Unpacking 11-12-13

 

Tonight I unloaded some of our books from boxes I put them in to get ready for new carpets, cleaning them, and putting them away. To be honest all I did was look at them and wonder where they've been for 15 years-knowing that they must have been right there because we boxed in the area they were going back to. And yet I found things I thought were long, forever, gone. Some I have just a vague memory of buying. Tonight I emptied fifteen or so boxes, and then tuckered out with eight boxes to go. Clearly the office upstairs- that was formerly known as "The Buddha Center"- that is until my son said this week, "What the h_ll are you talking about?" when I called it that. So I have renamed it- for family use-"The Office" which he seemed to be able to take.
Along with never imagining your Mom dating, also include being cool, or having an inner life, now apparently she can't meditate in the morning in the Buddha Center. A "Mom" is not going to go sit in a Buddha Center- even if she did buy a Buddha at the Pier One once 15 years ago. Luca told me to stop talking. It reminded me of a Seinfeld skit with George telling his Mother she couldn't be "out there" because he was "out there." If your child might wear a T-shirt with a Buddha on it they can't take their Mom in one.

When I was putting in double rows to the book shelf- to accommodate all the books- books in front of books. I found something. My journal from 1969-at about 9. Someone, my father actually, brought home this red leather book to record meetings from his work-but he gave it to me. This was a time without things for me in 1969-and in general in the world I thought it was a time of less. But now I realize we were poor. It became a Christmas present-anyway I thought it was great. I'm sure it was a freebie when he was Chairman of his Department in the University.  It was cool, so I  managed to write about 30 entries. For a whole year. I was the kind of kid that started something and intended to do it. 

Sustained writing came much later. So did introspection. Brevity defines my journal then.

No, my Mom and Dad are NOT fighting in my pages.

I do say I have a lot of homework. And in a way that makes me think I probably didn't have the brains to do it-I can't even indicate to a reader what homework I was taking about. So I say I have to write something from every page 1 to 84. Of what?

Or I say it's the new year without capitals- misspelling a lot of very simple things. 

Then on March 26, 1969 I say nothing about the times-and these times were turbulent. Nothing about the news. I say Danny D. said I called him "a lover" and threw my chair over in class seriously crushing my thumb.

He was a lousy tempered bully, I don't say that then but I say it now,  even for those days he threw me across the room in my desk in an act that was extreme- and btw my thumb was never the same.
I don't even write I'm in pain. No exaggerating, no self pity, not even saying how awful it would be for me to go back to school to face him and his cronies the next day, and then be blamed for his actions. I just put down a sentence saying it happened to ME.

Funny but I had to learn many, many years later I wasn't someone's punching bag. 

I did not deserve that. I thought tonight for a second about  how I evolved an actual voice. By nine my children were well able to write their thoughts, their frustrations, to record their day, and world events. I could not. One day I made chocolate chips I say, not even sparing the word cookie. In another entry squeak out that I am making a heart because it is Valentine's Day, and again failing to use a capitol letter to write the holiday. I make then the simplest heart, saddest one, in red pencil. Saddest I've ever seen.

A simple time?

No, a simple person that had a long road ahead of her. 

I looked at everything in that bookshelf tonight as I obviously wrapped getting these things around my kids-perhaps healing that little kid I was once-the one who owned four or five books and a journal where sparing a word wasn't easy.

I carried my past into my life. I can see that. But I carried to my kids this rich, wonderful literature too-to cut myself a break- and these books are heavy enough for me to notice that. So much love there. I've never seen books more carefully chosen or just better. I realize going through my family books-here are extraordinary things. Unpacking.

Danny D. died at some point years ago. I forget his story. Maybe it had to do with drugs, I don't know at all. He was frozen for me forever as a violent, aggressive bully that hurt me. I didn't wish death on him, no not ever, but I certainly am not his mourner. I'd prefer he'd have lived to 120 revisiting his many victims and mistakes and somehow bringing to consciousness the pain he inflicted on me in his tantrum.  But that didn't happen-that nine year old I was knew the score on that. I didn't even refute his "charge." Why, even then I realized if you were capable of violently crushing someone's thumb damaging it forever -certainly lying about why you'd do that meant nothing to you.  A good thing for me to remember every so often. I meet these crushing people in my life.

One cool thing I found tonight-my China books-I've searched for them for some time. I also found "Sophie's Bucket" the most darling children's book that belonged to my daughter. One of her first books-and special to me because we lived at the beach-it told that story with her name too.

    This sweet little book.

New carpet has somehow been a way for me to clean, organize and ultimately think about losing my Mom, and all the days that got me to where I am- thinking of her and the fact I'm living numbered days too. 

Her thread through these books, these things, is so strongly there- a tie binding me to this plane of existance.

In the week or so to come I'll begin cleaning her casita and putting her books away, painting her furniture, and doing things I intended to do-now to shift her room into a guest space or a small studio. Maybe I'll start writing there. Maybe I'll curl up in a ball and cry. Until I can't. Then write.

Things that I'd like to say.

(And for the record since I lacked this insight as a child in my journal-the world- the Philippines had a devastating storm-universal health care seems shot, the environment is collapsing, greed won, and it's been yearssince anyone wrote a good song-art seems dead)