So, I've now decided to title my book "5000 Mile Journey" which, if you read the finished product, you'll come to understand. The next posting is to directly follow the last one I posted. It might be a bit confusing, but it's written in two time frames: one of when I was in Egypt and the other when I was with my friend, who passed away on July 6th. This is the first entry of that experience. The two are intermingled in my book. Again, you'll see why. Enjoy!
Three weeks ago. Seems like years, a lifetime. Another person. I sit in room 1048, Intensive Care Unit, Toronto General Hospital. One of the best hospitals in the world filled with some of the most brilliant minds. I can hear the constant hissing rhythm of the ventilator, the random beeps from the machines. I watch the sixteen bags of drugs slowly drain into the lifeless, swollen body of my friend. I wonder to myself why they keep it so bloody cold in here. Isn’t warmth supposed to be healing?
My friend, Tanya, is dying from complications brought on by cystic fibrosis. Her lungs have shut down, her kidneys are failing, fourteen litres of excess fluid has accumulated in her tissues, obliterating the tiny, childlike form she once gracefully possessed. We all knew it would happen, eventually, one day. One day, far far away. Not today. Not today, not here.
The realization leaves me immobile, paralyzed. I look up at Mary, Tanya’s mom. Her eyes are red and swollen. She hasn’t slept in days. She feels guilty leaving her daughter’s side. The youngest daughter, Emily, is grief stricken. My heart breaks more for these women, than for Tanya. She has struggled for thirty three years, these women have fought for her, with her, begged for her life. They don’t understand fatigue, they don’t understand the lonely struggle of disease from the insider’s perspective, although they may try. And they are only human for it. They are good people for it. But they are losing hope. Mary speaks as though Tanya has already left, uses the past tense. Jessica, the middle sister, my best friend, is desperately trying to get home from Australia. I want her here, need her here. I close my eyes and see her red, swollen eyes, pale face. She is alone, terrified. Praying she will make it home to see her sister. They are only one year apart.
I’ve never felt ache like this. I put my head in my hands, listen to the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, and join the chorus of weeping.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
The beginnings of my Egyptian Advenutres. Will be part of my book!
There’s a profoundness in being sad. Not a profoundness as in a phenomenal event, or an earth shattering thought. A profoundness that leaves you aching, tired and sour all over. Your head aches, your eyes can’t focus and your belly churns. Inside there is nothing but war; outside there is only a calmness that comes from the dead. It’s like being put under but still cognescient of all your surroundings and pain. The fight against it is an almost impossible battle because you are weak from the start.
At this moment in my life, I am at the limit of sadness. Limit of human pain and suffering. My life is not full of pain, it’s the pain I bring in from other’s lives and my filter, the filter that protects my soul, is over flowing. Only there is no changing that filter. Only a dialysis like procedure. Like kidneys, I need to give my soul a rest, let my blood be filtered by other, mechanical means. But the drugs, the toxins keep coming in. My kidneys are shutting down.
I’ll back up here. Three weeks ago today, I was at the high of my life. I was sitting comfortably in economy class, Alatalia flight AZ645, on my way to Cairo via Rome. The chrysalis in my heart had burst into a butterfly with wings larger than my chest. During my layover in Rome, I sat in the airport, beyond exhausted but fluttering at the whole prospect of what lay ahead. Egypt. The land of my dreams. Exotic, hot and dirty. Like sex with a national border. I sat in the airport, booted feet propped up on my carryon bag. My white, cotton dress splayed out around me, my hair a mess from sleeping on the flight. I was listening to my iPod, writing in my journal. My first entry beyond my own national borders. My thoughts were of the people coming and going. Airports always seemed to me to be either one of two things: very lonely, large places or a gathering of the world. At that moment, I was witness to the gathering. Although, my opinion of Italians (well at least Italians at the airport) was more than slightly diminished. Rude flight attendants, pushy people and I’m not even sure the words “excuse me” can be translated into Italian. I’ll have to come back to Italy to make sure. Note to self. Verify rudeness of Italians personally.
But my smile still spread like the wings in my heart. Nothing could bring me down. I wrote about the woman I shared my first flying experience with in almost ten years. An old Iranian woman. She was tiny but for her protruding gut. Wrinkled hands that still held the feminine grace which must have once enveloped her entire form. She had a small face, but large, black eyes. And she smiled at me, a lot. I liked her. She spoke no English. She looked out the window a lot. She was curious. When the plane started accelerating along the runway, that feeling of being shoved back into your seat and the following adrenaline rush, I looked at my Iranian comrade. The wrinkled hands were grasping her arm rests with a force that would have knocked the toughest German on his ass. Her eyes were smashed so tight and she was chanting Allah, Allah, Allah. She must have said his name more than one hundred times until we were at least ten thousand feet in the air.
I stared at her, mouth gaping, as she unsmooshed her lovely eyes, looked at me and gave me a sheepish grin.
“Allah,” she said and pointed to the sky.
“Allah,” I repeated.
We both laughed. Who needs language anyways.
My flight from Rome to Cairo was filled with less colourful people. My excitement more than made up for that. I sat, scrunched up in my seat, neck straining to see out the window, for all three hours and fifty-five minutes of the flight.
As I looked out the window, down at all the tiny islands off the coast of Italy and scattered throughout the Mediterranean, I waited for glimpses of African land. Egypt, the desert. When finally, the land lost its deep green colours, trading in for raw sienna, I could hardly contain myself. Then it arrived, the land, the continent of Africa and my beloved Egypt.
And boy was it ugly. Really, Egypt is not breathtaking from the air. At least not from my perspective. It’s brown and dull. It’s also quite evident who is the boss in Egypt: the desert. It takes over everything. It covers the roads, the trees, blasts your skin and makes war with your hair.
Upon my decent into Cairo, the lovely patronizing Italian captain announced the current temperature to be 36C. I could handle that.
Exhausted, shaking, not knowing up from down (could have something to do with being so close to the Southern hemisphere), I grabbed my carryon and stumbled my way into Egypt. Immediately, I was chucked into culture shock. Signs were in Arabic, people wore masks, and I tired very hard to keep my eyes averted from any stranger so as to avoid attracting the attention of the unwanted. This proved difficult when trying to find my way so I decided to slow down my steps and fall in behind a few other travelers. My next major revelation was how dirty everything was. Even in the airport. The floors were old and dirty, the walls were dirty, the smell was unusual to say the least. The giant butterfly in my heart sort of did this wing skip beat thingie before it remembered where it was. Then it continued it’s mayhem in my chest. Other people seemed to know what they were doing, so could I.
It was at this precise moment that I remembered I had failed to bring one major thing: a travel companion. Somehow I had managed to convince myself that traveling alone, to a third world country, was a good idea. I was starting to second guess that. What solidified it was, when trying to get through customs, I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel I was staying at in Cairo, nor the names of any of the hotels I was staying at throughout Egypt, nor did I have a contact number for the tour company I was with. My travel documents were conveniently located in the bag I had checked back in Toronto, and was still waiting for me to collect, after customs.
I was up shit creek without a paddle. Or maybe more appropriate, lost in the desert without a camel.
Thankfully, this event didn’t become a future My-Time-in-Egyptian-Customs story. I quickly blurted out “The Tropitel! The Tropitel! Cairo! On the Go Tours!” and gave the customs officer a fabulous smile. He looked at me like I had personally ousted him, slammed the stamp on my passport and jerked his head.
I was through, I was in Egypt.
Upon my entry to the airport proper, finding my tour guide was much easier than my over-worrisome self had thought. Literally, there was a red carpet rolled out and a red rope strung up along one side. I walked on the side with the red carpet, while a line up of various people, skin coloured from olive to molasses, held up signs. I quickly found mine, smiled at the gentleman, who provided me with the warmest grin possible.
“Kelly?” He asked. I almost sighed with relief.
“Yes! I’m Kelly!” Like I was reassuring myself. I held out my hand and he grasped it firmly. He had an honest face and introduced himself to me as Mustafa. I liked this Mustafa already.
“Come this way, through here. Quickly.” I realized very soon why he wanted quickly out of me. His accent was delicious.
Once through the throng of people and after collecting my luggage, Mustafa firmly grasped my elbow and confidently lead me through the large double doors. Beyond those doors was his need for haste. Immediately, the sound overwhelmed me, the volumes of people trying to get my attention, “Taxi? Taxi?” was drowning and little more than a blur to me. All the while, Mustafa was cheerily and professionally chattering away to me. For the life of me, I can’t remember a thing the man said. Something about the hotel tonight. Pyramids, sound and light show. It would have been right at this moment my father would have stopped and said “Kelly! Are you paying attention?! Common, focus here. I’m not repeating this.”
Through a large set of sliding doors we went and I was blasted by a strong gust of the hottest, driest air I’d ever felt. The sun beat down hard and I looked at Mustafa, done up to the nines in his suit, polyester or wool I didn’t know, but either I would have felt sorry for him. The heat didn’t seem to affect him, I realized as I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine.
He was hasty in his movements. I quickly realized that Mustafa was urgent about everything; the way he spoke, his gestures, his walk. He lead me to a small van with orange curtains and helped me in. Inside, it was cool, the curtains drawn. Immediately, I whipped the curtains back. I wanted to see everything. Mustafa continued his twittering. He reminded me of a bird. He had a long thin face, kind dark eyes and brown teeth. He kept a goatee which I thought he would have looked better without. He was balding. I could not determine his age; one of those people who seem to be trans-generational. Actions belied eyes which belied that soft tissue that enfolds the eyes. His hands were young but he had deep lines on his forehead. He was painfully thin and his suit looked like he had bought it, three sizes too large, right off the rack.
He was telling me about his little girl back at home, in Luxor, which is where he was from. And his wife. He was so proud because his little girl had just turned one last week. His smile emphasized his pride. That little girl will be well loved.
Mustafa continued to explain to me the process of my two weeks here in Egypt, all the while in his rapid, luxiurous accent and all the while my eyes were out of the window, looking at the beautiful, dirty city of Cairo. Really, it was absolutely filthy. And the roads, the drivers, were absolutely maniac. There are white lines on the road which are consistently ignored. A series of honks and flashing of lights communicated the rules of the road. I have yet to crack the Rosetta Stone of Egyptian driving. It really, truly, is a maniac adventure, not for the faint of heart, and if it weren’t for my absolute euphoria, I’m about ninety seven percent sure I would have gone into cardiac arrest. The streets are filled with people, donkeys, carts, beaten down cars and filth. I was mezmorized. You must realize, I come from one of the most pristine, clean and proper cities in the world, Toronto. Throwing one’s trash out the window is as offensive as walking into a complete stranger’s house and demanding they vacate. There is just no stopping on the streets to take in the scenery. No leaning up against buildings, watching the world go by unless you have a hat out for change. Being proper is a highly prized attribute. Being busy is a highly prized attribute. I see Toronto now as it truly is: beautiful, welcoming but somehow cold and sterile. Somehow missing the point.
We were racing along the highway now, overlooking what looked to me to be a war zone. Unfinished buildings, empty windows, and piles of bricks, rubbish and donkey crap. Amongst that mess, people walked, no, strolled. Everyone in Cairo, outside of an automobile, seemed to be in no rush for anything. This, I quickly learned, is a very Egyptian trait. Maybe you’re late, maybe you have a train to catch, maybe your wife is giving birth to your first born, you still have time for Sheesha and tea. There is no rushing, not in this heat. I asked Mustafa why all the buildings are unfinished.
“Taxes,” he replied and smiled. I gave him a dumb look. “If your building is finished, the government will tax you. So no one finishes their buildings.”
Again, not a Toronto thing. An unfinished building is a large eyesore and complained about until completion. And paying your taxes is an upstanding sort of thing to do.
While my mind raced and my eyeballs tried desperately to absorb everything rushing by, Mustafa was continuing his chatter. I nodded. “Oh, that’s nice. I’m looking forward to that” I continued to reply. He could have told me a bomb was dropping in T-minus three minutes and I would have replied “oh, that’s nice.”
“Kelly. Kelly!” I whipped my head to him, goofy smile on my face. “You want to see the pyramids? Look to your right.”
I looked. Through the haze of pollution, over top of the unfinished buildings, I could see them. The large one, and the medium one with the finished, smooth top. They looked hazy and distant, but their largess and magnificence could reach across distance and time to inspire the dead to wake. Perhaps that’s why they were built. To inspire the dead to wake. They dominated Cairo’s horizon; silent sentinels of history, keeping secrets only the Gods for whom they were built, know.
I was filled with awe. No, awe can’t even describe it. It was like I had said to God “God, I’d like to see the gates to heaven. I know I’m not allowed in yet, and maybe ‘cuz of all the crap I put my parents through, may never be allowed, but I’d like to see these mythical gates. The ones everyone always talks about, that have been written about for thousands and thousands of years and have inspired wars among millions. Yeah, those ones. Please and thank you.”
I’m glad I had my sunglasses on because I had started to cry. In all my dreams, all my imaginings, I never once thought I, me, Kelly would actually see the pyramids. The Pyramids. And yet, I was here. Racing through Cairo, dodging pick-up trucks full of people, cars, motorbikes and donkey carts, staring at the pyramids.
I looked at Mustafa, who had twisted himself right around and I’m sure was watching me through my entire, almost out of body experience. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You are so excited!”
I nodded. My face hurt from smiling. “This is the best!” was all I could manage to say.
“I really like Canadians.” He said and turned back around in his seat. He then proceeded to ramble on, in his one hundred mile an hour fashion, about how much he liked Canada, how he’d been there and that Canadians were his favorite. I lost myself again, staring out the window, enthralled.
My Egypt.
At this moment in my life, I am at the limit of sadness. Limit of human pain and suffering. My life is not full of pain, it’s the pain I bring in from other’s lives and my filter, the filter that protects my soul, is over flowing. Only there is no changing that filter. Only a dialysis like procedure. Like kidneys, I need to give my soul a rest, let my blood be filtered by other, mechanical means. But the drugs, the toxins keep coming in. My kidneys are shutting down.
I’ll back up here. Three weeks ago today, I was at the high of my life. I was sitting comfortably in economy class, Alatalia flight AZ645, on my way to Cairo via Rome. The chrysalis in my heart had burst into a butterfly with wings larger than my chest. During my layover in Rome, I sat in the airport, beyond exhausted but fluttering at the whole prospect of what lay ahead. Egypt. The land of my dreams. Exotic, hot and dirty. Like sex with a national border. I sat in the airport, booted feet propped up on my carryon bag. My white, cotton dress splayed out around me, my hair a mess from sleeping on the flight. I was listening to my iPod, writing in my journal. My first entry beyond my own national borders. My thoughts were of the people coming and going. Airports always seemed to me to be either one of two things: very lonely, large places or a gathering of the world. At that moment, I was witness to the gathering. Although, my opinion of Italians (well at least Italians at the airport) was more than slightly diminished. Rude flight attendants, pushy people and I’m not even sure the words “excuse me” can be translated into Italian. I’ll have to come back to Italy to make sure. Note to self. Verify rudeness of Italians personally.
But my smile still spread like the wings in my heart. Nothing could bring me down. I wrote about the woman I shared my first flying experience with in almost ten years. An old Iranian woman. She was tiny but for her protruding gut. Wrinkled hands that still held the feminine grace which must have once enveloped her entire form. She had a small face, but large, black eyes. And she smiled at me, a lot. I liked her. She spoke no English. She looked out the window a lot. She was curious. When the plane started accelerating along the runway, that feeling of being shoved back into your seat and the following adrenaline rush, I looked at my Iranian comrade. The wrinkled hands were grasping her arm rests with a force that would have knocked the toughest German on his ass. Her eyes were smashed so tight and she was chanting Allah, Allah, Allah. She must have said his name more than one hundred times until we were at least ten thousand feet in the air.
I stared at her, mouth gaping, as she unsmooshed her lovely eyes, looked at me and gave me a sheepish grin.
“Allah,” she said and pointed to the sky.
“Allah,” I repeated.
We both laughed. Who needs language anyways.
My flight from Rome to Cairo was filled with less colourful people. My excitement more than made up for that. I sat, scrunched up in my seat, neck straining to see out the window, for all three hours and fifty-five minutes of the flight.
As I looked out the window, down at all the tiny islands off the coast of Italy and scattered throughout the Mediterranean, I waited for glimpses of African land. Egypt, the desert. When finally, the land lost its deep green colours, trading in for raw sienna, I could hardly contain myself. Then it arrived, the land, the continent of Africa and my beloved Egypt.
And boy was it ugly. Really, Egypt is not breathtaking from the air. At least not from my perspective. It’s brown and dull. It’s also quite evident who is the boss in Egypt: the desert. It takes over everything. It covers the roads, the trees, blasts your skin and makes war with your hair.
Upon my decent into Cairo, the lovely patronizing Italian captain announced the current temperature to be 36C. I could handle that.
Exhausted, shaking, not knowing up from down (could have something to do with being so close to the Southern hemisphere), I grabbed my carryon and stumbled my way into Egypt. Immediately, I was chucked into culture shock. Signs were in Arabic, people wore masks, and I tired very hard to keep my eyes averted from any stranger so as to avoid attracting the attention of the unwanted. This proved difficult when trying to find my way so I decided to slow down my steps and fall in behind a few other travelers. My next major revelation was how dirty everything was. Even in the airport. The floors were old and dirty, the walls were dirty, the smell was unusual to say the least. The giant butterfly in my heart sort of did this wing skip beat thingie before it remembered where it was. Then it continued it’s mayhem in my chest. Other people seemed to know what they were doing, so could I.
It was at this precise moment that I remembered I had failed to bring one major thing: a travel companion. Somehow I had managed to convince myself that traveling alone, to a third world country, was a good idea. I was starting to second guess that. What solidified it was, when trying to get through customs, I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel I was staying at in Cairo, nor the names of any of the hotels I was staying at throughout Egypt, nor did I have a contact number for the tour company I was with. My travel documents were conveniently located in the bag I had checked back in Toronto, and was still waiting for me to collect, after customs.
I was up shit creek without a paddle. Or maybe more appropriate, lost in the desert without a camel.
Thankfully, this event didn’t become a future My-Time-in-Egyptian-Customs story. I quickly blurted out “The Tropitel! The Tropitel! Cairo! On the Go Tours!” and gave the customs officer a fabulous smile. He looked at me like I had personally ousted him, slammed the stamp on my passport and jerked his head.
I was through, I was in Egypt.
Upon my entry to the airport proper, finding my tour guide was much easier than my over-worrisome self had thought. Literally, there was a red carpet rolled out and a red rope strung up along one side. I walked on the side with the red carpet, while a line up of various people, skin coloured from olive to molasses, held up signs. I quickly found mine, smiled at the gentleman, who provided me with the warmest grin possible.
“Kelly?” He asked. I almost sighed with relief.
“Yes! I’m Kelly!” Like I was reassuring myself. I held out my hand and he grasped it firmly. He had an honest face and introduced himself to me as Mustafa. I liked this Mustafa already.
“Come this way, through here. Quickly.” I realized very soon why he wanted quickly out of me. His accent was delicious.
Once through the throng of people and after collecting my luggage, Mustafa firmly grasped my elbow and confidently lead me through the large double doors. Beyond those doors was his need for haste. Immediately, the sound overwhelmed me, the volumes of people trying to get my attention, “Taxi? Taxi?” was drowning and little more than a blur to me. All the while, Mustafa was cheerily and professionally chattering away to me. For the life of me, I can’t remember a thing the man said. Something about the hotel tonight. Pyramids, sound and light show. It would have been right at this moment my father would have stopped and said “Kelly! Are you paying attention?! Common, focus here. I’m not repeating this.”
Through a large set of sliding doors we went and I was blasted by a strong gust of the hottest, driest air I’d ever felt. The sun beat down hard and I looked at Mustafa, done up to the nines in his suit, polyester or wool I didn’t know, but either I would have felt sorry for him. The heat didn’t seem to affect him, I realized as I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine.
He was hasty in his movements. I quickly realized that Mustafa was urgent about everything; the way he spoke, his gestures, his walk. He lead me to a small van with orange curtains and helped me in. Inside, it was cool, the curtains drawn. Immediately, I whipped the curtains back. I wanted to see everything. Mustafa continued his twittering. He reminded me of a bird. He had a long thin face, kind dark eyes and brown teeth. He kept a goatee which I thought he would have looked better without. He was balding. I could not determine his age; one of those people who seem to be trans-generational. Actions belied eyes which belied that soft tissue that enfolds the eyes. His hands were young but he had deep lines on his forehead. He was painfully thin and his suit looked like he had bought it, three sizes too large, right off the rack.
He was telling me about his little girl back at home, in Luxor, which is where he was from. And his wife. He was so proud because his little girl had just turned one last week. His smile emphasized his pride. That little girl will be well loved.
Mustafa continued to explain to me the process of my two weeks here in Egypt, all the while in his rapid, luxiurous accent and all the while my eyes were out of the window, looking at the beautiful, dirty city of Cairo. Really, it was absolutely filthy. And the roads, the drivers, were absolutely maniac. There are white lines on the road which are consistently ignored. A series of honks and flashing of lights communicated the rules of the road. I have yet to crack the Rosetta Stone of Egyptian driving. It really, truly, is a maniac adventure, not for the faint of heart, and if it weren’t for my absolute euphoria, I’m about ninety seven percent sure I would have gone into cardiac arrest. The streets are filled with people, donkeys, carts, beaten down cars and filth. I was mezmorized. You must realize, I come from one of the most pristine, clean and proper cities in the world, Toronto. Throwing one’s trash out the window is as offensive as walking into a complete stranger’s house and demanding they vacate. There is just no stopping on the streets to take in the scenery. No leaning up against buildings, watching the world go by unless you have a hat out for change. Being proper is a highly prized attribute. Being busy is a highly prized attribute. I see Toronto now as it truly is: beautiful, welcoming but somehow cold and sterile. Somehow missing the point.
We were racing along the highway now, overlooking what looked to me to be a war zone. Unfinished buildings, empty windows, and piles of bricks, rubbish and donkey crap. Amongst that mess, people walked, no, strolled. Everyone in Cairo, outside of an automobile, seemed to be in no rush for anything. This, I quickly learned, is a very Egyptian trait. Maybe you’re late, maybe you have a train to catch, maybe your wife is giving birth to your first born, you still have time for Sheesha and tea. There is no rushing, not in this heat. I asked Mustafa why all the buildings are unfinished.
“Taxes,” he replied and smiled. I gave him a dumb look. “If your building is finished, the government will tax you. So no one finishes their buildings.”
Again, not a Toronto thing. An unfinished building is a large eyesore and complained about until completion. And paying your taxes is an upstanding sort of thing to do.
While my mind raced and my eyeballs tried desperately to absorb everything rushing by, Mustafa was continuing his chatter. I nodded. “Oh, that’s nice. I’m looking forward to that” I continued to reply. He could have told me a bomb was dropping in T-minus three minutes and I would have replied “oh, that’s nice.”
“Kelly. Kelly!” I whipped my head to him, goofy smile on my face. “You want to see the pyramids? Look to your right.”
I looked. Through the haze of pollution, over top of the unfinished buildings, I could see them. The large one, and the medium one with the finished, smooth top. They looked hazy and distant, but their largess and magnificence could reach across distance and time to inspire the dead to wake. Perhaps that’s why they were built. To inspire the dead to wake. They dominated Cairo’s horizon; silent sentinels of history, keeping secrets only the Gods for whom they were built, know.
I was filled with awe. No, awe can’t even describe it. It was like I had said to God “God, I’d like to see the gates to heaven. I know I’m not allowed in yet, and maybe ‘cuz of all the crap I put my parents through, may never be allowed, but I’d like to see these mythical gates. The ones everyone always talks about, that have been written about for thousands and thousands of years and have inspired wars among millions. Yeah, those ones. Please and thank you.”
I’m glad I had my sunglasses on because I had started to cry. In all my dreams, all my imaginings, I never once thought I, me, Kelly would actually see the pyramids. The Pyramids. And yet, I was here. Racing through Cairo, dodging pick-up trucks full of people, cars, motorbikes and donkey carts, staring at the pyramids.
I looked at Mustafa, who had twisted himself right around and I’m sure was watching me through my entire, almost out of body experience. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You are so excited!”
I nodded. My face hurt from smiling. “This is the best!” was all I could manage to say.
“I really like Canadians.” He said and turned back around in his seat. He then proceeded to ramble on, in his one hundred mile an hour fashion, about how much he liked Canada, how he’d been there and that Canadians were his favorite. I lost myself again, staring out the window, enthralled.
My Egypt.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A thought I had a while ago.....
Thought 4: Angels
I have a friend named Liz. She is a recent acquisition to my life, but a very valuable one. She recently told me a story of hers, which I’d like to put in writing. It’s one of those stories that changes you, makes you think, makes you want to live your life. And if you are smart, you will see the value in it, as, I am sure, Liz has.
Liz has had an extraordinary life and, at only twenty seven, is an old soul. Her experiences have made her so.
Liz is a mild, quiet woman and, I can imagine as a girl, was nothing more than a wall flower desperate to bloom. Her silence can’t be mistaken for lack of substance, though. When she is quiet, looking at you, listening to you talk, she is thinking. Always. She is listening, absorbing and processing.
In her first year of high school, she was not a particular attraction, not an ugly girl, but hidden within herself and her fears. I suspect part of that was her struggle with her sexuality. Liz came out in her early twenties and has done nothing but bloom vibrant, inspiring colours since. She also has two older sisters who always overshadowed her, fighting for her, using her against each other while Liz struggled to keep sanity in her life.
In her first year of high school, when she wanted to do nothing more than melt into the walls, the most popular boy decided he liked her. Not a crush mind you. But he befriended Liz in such a way that she will never forget.
His name was John and he changed her life. John was the type of boy who just accepted everyone, thought diversity was fascinating. He never saw groups, but individuals struggling to become accepted. And he accepted them. All of them. And, in turn he was loved, by everyone. But most of all, by Liz.
Liz met John in drama class. She had taken it to help her find her confidence and John had taken it as an outlet for his. John was the most popular kid in school, mainly because he just liked everyone. Was easy going, laughed, and could make anyone feel comfortable in the most uncomfortable situations.
When the time came in class to choose a partner for exercises, when everyone was eyeing John with the hopes of being in his light, his beacon turned to Liz and he tugged her arm and said “Common Liz, you’re my partner.”
“I kept thinking, ‘what does he want me for when he could be partners with someone cool,’” she told me one night over beers. She put her hand to her breast, eyes wide, “Me!” She exclaimed.
I laughed. I could see why, but sometimes what others see as the most obvious things about ourselves are the most obscure to us.
John would tease Liz, make her blush, but was always pulling her to his side. “Common Liz, are you coming?” Was his mantra. He made her comfortable, made her feel important and loved. Liz, I think for the second time in her life, felt the unconditional, restful love of another. The first was her father.
They became inseparable and the entire time Liz kept wondering when the dream would stop, when would John realize I’m just me, just Liz? When would he find someone cooler to hang out with?
But John didn’t. Liz was enough for him. Liz filled whatever he was looking to fill. They took the bus home together and would run down the road together, racing. When class would let out, John was always waiting at Liz’s locker for her. They’d walk to classes together, talking, feeling comfortable with one another. A comfort not often found in those tumultuous years of high school.
The following semester, they arranged their schedules so they only had one class apart. They sat beside each other, would work together. Always.
And all the while, Liz kept wondering when the dream would end. When he’d realize. I think perhaps she felt like a sham, like a fraud. She was afraid someone would slip him the memo: Liz was really a geek, one of the losers.
She told me, over her beer, how he made her feel. He changed her, made her feel good. Always wanted her around.
“Wanted me,” she told me. She looked down to her beer. I knew she must have been remembering. A shadow of pain flickered across her face and was gone as fast as it came.
“He would always loop his arm in mine and said ‘Are you coming Liz?’ when everyone else wanted to be with him.”
“John was very curious,” she said. “You couldn’t keep him down. You couldn’t tell him no.”
I could hear the love in her voice. Love for a memory that was fourteen years old. It was still there.
“He told me that he wanted to explore this field. It was close to his house, behind his yard but it was unexplored. So he wanted to explore it.”
“And one night he did,” she said, “John went out to this field. He told me he wanted to check it out. He was curious”
She smiled. I could see the sadness.
“No one could tell him no. He wasn’t rebellious, just curious. The word no meant it held more interest. Why would someone not what him to do something that was boring, you know? This field was where, you know, those hydro generators are. Like 50 000 volts or something.” She waved her hand to emphasize. She looked over my shoulder at nothing.
“It was really fast,” she said. “The volt went through him, something like 100 times the amount needed to kill a human. He was dead instantly.”
I kept still. I didn’t want her to stop. It was like I had just come across a deer, and that deer spotted me, its eyes locked on me, unmoving. In those moments you don’t dare move a muscle, you don’t even breathe.
I didn’t know if she needed to tell me. If it was cathartic for her. Or if she found trust in me. Or if she had just had too many beers. But I felt awed. I didn’t want to make a move, make a sound, say the wrong thing. I wanted her to tell me and I knew it hurt her. I felt like I was peeking in through a window to someone else’s life. Like I’d been given a day-pass.
“I remember the last time I saw him. I was the last kid in school to see him. He said ‘see ya tomorrow’ to me. Just like that,” she shrugged one shoulder. “Just see ya. And then he was gone. He’s gone.”
She took a sip of her beer. She purses her lips when she thinks. Just slightly. A habit I’ve noticed.
“It was like the floor had caved in on me and I was falling. My heart was broken and I kept thinking, ‘no this isn’t right. This can’t be right. I just saw him. John is alive.’
“There was, of course, counseling in the main office for me, and I was there. I didn’t comprehend. John gone. John gone. And all the while, my sisters and my friends were racing around the entire school looking for me. They knew he meant that much to me. ‘Where was Liz?’ was what everyone thought as soon as they heard the news. They didn’t know what I’d do, how I’d react. If I was ok. And no one could find me.”
My heart broke for her. My beer was warm. Untouched.
“I fell into a huge depression after that. I cried a lot. I was angry a lot. I didn’t yell or take fits, but I didn’t talk.”
Sometimes, when you have children, you’d rather hear them scream and yell and hear them tell you how much they hate you, how much you don’t understand them, how they wanted to leave, rather than take silence from them. Silence leaves you to your own thoughts, and when someone you love is hurting, lost in their own despair, the silence reminds you of how far they are from you. That you can’t reach them. The yelling means you can reach them. Grab on. Pull them close. It’s like an anchor.
But death is unknown to most of us. Even though it happens to everyone, and everyone experiences the death of a loved one at some point, it is still uncharted territory. Watching your child deal with the death of a loved one is like being lost at sea.
And Liz was lost at sea, oceans away from her family. Oceans away from reality.
She was looking at me. She sighed a big, accepting breath.
“And then my dad died. He was really sick and really shouldn’t have been a surprise when he died. But you can never prepare yourself. No matter how sick they are.”
The waiter came to our table, breaking us out of our thoughts, back to the boisterous bar.
“Can I get you ladies another?” She had a slightly used look to her, but she was pleasant.
I nodded, unable to find my voice, and pointed both to Liz and myself. She nodded and left.
“I think I cried everything I had when John died and had nothing left for when my dad died. I didn’t cry once during the entire thing. Not once. I wanted to, I felt it. But I just didn’t. Couldn’t.”
I wanted to tell her I knew what it was like not to be able to cry anymore. But I felt that would have sounded trite in her circumstance.
The waiter came back with our beers, cold and amber.
“I loved my dad so much. I was his girl. I didn’t live with him when he and my mom split up, but I spent every other weekend with him and we had so much fun. But when he got sick, he wasn’t the same. I think it was the pain he was in. It made him short with everyone. He’d yell at everything. He yelled a lot at my sisters, but not at me. He never yelled at me.”
“Do you think he favored you?” I asked.
“I don’t like to think so, but yeah, maybe he did.”
“It was just a few years ago, late at night, that I finally cried about my dad. Suzy had no idea what was going on, but she just held me. I cried for hours. I had such a headache after.” A small smile curved her mouth.
What does one say? What can one say after that? I felt inadequate. I felt like I needed to tell her thank you. I wanted to tell her thank you for telling me. It had changed me, I won’t forget it.
After high school, John and her dad passing, Liz received acceptance to Queen’s University. Her mother worried about her, was worried because she had not fully come back to the Liz she knew. I think perhaps, Liz would never be the same.
But Liz decided she wanted to go and she did. She excelled in her studies, found friends, found herself and that resful comfort she had lost back in that field.
“It finally dawned on me why I didn’t like dating guys, why sex with guys was uncomfortable to me and why I ended up just avoiding them altogether.” She told me. “I made up my mind to tell my family on this particular day. If I set a date for myself and figured, if I had a particular date, then I’d hold myself accountable for telling them I was gay. So I did.” Her long finger was tracing the rim of her glass. The music in the bar became louder.
“My mom was totally cool with it.” She laughed. “The fact that her daughter was a lesbian was ok but the fact that she’s an atheist is not. Figure that one out!”
I laughed. It did seem ridiculous.
“My one sister was also fine with it, but my other still thinks I have a disease. That I’ll be ‘cured’ one day.” She rolled her eyes. “Right.” She said.
Liz continued to tell me of her summer abroad. She spent a summer in Bolivia, trying to do humanitarian work, building homes, lives, trying to give hope but only being met with corruption and denial from the Bolivian government. To her, this was unacceptable and just a random occurance. No government could possibly let their citizens live in such squalor.
“I think I was completely niaeve. But I also think I’m waking up and realizing reality.” She said.
She also spent a summer in Equador, where she met Suzy. I have never met Suzy. She is now living in Sweden, trying to obtain Canadian citizenship so she can come over and live with Liz. They have been together for five years but apart for the past two. But their love for one another keeps them going. Thousands of miles apart, they still know the other is out there, in the world and that one day, if they play their cards right, they just might get to merge their worlds. It makes me sad to think.
Liz eventually made it to Queen’s School of Law and it was during her articling that I met her. She has ideals of putting the law to humanitarian use. Liz is one of those people who wants to change the world. I hope she does. But I hope she doesn’t change along with it.
So there we sat, two women from completely different walks of live, two different views of the world, sharing a beer on a bitter cold night, enjoying just the company of someone to listen. And at that moment, I would have rather be no where else. I felt like John.
“You know,” I said, tentative. “What John saw in you, why he wanted to be with you all the time. It’s not hard to see.”
I looked down to my beer. When I looked up, she was smiling, her face warm. She was looking directly at me.
“You are one of those people, Liz, who everyone wants to be around. I see you as one of those people.”
Her smile widened. She has a very kind smile. “I see the same in you.” I knew she was being truthful. I felt privileged. Rich.
“Maybe John is one of those people,” I said “who was meant to come into your life only for a short time. Maybe you needed something that only he could give you, and when he did, he had to go. You’ll never forget him. Don’t ever forget him.”
She was quiet. We both sipped our beers, lost in our own thoughts. We remained silent for a few moments.
“Like angels,” she finally said.
“Yeah, like angels.”
I have a friend named Liz. She is a recent acquisition to my life, but a very valuable one. She recently told me a story of hers, which I’d like to put in writing. It’s one of those stories that changes you, makes you think, makes you want to live your life. And if you are smart, you will see the value in it, as, I am sure, Liz has.
Liz has had an extraordinary life and, at only twenty seven, is an old soul. Her experiences have made her so.
Liz is a mild, quiet woman and, I can imagine as a girl, was nothing more than a wall flower desperate to bloom. Her silence can’t be mistaken for lack of substance, though. When she is quiet, looking at you, listening to you talk, she is thinking. Always. She is listening, absorbing and processing.
In her first year of high school, she was not a particular attraction, not an ugly girl, but hidden within herself and her fears. I suspect part of that was her struggle with her sexuality. Liz came out in her early twenties and has done nothing but bloom vibrant, inspiring colours since. She also has two older sisters who always overshadowed her, fighting for her, using her against each other while Liz struggled to keep sanity in her life.
In her first year of high school, when she wanted to do nothing more than melt into the walls, the most popular boy decided he liked her. Not a crush mind you. But he befriended Liz in such a way that she will never forget.
His name was John and he changed her life. John was the type of boy who just accepted everyone, thought diversity was fascinating. He never saw groups, but individuals struggling to become accepted. And he accepted them. All of them. And, in turn he was loved, by everyone. But most of all, by Liz.
Liz met John in drama class. She had taken it to help her find her confidence and John had taken it as an outlet for his. John was the most popular kid in school, mainly because he just liked everyone. Was easy going, laughed, and could make anyone feel comfortable in the most uncomfortable situations.
When the time came in class to choose a partner for exercises, when everyone was eyeing John with the hopes of being in his light, his beacon turned to Liz and he tugged her arm and said “Common Liz, you’re my partner.”
“I kept thinking, ‘what does he want me for when he could be partners with someone cool,’” she told me one night over beers. She put her hand to her breast, eyes wide, “Me!” She exclaimed.
I laughed. I could see why, but sometimes what others see as the most obvious things about ourselves are the most obscure to us.
John would tease Liz, make her blush, but was always pulling her to his side. “Common Liz, are you coming?” Was his mantra. He made her comfortable, made her feel important and loved. Liz, I think for the second time in her life, felt the unconditional, restful love of another. The first was her father.
They became inseparable and the entire time Liz kept wondering when the dream would stop, when would John realize I’m just me, just Liz? When would he find someone cooler to hang out with?
But John didn’t. Liz was enough for him. Liz filled whatever he was looking to fill. They took the bus home together and would run down the road together, racing. When class would let out, John was always waiting at Liz’s locker for her. They’d walk to classes together, talking, feeling comfortable with one another. A comfort not often found in those tumultuous years of high school.
The following semester, they arranged their schedules so they only had one class apart. They sat beside each other, would work together. Always.
And all the while, Liz kept wondering when the dream would end. When he’d realize. I think perhaps she felt like a sham, like a fraud. She was afraid someone would slip him the memo: Liz was really a geek, one of the losers.
She told me, over her beer, how he made her feel. He changed her, made her feel good. Always wanted her around.
“Wanted me,” she told me. She looked down to her beer. I knew she must have been remembering. A shadow of pain flickered across her face and was gone as fast as it came.
“He would always loop his arm in mine and said ‘Are you coming Liz?’ when everyone else wanted to be with him.”
“John was very curious,” she said. “You couldn’t keep him down. You couldn’t tell him no.”
I could hear the love in her voice. Love for a memory that was fourteen years old. It was still there.
“He told me that he wanted to explore this field. It was close to his house, behind his yard but it was unexplored. So he wanted to explore it.”
“And one night he did,” she said, “John went out to this field. He told me he wanted to check it out. He was curious”
She smiled. I could see the sadness.
“No one could tell him no. He wasn’t rebellious, just curious. The word no meant it held more interest. Why would someone not what him to do something that was boring, you know? This field was where, you know, those hydro generators are. Like 50 000 volts or something.” She waved her hand to emphasize. She looked over my shoulder at nothing.
“It was really fast,” she said. “The volt went through him, something like 100 times the amount needed to kill a human. He was dead instantly.”
I kept still. I didn’t want her to stop. It was like I had just come across a deer, and that deer spotted me, its eyes locked on me, unmoving. In those moments you don’t dare move a muscle, you don’t even breathe.
I didn’t know if she needed to tell me. If it was cathartic for her. Or if she found trust in me. Or if she had just had too many beers. But I felt awed. I didn’t want to make a move, make a sound, say the wrong thing. I wanted her to tell me and I knew it hurt her. I felt like I was peeking in through a window to someone else’s life. Like I’d been given a day-pass.
“I remember the last time I saw him. I was the last kid in school to see him. He said ‘see ya tomorrow’ to me. Just like that,” she shrugged one shoulder. “Just see ya. And then he was gone. He’s gone.”
She took a sip of her beer. She purses her lips when she thinks. Just slightly. A habit I’ve noticed.
“It was like the floor had caved in on me and I was falling. My heart was broken and I kept thinking, ‘no this isn’t right. This can’t be right. I just saw him. John is alive.’
“There was, of course, counseling in the main office for me, and I was there. I didn’t comprehend. John gone. John gone. And all the while, my sisters and my friends were racing around the entire school looking for me. They knew he meant that much to me. ‘Where was Liz?’ was what everyone thought as soon as they heard the news. They didn’t know what I’d do, how I’d react. If I was ok. And no one could find me.”
My heart broke for her. My beer was warm. Untouched.
“I fell into a huge depression after that. I cried a lot. I was angry a lot. I didn’t yell or take fits, but I didn’t talk.”
Sometimes, when you have children, you’d rather hear them scream and yell and hear them tell you how much they hate you, how much you don’t understand them, how they wanted to leave, rather than take silence from them. Silence leaves you to your own thoughts, and when someone you love is hurting, lost in their own despair, the silence reminds you of how far they are from you. That you can’t reach them. The yelling means you can reach them. Grab on. Pull them close. It’s like an anchor.
But death is unknown to most of us. Even though it happens to everyone, and everyone experiences the death of a loved one at some point, it is still uncharted territory. Watching your child deal with the death of a loved one is like being lost at sea.
And Liz was lost at sea, oceans away from her family. Oceans away from reality.
She was looking at me. She sighed a big, accepting breath.
“And then my dad died. He was really sick and really shouldn’t have been a surprise when he died. But you can never prepare yourself. No matter how sick they are.”
The waiter came to our table, breaking us out of our thoughts, back to the boisterous bar.
“Can I get you ladies another?” She had a slightly used look to her, but she was pleasant.
I nodded, unable to find my voice, and pointed both to Liz and myself. She nodded and left.
“I think I cried everything I had when John died and had nothing left for when my dad died. I didn’t cry once during the entire thing. Not once. I wanted to, I felt it. But I just didn’t. Couldn’t.”
I wanted to tell her I knew what it was like not to be able to cry anymore. But I felt that would have sounded trite in her circumstance.
The waiter came back with our beers, cold and amber.
“I loved my dad so much. I was his girl. I didn’t live with him when he and my mom split up, but I spent every other weekend with him and we had so much fun. But when he got sick, he wasn’t the same. I think it was the pain he was in. It made him short with everyone. He’d yell at everything. He yelled a lot at my sisters, but not at me. He never yelled at me.”
“Do you think he favored you?” I asked.
“I don’t like to think so, but yeah, maybe he did.”
“It was just a few years ago, late at night, that I finally cried about my dad. Suzy had no idea what was going on, but she just held me. I cried for hours. I had such a headache after.” A small smile curved her mouth.
What does one say? What can one say after that? I felt inadequate. I felt like I needed to tell her thank you. I wanted to tell her thank you for telling me. It had changed me, I won’t forget it.
After high school, John and her dad passing, Liz received acceptance to Queen’s University. Her mother worried about her, was worried because she had not fully come back to the Liz she knew. I think perhaps, Liz would never be the same.
But Liz decided she wanted to go and she did. She excelled in her studies, found friends, found herself and that resful comfort she had lost back in that field.
“It finally dawned on me why I didn’t like dating guys, why sex with guys was uncomfortable to me and why I ended up just avoiding them altogether.” She told me. “I made up my mind to tell my family on this particular day. If I set a date for myself and figured, if I had a particular date, then I’d hold myself accountable for telling them I was gay. So I did.” Her long finger was tracing the rim of her glass. The music in the bar became louder.
“My mom was totally cool with it.” She laughed. “The fact that her daughter was a lesbian was ok but the fact that she’s an atheist is not. Figure that one out!”
I laughed. It did seem ridiculous.
“My one sister was also fine with it, but my other still thinks I have a disease. That I’ll be ‘cured’ one day.” She rolled her eyes. “Right.” She said.
Liz continued to tell me of her summer abroad. She spent a summer in Bolivia, trying to do humanitarian work, building homes, lives, trying to give hope but only being met with corruption and denial from the Bolivian government. To her, this was unacceptable and just a random occurance. No government could possibly let their citizens live in such squalor.
“I think I was completely niaeve. But I also think I’m waking up and realizing reality.” She said.
She also spent a summer in Equador, where she met Suzy. I have never met Suzy. She is now living in Sweden, trying to obtain Canadian citizenship so she can come over and live with Liz. They have been together for five years but apart for the past two. But their love for one another keeps them going. Thousands of miles apart, they still know the other is out there, in the world and that one day, if they play their cards right, they just might get to merge their worlds. It makes me sad to think.
Liz eventually made it to Queen’s School of Law and it was during her articling that I met her. She has ideals of putting the law to humanitarian use. Liz is one of those people who wants to change the world. I hope she does. But I hope she doesn’t change along with it.
So there we sat, two women from completely different walks of live, two different views of the world, sharing a beer on a bitter cold night, enjoying just the company of someone to listen. And at that moment, I would have rather be no where else. I felt like John.
“You know,” I said, tentative. “What John saw in you, why he wanted to be with you all the time. It’s not hard to see.”
I looked down to my beer. When I looked up, she was smiling, her face warm. She was looking directly at me.
“You are one of those people, Liz, who everyone wants to be around. I see you as one of those people.”
Her smile widened. She has a very kind smile. “I see the same in you.” I knew she was being truthful. I felt privileged. Rich.
“Maybe John is one of those people,” I said “who was meant to come into your life only for a short time. Maybe you needed something that only he could give you, and when he did, he had to go. You’ll never forget him. Don’t ever forget him.”
She was quiet. We both sipped our beers, lost in our own thoughts. We remained silent for a few moments.
“Like angels,” she finally said.
“Yeah, like angels.”
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Door Number 2
I saw a woman on the subway this morning. Her eyebrows were tightly furrowed into a crease of thought: anger, sadness, anxiety; I don’t know. She kept rubbing her forehead, covering her eyes. When she looked up, she’d sigh; a great big, resigned sigh. Her hair was graying, greasy. The fingernails on her hands were yellowed, her hands wrinkled and blotched. I watched her. Not out of disgust. Yes, she was a bit disgusting, but there was something else about her, something that changed her. I wondered if she remembered laughing, smiling, feeling good.
It was clear to me, when the moment came to choose door number one or two, she panicked. She didn’t choose. She waited and said to herself, “the right one will open.”
I am now 10 days away from my 30th birthday, and slightly less afraid. I don’t remember when it happened, the specific day, what I was doing, what made me do what I did that day. But, not too long ago, I made a decision. I didn’t think on it then, but now I realize it is the biggest decision I’ve ever made in my life. It wasn’t a hard decision, but it will be the hardest to live by. But I feel firm in my decision.
I’ve chosen Door Number 2. I just threw it wide open and said, “whatever is there, common and get me!”
I haven’t made any profound changes in my life, per se but I’ve decided every day is my last. Every day is just as important as the next. Smile at a stranger, help someone out, chose to go to sleep contented. Live.
Since then, I’ve booked myself a trip to Egypt. I’ve wanted to go since I was a little girl. Check off on the Bucket List. The feeling I got when I finally got my booking confirmation was like no other. I’m going. I’m really going. And I did it alone.
I wish I could have given that feeling to the woman on the subway. I wondered what she felt when she got up in the morning. Monotony, resolution, emptiness.
The idea that this is it has always scared the hell out of me. This is it, this is all you get, then you’re gone. Poof, gone. No one really realizes that. You get one kick at the can; make it a bloody hard kick. Choose that door, grasp the knob firmly and just fling it open. And then, with your eyes wide open, march right through. Don’t let your Rosebuds follow you to your grave.
There’s a piece of music I listen to often. Listening to it is like laying down flat in the middle of an empty cathedral and listening to the sounds of God rise to Heaven. I’m not religious, so feel free to substitute as you like. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, closing your eyes and spreading your arms wide. Stand there a few moments, then open your eyes directly out to the landscape below. It feels like your flying. The piece is by Bach; Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G minor. I think Bach must have written it when he opened his door. It amazes me how someone like that can translate all those emotions, all those thoughts, into notes on a scale. How, through all the languages in the world, all the beliefs, such emotions can be transcended through one simple, two minute piece of music.
Quite some time ago, I was walking through the subway corridors, head down, rushing with the never ending traffic of people when I heard that sound. My Bach. My beautiful symphony behind Door Number 2. I actually stopped. It was beautiful. The urge to rush disapated as I heard those notes. I walked forward towards an aging woman, fingers furiously racing up and down the satin wood of her cello. Eyes closed, swaying with every stroke of her bow. I just watched her play my music. It was like everything around me was gone as I watched her play. When she finished, she looked up at me, this tiny, East Asian woman. She smiled.
“You like?”
I nodded. I reached into my purse, pulled a twenty out of my wallet; my last twenty until payday. I didn’t care. I tossed it in her cello case among the coins.
“Yes, I like very much.”
I wish that woman on the subway could have heard that music.
It was clear to me, when the moment came to choose door number one or two, she panicked. She didn’t choose. She waited and said to herself, “the right one will open.”
I am now 10 days away from my 30th birthday, and slightly less afraid. I don’t remember when it happened, the specific day, what I was doing, what made me do what I did that day. But, not too long ago, I made a decision. I didn’t think on it then, but now I realize it is the biggest decision I’ve ever made in my life. It wasn’t a hard decision, but it will be the hardest to live by. But I feel firm in my decision.
I’ve chosen Door Number 2. I just threw it wide open and said, “whatever is there, common and get me!”
I haven’t made any profound changes in my life, per se but I’ve decided every day is my last. Every day is just as important as the next. Smile at a stranger, help someone out, chose to go to sleep contented. Live.
Since then, I’ve booked myself a trip to Egypt. I’ve wanted to go since I was a little girl. Check off on the Bucket List. The feeling I got when I finally got my booking confirmation was like no other. I’m going. I’m really going. And I did it alone.
I wish I could have given that feeling to the woman on the subway. I wondered what she felt when she got up in the morning. Monotony, resolution, emptiness.
The idea that this is it has always scared the hell out of me. This is it, this is all you get, then you’re gone. Poof, gone. No one really realizes that. You get one kick at the can; make it a bloody hard kick. Choose that door, grasp the knob firmly and just fling it open. And then, with your eyes wide open, march right through. Don’t let your Rosebuds follow you to your grave.
There’s a piece of music I listen to often. Listening to it is like laying down flat in the middle of an empty cathedral and listening to the sounds of God rise to Heaven. I’m not religious, so feel free to substitute as you like. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, closing your eyes and spreading your arms wide. Stand there a few moments, then open your eyes directly out to the landscape below. It feels like your flying. The piece is by Bach; Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G minor. I think Bach must have written it when he opened his door. It amazes me how someone like that can translate all those emotions, all those thoughts, into notes on a scale. How, through all the languages in the world, all the beliefs, such emotions can be transcended through one simple, two minute piece of music.
Quite some time ago, I was walking through the subway corridors, head down, rushing with the never ending traffic of people when I heard that sound. My Bach. My beautiful symphony behind Door Number 2. I actually stopped. It was beautiful. The urge to rush disapated as I heard those notes. I walked forward towards an aging woman, fingers furiously racing up and down the satin wood of her cello. Eyes closed, swaying with every stroke of her bow. I just watched her play my music. It was like everything around me was gone as I watched her play. When she finished, she looked up at me, this tiny, East Asian woman. She smiled.
“You like?”
I nodded. I reached into my purse, pulled a twenty out of my wallet; my last twenty until payday. I didn’t care. I tossed it in her cello case among the coins.
“Yes, I like very much.”
I wish that woman on the subway could have heard that music.
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