Still Sundays

August 19, 2012.

Stillness is a writing prompt. Sometimes it is a reflection and other times a mirror. Sometimes it requires a dictionary and other times you make up the meanings. Sometimes it is a new language and other times it is as familiar as breathing.

But we don’t think about breathing. Not much.

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I have done some research. These “insane” climate changes, for example that it is already Fall and we may experience summer in November similar to last year, are nothing new. Just going through a cycle all over again. How many times have we been here?

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I read an old poem by Andrew Marvell the other day and realized it is quite possible that none of the poets of familiar works intended anything to be a metaphor or simile but indeed felt those sentiments literally. Who hasn’t been drunk on love? Who hasn’t stood on the high beams of security held together by awe which comes out of reverence for the beloved? If you haven’t then it is all a metaphor for passing infatuation and lust indeed.  The more real the feelings—love in a friendship or relationship—the more it glows without mention. The bon-bons of sharing intimacy for performance just make one fat on empty calories found in the similes set aside for public consumption.

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Yesterday a lady waiting at a bus stop told me as I  was walking by that she liked the colors of my skirt. I told her thanks but like most things that I own on which I receive compliments this too is one such thing that I wear all the time, and that if she saw me every other day she would note it was just like a pair of jeans would be for some. I asked her about her southern accent. Which state? She said she was originally from Alabama but had lived in New York City for 15 years and does everything to hold on to the accent which “opens doors and conversations” for her. I couldn’t tell if she was really from Alabama or had been practicing the accent her entire life. Regardless, it indeed made me stop and inquire.

She then handed me a paper with her information. She said she was a healer who offered cleansing. She informed me that my body was a temple of the Holy Ghost. “New life and vitality begin with a clean colon. I know because I believe Jesus Christ is our Lord and savior and I am here to help people find Jesus through cleansing.”

I took the flyer and thanked her for the offer to cleanse my colon and flush my kidneys and to contact Jesus to save me.

A few blocks further along I ran into an old woman without many teeth; she lives in public housing for the elderly. I had seen her before so it was only respectful to say hello. Now I was waiting for my bus. I showed her the flyer by the Falstaffian southern belle and she remarked, “But of course. You don’t have to be a healer to know the devil is full of shit.” She didn’t seem interested and walked on.

I stared at the flyer: “Everyday these hard working organs process about 200 quarts of blood and sift through 2 quarts of waste every day” and a quote from Corinthians, “For ye are brought with a price…”

There is certainly a price for nixing the old ways that don’t serve our growth.

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My horoscope says the world is my oyster. I don’t like oysters. But aren’t we all bivalve mollusks to some degree?

I like mussels. And I like developing my writing muscles.

I hate the sound of recreational motorcycles revving up and down the streets for no reason. No other sound makes me want to cut off my ears more and throw them in Van Gogh’s box marked “Enough.”

Yesterday I received a letter in the mail from a dear friend. Letters bring me joy.

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This week my friend Mary(land) said that she has never been one to want many friends, just a few very good ones suffice.

I agree. I feel so many people have forgotten what a good friend actually means.  I know people who who think just by watching Matt Damon’s movies or any other character on a television series that this character and the person playing it is a real friend. Can you imagine the impact of social media on such people? Being able to relate to someone’s thoughts and being friends are different to me.

I take friendships seriously because I respect what a tremendous gift a friendship is. And once you accept that gift, you have to decide which shelf to place it on and how often to dust the shelf and what goes next to it. It’s a big deal to me.  Friends: they help us grow, they make us uncomfortable, they question us, they are fun, they are a joy, they are support. Mine are. Of course the older I get the fewer of these exist so I am grateful for the few. I think my expectations of the word friendship are rather high although I accept people for who they are. But accepting people for who they are means that one has different kinds of friends. I don’t need friends to “do” things. What I need from friendship is different because I am not afraid of being alone and I am able to enjoy doing things alone.

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I am finally moving out of New York City. Funny how when this information is presented on the tray of Stillness it feels like no grand news at all but a mere plop in the flow of evolution without as much as making a splash. A few weeks ago an email to close friends made it seem like some epic declaration of a grand shift.

New York City is an idea.

Who are these people who feel they have to move to New York City to write? I am leaving New York City so as to be able to write.  I guess I never moved to New York, New York over a decade ago in order to do anything but to be in New York, New York. Of course I pursued a passion, education reform, when I began here. The two ended up going together in that phase of my life.

Writing is not just an idea. It is very real.

Being a creative, talented, passionate educator (or writer) demands toying with ideas as big as New York City itself.

My place is mostly empty now. How do people live without books? Now I understand all those people who have a library in their own home but have never read a single book out of it. The energy of words bound together provide tremendous warmth. If you actually spend time with them, they can provide much more than that.

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This week my mother said we can remain seekers who are open to exploring and still be content and not need much outside ourselves.

Every Sunday I am reminded what matters can’t necessarily be put in words and that is okay, whatever can is the mysterious gift.

Related posts:

Still Sundays A Still Sunday, particularly today. Still Sundays