only a part: image

only a part

I will tell you one small story about him, Clyde. We drove to the beach on a weekday. Probably we were cutting from high school. It was winter. At the beach in those days there were no condominiums or cars, just empty beach and the waves and sea birds and dunes and wind. We took off our shoes and walked out to where the waves thinned down to sheets of water with a foamy edge reaching toward us, and we let the water cover our feet. And it was so cold! So cold that it hurt! I couldn't get my feet out of it fast enough! And even then, my toes continued to ache from the cold. But Clyde had the exact opposite reaction. The intensity of it, the way his body instinctively tried to pull away, made it a challenge that he wanted to face. He wanted to go into the water! And feel the incredibly cold wave crash over him and chill him like a tickle that reaches inside. It was a playfulness between him and the cosmos, his response to the cold sea.

He was always his own person, never following anyone. He had an amazing intellect and a unique, infectious appreciation for life. Our lives took us in different directions, but still it was a shock that he died. I went to the service. It was a very strange experience, as if there wasn't much to share, just emptiness. His spirit should be celebrated, I thought, but the service was by his mother and sister and it was for them, really, as they seemed to be the ones he was close with in his final stage of life. So I stayed silent too, leaving the spell unbroken. But then I realized over the following weekend, the world has lost some of its magic. I will surely gain some magic of a different sort. It is not running out of magic. But it lost the source of his kind of magic, which made a difference in my life when we were friends and ever since. And so it always goes in this world, ever changing.

And then after the weekend passed, another Monday came to the Clydeless world. I felt, walking to work, a renewed kinship with the quiet spirits of the world, with the street bricks and iron manhole covers, spirits that are strong in their silence. And still contemplating Clyde’s death, I thought about the purposes after life. For example trees grow in vibrant colourful beauty, but after they are dead, they continue to have a purpose in the world, sometimes for much longer than their lives lasted, as wood in buildings and furniture. And so it is with people, too. For example, poetry and paintings can be appreciated for centuries. Similarly, a friendship can continue to influence your life long after it is passed, even after the friend is gone. What we think of as life, the active, blooming stage of it, really is only a part

Thanks to Do for showing me how the pieces fit together...

Six

six. or maybe quarter to six, i thought, as i set the alarm clock before going to sleep yesterday evening. and so it beeped, as it was told to, at quarter to six. just some more moments, i decided in half sleep, clicked the beep away – and fell asleep

when i woke again, it was day. white light was shining through the window blinds. i peeked at the clock. seven it said. okay, i thought, maybe i need the extra sleep. after all, it’s only 4 days since i returned from the States, that i crossed six timezones in one airplane go, that i said goodbye to the soft tunes of Florida



i cuddled into the cushions again for another five minutes. then i got up. and saw that i got the time wrong. it wasn’t seven. it was only six yet. it can’t be, i thought. six and light outside? but yes. six and light snowfall outside, shining the night.

elated by the unexpected accuracy of my inner clock, i got up, to carry the extra hour in my hands upstairs, together with a cup of caramel tea. while the snow was falling on and on, i turned the hour into colour, putting together moments of Miami, creating a kilt of memories. and thought, this part of the trip, it really is grand. to sit at home and walk abroad, touch the places again in thought, see the pictures the first time in screen size.

We Bought an Umbrella

Orchids are supposed to be really easy to grow. You put them in their special potting mix, sprinkle some 'herbs and spices' on top, say a few encouraging words and stand back to let it all happen. When it doesn't, you wonder what you've done wrong.

Well, mine were telling me they didn't like their situation at all. They didn't care that they overlooked a water view many would pay a fortune to possess, they weren't at all fussed with their palm tree habitat, and were frankly unimpressed with the colourful lorikeets screeching in the trees or the large floppy butterflies loping from flower to flower.

They were exceedingly annoyed with the bright hot sunshine from cloudless summer skies. They curled their leaves and cried 'ouch' as the heat burnt their extremities. They gave me an ultimatum - shift us or we'll turn up our toes completely.

But where? When you live in a small townhouse with a postage stamp deck, even if it does look over the riffled waters of a Gold Coast lake, there isn't much room to do much in the way of agriculture.

So we went to the department store and bought the biggest white umbrella we could find. It's like a canopy and stands there on guard, sheltering the orchids - and a fold-up chair where I can sit and watch the ducks on the lake and kayakers out for some exercise and water birds and butterflies and...

...And read and nod off. And there's a new flower on one of the orchids.

Jury Duty

or how I was imprisoned at the Hall of Justice.

I was finally called for jury duty last week. It's not a terrible fate--you can check the web or call in to see if your group is needed, and otherwise, you're just on call. I went in last Wednesday afternoon and our whole group was shuttled to a courtroom for jury selection. The Hall of Justice is a dreary building; it also houses the county jail, which is very elegant, but the courts reminded me of junior high.

The employees were cheerful, though. And very relaxed. They keep ridiculous hours: the court is only in session from 1:30 to 4:30, and they take a break in the middle of this. No wonder it takes months and months for cases to come forward. The employees were of every race: the lawyers were Asian, Jewish, and Latino, the bailiff was African-American, the clerk looked Irish. The court reporter was often irate that people spoke too softly to hear.

Anyway, on Wednesday, so many people asked to be excused for hardship that they sent the rest of us home to come back on Thursday at 1:30. Thursday the proceedings crept along. Most of the people in the room not only had excuses for why they were biased or had previous crimes committed against them or members of their family who worked in law enforcement that we still didn't get through jury selection. Worse, Friday was a holiday (only in the courts), so we all had to come back again today.

Each time it looked close, like they were ready to seat the 12 jurors plus two alternates, one of the lawyers would dismiss someone. Sometimes it was obvious why, sometimes it seemed random. I would have been happy to serve on a trial, but the process of selection was so slow! I got angry at the people who took too much time, making their excuses, and the lawyer, who pressed them, when it was obvious he would have to dismiss them anyway. Reminded me of school.

To make matters worse, you cannot read or drink water or sleep during the proceedings. Some of the biographies were interesting or painful: a big man with broad shoulders who described his mother being the victim of violence at the hands of his father; a woman who insisted that people who were arrested must be guilty of something; another who had been held up at knifepoint and been through many months of criminal proceedings.

I was in seat 15 today when they finally convened the jury, which means one more dismissal and they would have chosen me, despite my own excuses (mother's friend murdered by her husband years ago, tenants dispute with roommates years ago). Now I'm free, without having ever heard the excitement or knowing how it will be resolved.