This Is A True Story

A very long time ago I held the baby in my arms in a brown and cream-checked easy chair, rocking back and forth while she screamed. Breathing in I calm myself, breathing out I smile, I said in my mind over and over back and forth. I got in a black car with a driver who took me to a nursing home in the Bronx where an Orthodox Jewish rabbi a supposed holy man recovered from a stroke. I walked down a hallway with the baby in my arms behind a small group of men in beards in black they turned left into a room there were no other women. The rabbi sat in a wheelchair his head on his shoulder his eyes looking straight at me and the baby and his eyes were clear and I had to look away look down not to escape but to absorb I guess (it's been 25 years). He said some things some things I won't repeat here although I've said these things before some things about eyes and evil eyes the whole time he spoke his head lay on his shoulder (the stroke) his beard lay on his chest he stroked the baby's head and said she'll be okay. He gave me a small medal with a sign on it that I pinned on the inside of her clothes for months, maybe years, taking it off each small shirt, dress, onesie, for months until it turned black it was cheap and magical. Years go by went by are going and as she seized seizes I say you're okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay and for a while I thought it would be okay and then I thought (with rue) when? and then with dark humor I forgot to ask when? and now it's all okay, it's really okay. 



May we be well, happy and peaceful.
May no harm come to us.
May no difficulties come to us
May no burdens weigh us down
May we always meet with success.
May we have strength, resilience and courage to meet the inevitable failures and disappointments in life.
May we be held.
May we be transformed.

Mercy Now

Mark Bradford's "150 Portrait Tone"
Los Angeles County Museum of Art

I do not pray except for mercy. I may sit on the side of Sophie's bed in the early hours of the morning, pulled there by a groan and thrashing legs and arms, and I'll curse in my mind even as I stroke her tiny face my grimace an extension of hers and I will ask for mercy. Mercy. I do not pray except for mercy. There is such a thing, isn't there? Not the prayer but the mercy. Today another ten children were gunned down by another child. Mercy. My own son rages at the world says hopeless but his strong body intelligence the way he moves belies the cynicism. Be merciful, I think. This morning two small yellow-breasted birds splashed in the fountain just outside my bedroom door. Yet, the earth is betrayed, buckling, relentless. I sip coffee. Sophie slept. Even so, I have a past, you know, where or is it when I did terrible things. I have a past, you know, when I was terribly hurt. I am sorry. Yes. I am, too. What, I think, might have happened if I hadn't done that? Yet still, mercy. I have held Sophie in my arms, a pieta without prayer.  The line of those who have hurt her, even indirectly. We must show mercy. What might have happened had Sophie been given cannabis medicine in those early days? Would I have crouched in the shower and wept, lay my forehead on the tile in thanksgiving for mercy? I have not prayed except for mercy. Those children dead, this earth, that person, that love betrayed and having been betrayed, my son, my son, my daughter. Mercy. There is such a thing, isn't there? Not the prayer but the mercy.

You Are Not Alone

Point Lobos, CA

I don't believe in the power of prayer.  Even if you insist. I do believe in the open-ness of intention. That might sound ridiculous. I held Sophie in my arms this morning and asked for mercy and light. I know that I can't pray for Sophie to be healed, nor for me to know how to fix things, to figure them out. I know that I can be opened to caring for her more fully, more presently, with more resilience and calm. I know that I can gather her in my arms, her limbs wrought from mine, all her limbs. I know that healing is around us, in the air, in the crunch of yellow flowers that litter the lawn, brittle yet bright, despite.

Ask and open to receive.













It doesn't seem fair to weave some words together and fling them out there. Sophie is at school today.  She's not great, but she's at school. I'm taking her to the osteopath this afternoon. I'm surrounding her with wellness in spite of the relentless downturn. That's the way I've done it for two decades. I spoke to Dr. Goldstein this morning, the doctor who helps us with all things cannabis-related. For the first time in weeks, I felt helped. We have a plan. Dr. Goldstein said, You are not alone. I will help you.

Dear Lord,

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness as the holiday season commences with The Big O insisting on going up into the attic to get down the lights, first, Mom! Just the lights! I promise!

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness instead of irritated when people invoke You in comments to me either here on the blog or on my Facebook page.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness when I map out my week, and it calls for 24 trips to the Valley and home because of my eldest child's chosen school and decision to go out for the track team.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness when I listen to the American Express Guy From India explain in his imitable accent that You are dear to the company, Miss Elizabeth, and we want to work with you during these difficult times.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness when I wake in the wee hours of the morn and am filled with the unique thoughts of the Hours Before Dawn, all of which include college costs, a lifetime of caregiving, SUDEP, the 24 trips to the Valley (see above) and existential loneliness.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness when people begin posting photos of their holiday trips to the Seychelle Islands, Hawaii or even just up the road at Mammoth.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness when I realize that I literally have nothing to wear should I be invited to a holiday party.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness when I hear Obama called a tyrant, even as the people who call him that remain free to do so, without getting their faces shot off.

Let me remain patient and filled with lovingkindness toward every member of my family, nuclear and extended, toward myself and toward our dog, Valentine.

Amen.

4 am

a print that hangs by my bed

I'm a good sleeper. I go to bed on the late side, after writing and reading for two to three hours, and when I put down my book and turn out the light, I turn to my side and go to sleep. I wake up seven or so hours later when the alarm clock light begins flashing, and I have no trouble turning it off and then lying there doing a short meditation. I know, this is a blessing. This morning, though, I woke up at exactly 4 am in full thought, and it seemed like the thoughts were exactly the same as they had been when I'd fallen asleep. I had gone over the day, an upsetting one, actually, worried for my boy Oliver who is so unhappy at school. As those of you who work the early morning shift know, 4 am is the time when all worries are magnified and seemingly insurmountable. They don't call it the darkest hour before dawn for nothing. It also seems that telling oneself that worrying at 4 am is stupid is useless, and after fifteen minutes or so of rising terror that might have, could have, would have tipped over into despair, I got up and crept into the boys' bedroom and over to Oliver who was sleeping peacefully. I stood beside the bed and touched his exposed hand, curled softly on top of the cover. He rustled a bit but continued to breathe deeply, so I stood there with my hand on his and breathed deeply, my eyes closed. I prayed for peace for him when the sun rose, for strength for me to love and be compassionate. I prayed for ease while he continued to breathe, in and out, his face still the baby's that I'd rocked every night and sung to years ago. When I left the room, light was curling around the blinds, but I climbed back into bed, closed my eyes and went back to sleep.