YOU FOUNTAIN OF GRACE

 

15 of 100

8 April

Just as I have said, it is of little use to get up early in the morning in order to have some quiet time as Janet gets up as soon as she hears anything.

9 April

And we can see how all of that went.

She's asleep again. Yesterday, she had an MRI to check her brain after her fainting spell about a month ago. No, Wait. The MRI was Wednesday, yesterday was the bone density scan. Fun, fun fun. Yesterday was so hot (100?) that I spent large amounts of the day sprawled across my bed, under the too big fan, with either Nina or Vera. We watched some series or listened to podcasts and books for hot hours. Not the hot hours of my younger years, to be sure. We made it through the day, and today is cooler.

Again, I got up early to get a couple of things done before I went to my Saturday class. Mom got up just in time to get underfoot while I was rushing around to get out the door. Now she is back asleep so I can think for a few minutes before I head back into the kitchen to finish cleaning and prepare my little appetizer for tonight's party.

SW who has been hosting our Saturday morning class is moving to the (much beloved) Central Coast in two months. He is hosting a party for our little core group that staid together all through covid. We will miss him and his garage terribly. But CZ is already advocating a train trip to San Luis Obispo for yoga and yakking. There are plans to find a place to continue our Saturday class.

Although I am not as reliable an attendee than the others, (for one, I have to drive a lot farther), they kindly tolerate my inconsistency and are not judgmental about my advanced beginner practice. I love it. Besides the benefit of a group practice, I get to air my trials and triumphs (such as they are) as a teacher. It means everything to have their guidance, counsel, and suggestions. Teaching is harder than I thought it might be.

SW lives in a small, gated community next to a seasonal marsh or lake. When we practiced outside for teacher training, we often had to suspend instruction due to a duck and goose fight or just to look out over the water for a bit. There is a back gate to the community where we come in (Fox is glaringly orange standing out besides the bougainvillea and the uncut grass in just a patch of sunlight.). This morning, as both CW and I wound through the streets, there was a whole flock of ducks taking up about 2/3 of the available street space. There were thoroughly unconcerned as each of us drove by, not so much as moving a tailfeather. Talk about confidence and comfort.

And on top of that ... it was a cooler beautiful morning. My shuffle was on point somehow mixing Josquin (I almost skipped forward but decided I should slow down my overstimulation and actually listen) with Eric Taylor with Louise Taylor with Ry Cooder with Patty Griffin and Gillian Welch and some Bach played by my beloved Daniel Barenboim (Goldberg Variation, BWV 988, Canone alla Terza). An embarrassment of riches there, and a bit more soothing than listening to either of the excellent political books I have in process, Adam Schiff's Midnight in Washington: How We Almost Lost Our Democracy and Still Could and Wildland: The Making of America's Fury by Evan Osnos (good review there in Foreign Affairs).

And now, at 12:00, Saturday is in full swing as my neighbors vacuum their cars and groove out to some jam with a heavy beat. I suppose I won't even try to compete with my Barenboim Bach at this moment. Whatever else I had to say has drifted away. 

(UNTITLED)

You wake the dead to life,

you fountain of grace,

you fire in thickets of tangled thought,

Today you arrived beaming with laughter—

that swinging key that unlocks prison doors.

You are hope’s beating heart.

You are a doorway to the sun.

You are the one I seek and the one who seeks me.

Beginning and end.

You greet need with generous hands.

You flood us with spirit,

rising from the heart,

lifting thought.

Rare one, you reveal the pleasure

of wisdom and practice.

Beyond these, what is there

but excuses and deceit?

We lust after the afterlife.

We stew over trinkets.

We stages battles between black and white.

Our ears are plugged with twisted delusions.

You carry the cure.

Silence!

I’m in a hurry. Leave the paper. Break the pen.

The cupbearer is here, jug in hand.

Meet us in the land of insight,

camped under ecstasy’s flag.

— Rumi, Gold, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori, New York Review of Books, New York, 2022