My Lola (grandma), who is recovering from a stroke and can barely hear, speaks sparsely and longs so simply to walk, knows me well, perhaps better than anyone here.
I had lunch at her bedside today.
She asked me, "Are you bored?"
Me: "Medio" (a little)
It wasn't time to be fake or save face. There is enough of that here. Not that it's out of maliciousness or anything but so many people seem to be walking on eggshells and being too nice, probably especially with my Lola. So nice in fact that badness is kinda missed and I feel forced to be a bitch simply to take the nice edge of the environment. I think as you get older, you want to decrease the amount of bullshit in your life. I mean yes we are all facing death and the next unknown, some of us more likely to pass on sooner than others so why lie, why pretend things are okay or nice. Be with the reality and show true kindness to yourself and those who ask for truth.
I appreciate simple things like being able to drive, having enough dexterity to type here or simply breathing. I don't mean to lose appreciation for the simple things. I just meant to be authentic and even extravagant in personal authenticity. Honesty, Radical Honesty, seems to be my grandmother's and I favorite language.
She nodded. She understood. She doesn't say much and she doesn't have to. She has taught me that not saying anything can be as powerful. It's that open space, that void that doesn't have to be filled with filler, junk words but rather the sensations of just being who you are and where you are on your journey.
Upon speaking with her daily, I've come to see how the act of listening is not so dependent on actually hearing words as it is being present. She is as present as she can be and that is such a powerful lesson.
It's painful for me to admit that I allowed myself to be bored today. I can walk, I can yoga, I can read or do something active but I allowed myself to let a moment of boredom slip me into an unpleasant mood and an inactive day. Today, I had my bitch incarnate hat on. I feel the freedom of a "Dropping out" or rather into momentary escape from the rat race but simultaneously cooped up here in the "compound" the entire day, with ants on my bed, the seductive scent of ripe mangos filling my room and wasting moments of open freedom feeling bored. I'm not supposed to go out alone and there is a guard at the door. That hasn't stopped me before but I feel inactive and don't want to put forth the effort challenging the system. This is not my usual.
Note to self: continue to make list of top three things to accomplish daily.
Everything is amazing, how can I be bored or even thinking about going back to traffic on the 405 and workin' on the hustle or as I so remember attempting to do my part and "run (my little sometimes glamorous and hooked up and otherwise unglamourous and simple take on) LA." I asked my mom if I could come back today, I didn't like her answer.
I am allowing myself to be bored. My lola, on the other hand, she I am sure is not intentionally bored. She is I think longing for more stimulus and interaction with the world. Family members sit and talk with her less and less. At least she has an amazing crew of caregivers but growing old is tough if you are in a culture that devalues age and celebrates youth. And it's not even that extreme here in this part of the world. I mean how stupid is it to celebrate the unwisest and unexperienced among us and devalue the wisdom and experience accrued in our elderly. They have survived long for reasons and have experienced similar challenges, heartaches and glories. I learn so much just sitting at my grandma's bedside. I'm not about to knock the glorious of youth, but why can't we rather celebrate the entire process in a healthy, balanced way.
We exchanged stories and I briefly tried to explain TARP and Obama's economic stimulus plan but she has more pressing issues to be occupied with like if she will be able drop a deuce today. She is relying on medicine to pass a bowel movement. My uncle, dealing with depression, has pills to sleep, to stop his trembling and fidgiting, to stay awake, to control his heart rate, etc...I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that at least 50% of his bodily functions are being controlled by prescription medication. Those psychotic drugs are fucking intense. I recently heard bananas may be good more depression. Since we have heard that, the lazy susan is filled with bananas every morning.
I learned that my affinity for passing shits is genetic or at least a learned trait. My lovely grandmother is not happy when she cannot release a morning crustacean and I'm quite sure she is as fanatical as I am about keeping her ass as clean as possible.
Hygiene, we both are big fans. Here I think a plug for Dr. Bronner's Soap is necessary. If you ever want to show me some material love out here and feel like sending me yourself or a care package, I would be elated to receive Dr. Bronner's Soap in peppermint. On humid days with a minimal amount of water pressure, Dr. Bronner's is the only soap that leaves me feeling cleansed, even if its only until I step out of the bathroom and into the hot, humid air. It is worth it for the amazing tingling sensation across the surface of my body. It almost as scintillating as being turned on by a first kiss, almost because let's admit it...it's totally not the same thing.
A perpetual hotness and wetness has been my reality the past couple of days. I don't think my hair has actually been dry since I arrived. I could seek out a blow dry if I find a way to escape. But it's more a prison in my mind, I'm sure that's been in a hundred gajillion songs...all these self-imposed prisons in my mind.
"Life is short" my grandmother tells me. She doesn't have to say much else. She lets the teacher within speak the rest.
Life is short so ........_______.
You fill in your blank.
Your answer is the only one that matters.
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