tatiana.

this posting has been deleted. i do have it saved in hard copy for future consideration. as a writer,
there is always always always the question: how much should i consider folks' sensibilities? i am not into writing merely for its general entertainment value. in this case, i used no correct names and i doubt any more than one or three people found it offensive or in poor taste. many people may have thought this one was unreadable drivel. whatever. a blog is not just a single posting. be that as it may, one has to pick ones battles and this was not even worthy of a skirmish. it was not important to me. big deal. no problem. i was asked to take it off my blog and i have. however, as i mentioned, i still have it in my file. (slightly too loud laughter...)

a non-mothers' day story.

"my mother's menu consisted of two choices: take it or leave it." buddy hackett.

mothers' day has come and gone with me purposefully neglecting to write anything in honour of my mom. there were as well no sappy facebook postings or hazy photos. because i have written about her ad nauseum and bored friends almost to tears narrating so many stories over the years. there was no sense in beating a dead horse, if you'll excuse the expression. there was no sense in dredging up the past yet again, especially on such a happy occasion. the memory of my old mom, after all, makes some big strong people shudder with fear even now, even though she's long gone.

i was with her when she died. i had driven down to be there as she lay dying in a north toronto hospital. day after day my dad, brother and i waited dutifully in her room. contrarian that she was, however, and life being tenacious as it is, mom did not die then. she rallied, improved, sat up, began barking out orders. eventually, we carted her back to my parents' home where she continued bossing us around and complained to dad about the state of the apartment. a few long hours later i gratefully slipped away and drove back to wakefield.

mom was rushed back to the hospital the very next day. i got a call from a nurse that evening who announced that i had better get there immediately if i wanted to see her alive again. so i went to bed. well, to be fair, it was late and i did not believe the nurse knew who she was dealing with. but, once i arrived in toronto the next afternoon and 'rushed' to her bedside, mom was in a coma. my brother remarked sombrely: "she's not coming out of this one." i looked over at him and said: "go get me a pack of 'benson and hedges' cigarettes. i'll put a couple under her nose and then we'll see if she's gonna come out or not." he simply responded by pointing out that my humour was inappropriate, which of course it was.  

nevertheless, i was the only one in her darkened room that same evening when mom opened her eyes. she muttered my name as i took her bony hand in mine. she looked up at me, half smiled and said: "you're a good boy. take care of your dad."

"my mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness and being. i may sometimes forget the words, but i always remember the tune." gracie harmon. 

the problem with toast.

i have a problem. it has to do with the great and noble truth, as taught by the buddha, of impermanence. the problem is: i hate it. i don't like change. i especially don't like the thought of one day being toast.

i know there's no use fretting over it. there are only two scenarios possible at any given time: either i'm toast or i'm still bread. if i'm toast, after some teeth-gnashing and 'why me's', i will probably appreciate the loss of hope, that spectacularly sad sense of freedome. on the other hand, if i'm still bread, even slightly mouldy bread, well then i suppose i'll hate the inevitability of becoming toast. but, at least i will be flexible.

logically, i realize it's a win win for everyone involved, although nobody really is. it's just you and me and neither of us expects to drag the other into the toaster. of course, once in the toaster you're toast. it's no good trying to desperately put the setting on light rather than dark. toast is toast any way you slice it. and that's my problem. languishing in a doctor's waiting room recently, a song called 'if i die young' by 'the band perry' was playing. the irony was not lost on me as i smiled over at an older guy sitting opposite. but he was either not amused or not a fan of country music.

so what's my problem? according to a friend of mine, osho used to say that going toward the unknown, irregardless of the risks, will ensure you of continuous growth. but, i wonder if he meant growth of knowledge or growth of tumours. because it's damned stressful stepping out into that vast unknown. albert einstein said: "a boat is safe in harbour, but that's not what it's made for."

fear of change is, of course, the fear of becoming toast and, as mark twain wrote: "the fear of death follows from the fear of life. a person who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."

Love-Song Heaven.

There’s a rather famous painting in India created by a rather famous painter named Sobha Singh. It depicts a lovely girl wearing a simple sari and shawl and holding a water jug. A handsome boy has an arm around her waist while the two run against the wind. Their expressions are as if they’re either in love or in distress, which of course can sometimes be quite similar.

The story behind the painting is of the girl, who was from a wealthy Sikh family, and the boy, who was a poor Hindu. They lived on opposite sides of a large lake and, although they were deeply in love, their families were against the match. In fact, eventually they were forbidden to meet. They’d gaze over at each other from opposite shores and, in the end, couldn’t stand to stay apart. The boy began swimming toward the girl, but it was too far and he floundered. Seeing the boy in trouble, the girl swam out to him and they both drowned together in the middle of the lake. Their love transcended all differences. In fact, they were willing to die rather than stay apart.

The Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran, of the early nineteen hundreds, wrote; ‘Love one another, but make not a bond of love; let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.’ The fifteenth-century poet, Kabir, also wrote about love. Born Hindu, raised as a Muslim, Kabir became a weaver and spun not only cloth but yarns that have endured through the ages. In one of his most famous love poems he wrote; ‘Why should we two ever want to part? This love between us goes back to the first humans. It cannot be annihilated. Here is Kabir’s idea: As the river gives itself to the ocean, I give myself to you.’

True love transcends race, creed and colour. 'Inside that water jug there are canyons and pine mountains,’ Kabir wrote long before Sobha Singh ever held a paint brush. ‘And the maker of canyons and mountains. All seven oceans are inside and hundreds of millions of stars. The acid that tests gold, the one who judges jewels and the music from the strings no one touches and the source of all water. If you want the truth, I will tell you, my friend. Listen. God and the one I love are inside.'