Month / April 2024

by Sandy Bassie

Place, yes

Two minutes to 7am here. I hurt. I had a good stretch at physio Thursday. I had two good walks with my son. I notice this year there is a lot more flab on my body. I am aging. There are things I want to say and may run out of time. I am strange person. I have always been aware of time in odd ways, long and small, eternal but moment by moment. I live somewhere in between. Place is very important to me. I start to hear the word show up around me and realize how long place has been a concept I value.

Place, beneath the bushes, the gentle arc and quiet rustle of belonging or belongingness, in and among. Creatures live there. I visit. A simple moment or several of childhood. Impractical. A place of ideas and the calmness to feel them. I watch tiny snails, a bee, birds further along in the bush. Learning that silence bring near. The air is warm, the ground cool where shadows intersperse. The world is teaching me about itself. I talk to the bush, the snail, the bee. And I hear my mother calling. Get out of there, you’ll make yourself dirty, what are doing anyway? Words dribble out, but she shouts them away, and I follow her, back to the house.

I’m taking a course, talking to friends, using words I do not know. Sharing again, and again, the story of how I raised my sons, how I left their father, how I am getting by, working and aging. How language played such a large role in our lives, and ways communication took it all apart, caused questions to reframe and restructure my actions, my choices, my beliefs (maybe those).

Places are important to me; behind the couch, under the bed, the back of my closet silent and dark. Places pressed in, embedded in memory, safety and fear, a need for space, a need for closeness. The weight of those imposing their strength, my mother, ex husband, my sons at times. The weight of arms tender in love, a kiss on my head, a hand on my back, the difference of hugs. Safety, compassion, ardour, defense. Are we bonding? Yes. The questions of love. Mom safe? Yes. My son, holding on, learning a hug is more than a touch, ritual of grace we teach when they’re small. And now, in his 30’s my oldest holds me when he hugs.

Writing. It’s how I think at times. After yesterday’s class, I lined up several (ok, more than several) videos to listen to while I work, clean, putter, learn to feel my apartment and not push it away. It is strange to hear people talking about things I’ve been telling those in my life in different ways for years. I have questions on a few integration places. How to ask them into spaces not my own. I consider how many words I have put into this computer the past five years, more than that, twenty or more, and longer if you count early poetry. But specifically, words of memoir and memory, sloshing around, my mind like a swamp. And my body, my poor body, I ask it so much. Push it too hard, and not hard enough to keep it in shape. Pain triggers sleep, drifting awake. Memory intrigues me. I watch others in my course hold phrases and words, work concepts, make frames. I do that best when I hold it all loose. Like these words, in this place, where I watch them appear. Do they come from my brain, or my heart, or where else? They roll down my arms, past shoulders that scream, through channels of nerves and the lump on my arm, out fingers and palms held above keys, where pain hits an 8/10 as I type. But why do I write? Shift in my chair? Make adjustments to angles, how I sit, where I face.

Somewhere in the ribcage and down into the gut, and upward to my throat, where the muscles hurt for days when you smile for hours at a birthday or a wedding, convocation, those we love, those we honour, and embrace. In my body, the knowledge tingles, lights up my eyes, even through the burning, pins and needles, sharp biting pains. The space in my ribs grows greater in size, it changes unseen, unnoticed by the world. But it’s there pressing down, embedding a fine seed; is it hope, is it dream, determination to go on? Purpose and joy, desperation over need. It’s there in awareness talking, something sacred, something real. It’s the place of expectation, I wage war with myself, get in trouble with my mother or my ex who can’t see that this place is very special. It’s the place where I wait on moments of grace, time extended to allow my ability to wait. Ability too often is taught to demand. We break trust with ourselves and don’t realize what we’ve done. We take this home, this body, this mind, fill them with consumption, stale air, and say we’ll pay.

So I sit, in this place, let my hands bypass my mind, let my mind open, my eyes close, breath slow. I feel my body shake. This broken house, this tiny home, rocked by the world and by myself. Slowly, I let the rocking become small movements back and forth, the rhythm of ages, foot on the cradle, silence of peace.

This house is my home, my comfort, my joy, place of waiting, of meeting, outside and within. Yes. To past, to future, just yes.

by Sandy Bassie

Life and Meaning

*possible trigger, difficult subject*

If life and it’s meaning had a liturgy for me, that liturgy would be tears. I cry often and easily. My mother used to say I enjoyed being miserable. It may appear that way at times, but to me tears are tiny trails of prayers. Offerings without words. The dancing of light upon the waters. They are not always sorry, and even when they are, loss doesn’t come without joy. Loss implied something held, even temporarily that had value to lose.

Fourth month of the regular year, first of the Hebrew calendar, times overlapping in interesting ways. Counting things, things I count upon. Work brings stability, a regular pattern, expected activities. Home is becoming a home again. Jacob comes to visit. I have an eight week course that allows me space to have him visit. People say it all the time – being alone is not good – have your kids, friends, family come visit you, make time and space to entertain. I do not entertain. We seldom had friends come for tea even when we were in a community that often extended invites after church. Not us. We went out, but we did not invite in. Strange that, how patterns form. Would I have been that way in another life? Could I have learned to relax and prepare a meal. Perhaps.

I bought myself flowers this week. A simple bunch from my local Walmart; cut flowers for a vase. A bit of colour here beside me at the table. Cheerful and bright. Why that’s relevant, I don’t know. It’s not that important and yet.

I’ve made several people mad at me this week. The reasons are unclear, but I take it at face value. I have hurt someone. I apologize, stand back, wait and see. I cry a few tears, but nothing like the tears of frustration and regret I wept years ago, for my ex, my partner, my mother, or years back for grandparents and inlaws. There is an ebb and flow to loss and return. The thought comes more calmly now, small realizations of what is and may be alongside of the things lost. There is love and that’s enough. I’ve been learning to hold gently things I believe, things I think I need. A lot more time is present lately.

Friday, unexplainably, time folds in; the sharp deep stab of pain I felt three years ago surges over me. Death draws near and stares, its eyes pits of darkness I want desperately to allow. I do and don’t. Was it something in the night? Something I dreamed? All I know is I woke at death’s door and it was wide open, waiting. That was twelve hours ago or more. Several phone calls and texts. A drive down to the cemetery and back. Late for an online course where words from my texts and words from calls, where even the rabbi called back, whether I was Jewish or not. He said he listened to my message and wanted to call.

A friend joined me at the grave, stood holding me while I wept. Nodded and listened even though it’s not a recent loss, but just one reactivated by time and season, family I don’t have. Is this something others go through? I so often think, this is just me, my life, too much loss where I love. And knowing I wouldn’t take it back, not a moment; every second worth the pain it brought. Love, as my course today reminded, is action, like faith, and trust, relationships intertwined. I wouldn’t change it, miss the opportunity I know G-d gave. How could I? I prayed and prayed for this love, this chance to trust and be trusted.

I have a thousand things to do before it’s my turn. Family and friends reminding me I can’t give up, and besides I made a promise to listen to Jack, to his instructions and belief, “you’ll live to be a hundred”. Oh so far away. Is it really a hundred or was that an estimate you made? I called the cemetery, got an update on my grave, the payments I’ve made, next steps and things to account for so whenever it comes, I won’t leave Joshua with the costs that it brings. Like going through my stuff. That needs the many years. I have to shorten that time. Make life more presentable here. Free up the space. Tidy cupboards and floor. I can do it. I just don’t. And today, I asked Lin if avoidance could be the plan; holding off the inevitable and the tug of darkness and dark days. If I don’t clean, it’s a broken promise, and a way to delay. Am I tricking myself into waiting, riding out one more wave, where grief hits like shock, capsizing. Or am I just still avoidant from the days of ugly words and labels and blame? I really don’t know which, and it makes a difference. Impacts the choice. Directs the days.

Maybe I’ll listen another time through. Course material. See what the evolution of religion looks like to philosophers, scientists, and students. That and maybe pray.

Tomorrow is work. Something for my hands. My heart and my mind will have to look after themselves. But at least if I’m moving and doing and interacting with others, there is hope it will fill in the time, keep edging on towards what the future holds. And don’t ask questions. Let’s give questions a small break.