to build one that sends us in a delirium? Is it that we are walking across something that has stood the test of time? Or is it that we are reminded that life is indeed a series of crossings?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks ago I had to call an AT&T representative to sort a billing matter. Grateful for Skype and the toll-free number the call didn’t cost anything. The lady helping me, Loretta, was patient and understanding of the circumstances. An unintentional mishap had set off the bill. Loretta said she could fix it if I provided her the pertinent information. That information was not on me. As I awaited an email from a friend with the necessary information I was afraid that Loretta would suggest I call back. I did not think another representative would be as understanding.  So we waited.

While we waited she asked me How is Prague? It’s lovely; I am still settling in and getting organized.

Where was she? New Orleans, Louisiana.

So is New York City home? Yes.

I don’t know many New York people who call who are this calm. That’s what they tell me, I tell her.

Is she an AT&T customer too? Yes. And has been working for them for a long time.

I don’t like conversation without substance so I keep exchanges shorter than short. I don’t mind silence.

I apologized for the delay at my end in providing her the information. I should be able to get a hold of my friend and the information soon, I told her. She said it was okay and it wasn’t often someone called from Prague. I appreciated the humor. I thanked her for not turning me to the wolves of elevator music. She laughed.

Soon thereafter I received an email and provided her the details she needed. Now she had to wait on the computers and supervisors to sort the issue. We waited again.

She told me she wasn’t as young as I had assumed due to her gleeful voice; she was, in fact, a grandmother! I told her perhaps the sound of youthfulness is contentment. Loretta told me she was finally in a very good relationship. For both her and her husband it was their third marriage. He was first a widower then had to end things with his second wife who didn’t quite understand that loss.  She too had her story.

Third marriage? Really?! Yes, she said, you have to keep trying if you want love.

I recalled a study I had once read which claimed couples in a satisfying relationship had a stronger foundation to pursue individual endeavors and deal with failures.

I told her this.

Loretta shared that was indeed true. Her husband is currently unemployed like the rest of America that the media and government refuses to properly acknowledge.

I told her hopefully something would turn up soon. Then I apologized for saying so without any real conviction. Everything is up in the air for so many, including myself.

She thanked me and told me as long as there is love, it makes things sweeter, not easier, but sweeter.

Out of nowhere a thought dropped on the forehead of my listening: Loretta is not on Twitter engaged in meaningless, attention-seeking exchanges because things are not how she wants them to be. She is working while her husband is looking for work and despite their circumstances is boasting about their triumph against not giving love another try.

I couldn’t help thinking of D.H. Lawrence’s bold claim, “A woman unsatisfied must have luxuries. But a woman who loves a man would sleep on a board.”

Is it that we don’t have such women now or that we don’t have many men who acknowledge such women? Human relating is sinking in many ways. Some of us just have a better view in the Titanic made of our status quo.

I told Loretta maybe if the Universe is listening it will know how she had been so helpful to me and then…

God or no god, two people helped one another out. Is this the Grand Plan after all? To overlook corporate orders and laws that do not take one’s humanity into consideration and oneself become the final arbitrator in how some things should be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The famous historic Charles Bridge crosses the Vltava river in Prague, Czech Republic. Its construction started in 1357 under the auspices of King Charles IV, and finished in the beginning of the 15th century. It took more than a 100 years to build! Imagine the resolve. The Charles Bridge was the most important connection between Prague Castle on one side and the city’s Old Town and adjacent areas across the Vltava river.

Self-trust is a crossing. It can take many years to (re)build the bridge for it.

“Kdo hleda, najde,” says an old Czech proverb. He who looks, finds.

Thank you Loretta for more than adjusting the bill.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One day I will know why I write on Still Sundays with the compulsion I do. It is not for anyone. Although I have nothing but a profound sense of gratitude to offer those who show up at the shore every time. Reading my thoughts they help me get up when I am lying on the shore of what I have seen, face down, sand in the hair of thoughts, salt in the mouth of memories, bruises from swimming against the waves of mediocrity, ocean thoughts that sometimes collapse me.

I think I wrote the second time to remember my exchange with Loretta, so many other exchanges with others have taken place since then. I didn’t realize the most important thing to me the first time I wrote was what I wrote about Loretta.

Miles is right: often it’s even better the second time.

Loretta got it right too: what makes it better is the getting back up again to love with same risks as before.

I end this Sunday with a poem by D.H. Lawrence:

“Lies About Love”

We are a liars, because
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.

Related posts:

Still Sundays Still Sundays Still Sundays Still Sundays