22 May 2010

Energy of place. Stuck in that in between. "I want to live my life like a river flows. Like a river flows." But even the fastest flowing river has pools. Where water circles. And debris collects. And anyway, I don't want to be a raging river. Chaotic with the melting snow. I want rapids. But also slow going bends. I want dark depths collecting pollen under overhanging trees. I want water bugs to have a chance to tiptoe. "I want to live my life like a river flows." Those turning, stagnant pools get washed away. They get brought in eventually. Stagnant - I haven't brought my dictionary with me traveling. Stagnant - something turning sour. Going off. Becoming unpleasant. Beginning to decay. Those are my definitions. I am not stagnant. I can feel it. I am flowing. I'm just a pine needle in a current, making round shapes and patterns in a small, but open space.

Paul. Without putting him on a pedestal. He is a rock. He is a wood thrush, tucked in below the bottoms of trees. He is an anchor. A meter - giving out a steady reading of "okay." I am okay. He is okay. I doubted our friendship before going to New Jersey. Couldn't see my place among so many college friends and childhood buddies. But 8 days there. Those were 8 days where time moved slowly. Like a fading summer stream. I don't doubt where I fit now. Doubt. I close. I open. Like the hummingbird's fluttering wings. That constant buzzing. Paul. He has helped my heart grow big. I could watch him. My pupil's dilated and I could see. Him getting frustrated when we couldn't find his Australian photos. When I ejected his camera's memory card from the computer unsafely. And twice. He'd tell me not to do it again. But I stood witness. To his head leaning back against the computer seat. To him trying. Not to throw a fit. I can't give him new eyes. I couldn't then. I can't now. I could only sit back. Give him space for tension and annoyance and the poking, protruding signs of grief. I told him. At night, from our respective beds, "Hey Paul, I want to tell you something now, because I'll probably be too teary tomorrow... I am so grateful to have you in my life. To be such close friends with you. And I don't have words to express... how happy I am that you are okay. That you came back to us..." Paul, I am so glad. For my sake. For yours. Your family's. For all those thousands of people. Strangers, acquaintances, close, dear friends. Because every 21 seconds - some one's life changes. Every 21 seconds - some one's brain is traumatically injured.

Australia is a far away place. All those tucked away, blooming, cat-filled Melbourne streets. The eucalyptus trees and wallabies. My brilliant Otesha stars. So many miles, all those kilometers away. But at certain curves in the river, you can still see. You get that perspective. Your face then. Swollen. Bruised. Bloody. Now. With color. Filled in. But you still have that 'no-bone' sign on your forehead. To remind us. Of your fragility. Your need for delicate handling. Your heart. Then. Always beating. Only coming out verbally for brief sections of time. Now. You are most cuddly and lovey in the morning. Bringing your mom over for a hug. Waking me up with songs, or me doing that for you. "Wake up P-funk, I think I've got something to say to you. It's late in the mornin' and I really should be eatin' grape-nuts. All you do is roll over in your bed. Put your arms up above your head." Your half smiles. And the full ones too. Thank you. I see so much light surrounding you. So this is what love looks like. Somewhat detached - as in - not clinging. In letting you feel. Struggle. Heal. Love. Compassion - which is equal parts intention and action. You are very much a star in my universe. Even when it's cloudy. Raining. You are still there. Still shining. All of your hopes and dreams. Hopes. And dreams. I love you, P-funk Bailey.