I slept for ten hours last night. The body is not behaving nicely. I look at yesterday with wonder, at all the ailments (real and imagined?) that came my way:
2. Dizzy in the heat, head achy
3. Nose stuffed up here and there
4. Coughing up yellow phlegm
6. Sand flea bites on my feet and lower legs, itchy on and off
7. Certain unmentionable body parts are now four times their original size
The lack of wind meant that flies were my frequent visitors. I was open to a rarified air of consciousness but I guess it wasn’t open to me. So I retreated to my air conditioning and my book.
I read about Birdie, a Canadian aboriginal woman who was sexually abused by her uncle but hadn’t lost her spirituality. Her love for the women in her life was immense. There was so much anguish in the book but Bernice poked her head above it all, time and again. As I read about the violence and her depression, my body was doing its thing. Her pain mixed with mine.
Her home was “twisted with heat”. Physical and emotional, like me right now.
One night, Bernice slept in a dumpster, holding thrown away flowers to her breast. I too cling to the symbols of hope, such as this blog, knowing that as for my current malaise, this too must pass.
As Bernice’s aunt said, “The Kid looks like she’s melting. Dimming. Half gone … But. She also looks lovely. Like her body fits her spirit.” Yes, it feels like I’ve dimmed on this vacation but the essence of Bruce is here. Untarnished. Still shining.
[Interlude: My waiter friend has just brought me a coffee. Milk is foaming above the rim of the cup. I realize that I need to stir very slowly to prevent it from slopping over. And so I do. I’m pretty slow right now. It’s what’s needed.]
I walked behind two men this morning on the way to breakfast. They were strolling. I was strolling a bit slower. They both had grey hair, blue shirts and grey shorts. (We’re all the same.) One fellow had brown legs, the other perfectly white. (We’re all so different.) I made no judgments … exterior or interior. We share the path.
I’m alone here. I’ve been friendly to folks I’ve met, those from Cuba and elsewhere. Our conversations are brief and then they’re off to visit with their friends. I wish there was a special someone to share experiences, thoughts and emotions with me. It wasn’t to be this time.
Writing to you is essential, even if “you” only represents ten people. I get a fair number of likes but hardly any comments. That’s okay. I know I’m reaching a few folks. Another type of contact for me is to post on “Toronto Golf Nuts”, a website about the best sport in the world. I love what Brooke Henderson from Canada is doing on the LPGA Tour, and here’s what I said on Wednesday:
“What I most enjoyed about Brooke at the ANA was her willingness to do an interview after her opening round 73. She kept answering reporters’ questions, despite no doubt feeling down. She didn’t make much eye contact with them but hung in there and gave honest answers. It says so much about her as a person. I respect her humanity as much as I respect her golf, more actually.”
Yesterday, some kind person responded with “Well said.” I cried. Just those two tiny words of appreciation and I was gone. Good for me. Good for us.