Filed under: awareness, children, grief, living, loss, soul food cafe, worthwriting
sometimes I feel as old as this building and just as ready to close down forever
Each time I sat down to write even the simplest post about my simple day in this past week my usual tiredness morphed into a sense of overwhelming tiresomeness; the tiresomeness of merely existing until Life returns to me. Again and again I abandoned the computer, the camera, the page, and dragged myself reeling and dizzy with sudden exhaustion to bed regardless of the time of day or evening. It was not truly “hiding” because I was so honestly incapacitated by the merciless fatigue that I couldn’t do anything at all. It is just as though a blinding, disorienting fog descends and swallows up my awareness until I am no longer able to stay awake at all.
That metaphorical fog is comparative to the real phenomena that appeared on Thursday and left me with haunting impressions, absolutely unshakeable.
On my way back to the annual library book sale, I turned up Ferguson Avenue and took a pedestrian walkway through Beasley Park which brought me past J. Edgar Davey elementary school. It was very early in the morning and the young students would normally just be settling into their seats. This morning they were instead walking two-by-two, silently (as silently as very young children are able), around the perimeter of the school and the school yard. There were no placards or clues as to why, no declarations made of any sort, not a word spoken by anyone. Just children, together, as far as the eye could see – which was not far because of the heavy mist.
In this culture of necessary fear for our children’s safety I knew it was useless to wish I had my camera with me; no photographs would have been permitted. Also, I did not stop to look too obviously right away because staring at children in school yard will get everyone’s panic up, but eventually I was so overcome by the sight that I stopped at the far edge of the tall fence to watch the fascinating proceedings. After a moment I noticed that another woman had stopped to watch as well. And old muslim woman with broad strokes of kohl around her deeply creased eyes.
Together we watched children appear seemingly out of nowhere as they came into sight on our left through the ethereal mist, drift closer to us until we could see them smiling at each other, sometimes at us, sometimes holding each other’s hands, and we watched in equal wonder as they slowly drifted out of sight behind the smokey white veil, their final destination unknown.
It was all at once beautiful and upsetting to me. I thought quickly to myself that I just being oversensitive and silly, but when I turned to leave I was absolutely shaken to see the aged muslim woman openly weeping. She stood as still as the heavy mist that released and swallowed the children, her hands hanging at her sides, her watery eyes narrowed with her very own sadness, but still open and seeing, watching the children disappear behind the shroud. There are dozens of stories that would explain her tears and no need to ask which one was hers. I understood them all already. Loss is loss. Love is love. Grief is grief. Forever is forever.
I looked her in the eyes as I walked away nodding, and she looked me in the eyes, nodding as I walked away. And if wonder gives you wings, then knowledge must be gravity itself. If I didn’t have a couch and a bed to take turns resting my profoundly weary Self on throughout Thursday, I would have spent most of the day and evening on the floor. And if I did not have a floor, I would have lain in the dirt or the grass like so many homeless people who surround me in this neighbourhood. I don’t think they’re there because they’re lazy and stupid. I think they’re all profoundly sick and tired because they know too much about things that hurt.
I seized many a day when I had the chance and am living on the memories now. Seize the day, people, for memories may be the food that saves you when a harsh Soul Winter arrives in June and stays until the following May.
Stephanie Hansen www.worthworks.com
