The Persistence of Angels

I haven't been here in a while and it's not for lack of stuff to post. There's always stuff. There's always complaints, a litany of them. Conversations gone awry, words overheard. There are things to revel in, too, like the Los Angeles sun in March and my children's curls. Sophie is plugging along on the new medication and I'm wondering whether her energy is the good kind, freed up from constant seizing, or the bad kind, a frantic side effect of the medication. Who the hell knows?

One never knows. I'm thinking about William Blake and Wallace Stevens. The poems about innocence and joy and the ones about the mind of winter and gubbinal.

On my way to eat Mexican tonight, I sat in one of the backseats and gave the ten year old Boy the coveted front seat (why do children love the front seat so much?). While sitting and gazing out the window, I listened as the boys shouted Audi, Audi, with their father, playing a silly car game with so much competition and exhilaration I'm stunned. Never was a cliche more apt than that of men and cars. Anyway, the phrase the persistence of angels came to mind and I jotted it down, quickly, in my notebook.

The persistence of angels.

I hate talk of "angels," actually. The silly, saccharine kind of talk. The wings and the religious, the titles on hundreds of self-help books, the weak attributions given to the dead. Call me cynical, but don't tell me about angels (except the majestic ones drawn by William Blake, see above). I had an essay published in "Spirituality and Health Magazine a while back. It was about angels, really, and I hesitated to even use the word. Did I use the word? I can't remember -- but what I do remember is that the magazine re-titled my piece "Listening to Angels." I hated that title with all its implications.

I'm so NOT an angel-person.

But still, the persistence of angels.

I'm thinking, mainly, of the two women who help me to care for Sophie. I am stressed of late on how much longer I'll be able to pay for them. Times are tough, as most people know. My husband has opened a new business. I'm no longer getting help from a certain source. I've borrowed from Peter to pay Paul and Peter has no more money. I've gotten a few ominous sounding letters from the California Regional Centers, warning of impending budget cuts. Respite funds will be severely impacted. I tell my friends that I need to look on help with Sophie as important as a utility. I wouldn't budget out electricity, would I? I feel a bit guilty about this, too. I'm aware that I'm incredibly fortunate to have any help at all. I tell myself that somewhere someone is caring for her own Sophie in a hut or maybe under a cardboard tent. By herself.

Back to the ange -- I mean women. They come into my house and lay their hands on The Girl and coo in her ear. They comb her hair gently and cradle her head when she seizes. They look her in the eye and laugh when she reaches her hand up to touch their faces. They love her. They save me -- gently, persistently.

The persistence of angels.