It has been so long since I’ve sat here in the library that the roses on my desk have long since died and dropped their leaves – more leaves than I would have thought possible from a dozen red roses of condolence.

The light bulb in my little green lamp has burned out. I type in a relative darkness this morning. In an hour I will leave the house to take the train to work, and I will pass the tall raspberry stalks that lean out over the driveway from the garden and I will grab the ripening berry I’ve had an eye on for days.

Provided one of the magpies hasn’t beaten me to it.

It seems these past weeks I have moved even further away from myself in an attempt to know how to move forward. It is true that death brings change, even deaths that do not spawn grief, but end it. I am “over it”. In a way. Past it, certainly. And now what?

We can do this, you know. We can own our own stories, or just give them up entirely. And we can let go of the need to dictate the stories of others.

We don’t need to be “a survivor” with a constructed story arc that makes us the hero. If we “win” all the battles. We can just live in world with no need to construct a dramaturgy that will bring everything to a satisfying end.

That sets us up to fail.

While avoiding writing, either publicly or privately, I have been thinking again about “whose story”. I have been thinking again about my choice to erase myself from the tidy narrative in my mother’s obituary (which described a woman I never knew): to take that name that is not my name, was my name, out of that paragraph with “[…] is survived by”. Because the truth is that the person who wore that name, who lived that life, did not survive but was born anew, and mothered by so many others.

We can do this. We can give up the need to carry a through-line through the days. Can’t we?

Today I will lecture on Antigone. Creon’s story. And I will ask the students to read the play, translated from a translation that was translated from a translation and handed down through cultures that have come and gone, and were born anew. I will ask them: Whose story is this? Why carry it? Will you somehow make it yours? How?

I learned yesterday that Antigone means “against-birth”.

Can we accept that every considered perspective on every story is a true answer? That all of them are as true as memories?

As true as the dried leaves scattered over a book filled with fragments of poems that I’ve forgotten I’ve written.

I’m off to pick a raspberry.

photo of a ripening raspberry on the stalk

Sleep. I really could use a good night’s uninterrupted sleep. Sometimes I wonder if my life doesn’t balance out somehow through sleep. As though I have a preferred, set point of stress that my body will work to maintain. If my days are relaxed and pleasant, my nights will be filled with pinched dreams and ominous atmospheres.

They say that our memories are not recorded like video snippets in a file system somewhere in our brains. But rather: each time we “re-member” we construct a new version of the memory. I wonder then if each incidence of a specific memory is significantly altered from the last without our noticing? Without us having an ability to notice. It must, right? This is what we know to be true. And not only are we not able to be objective, but that our subjective truth has no through-line in time. It is immediate and ephemeral.

We re-member rather than dis-member our memories. Our stories.

A few days ago I was captured by a video clip of a dancer. Utterly charmed. I shared it with students as a way to illustrate some of Laban’s ideas about dynamics in movement. Then I had a dream. And now I can’t look at the video. Or think of the video without becoming physically and emotionally upset. Something – some gesture, some facial expression: a smile – stitched itself into an atmosphere of a childhood memory while I slept.

A present memory and a much older re-memory are bleeding from a nightmare into my days. I suppose this is where the idea of repressed memories comes from? As though the present sends a hook down into the past and pulls up a fragment of a story along with the will to make sense of it.

This dark and stormy night. Fill in the blanks. But I know that – I believe that – there will never be a way to know the objective truth of a re-constructed memory. So I let it be. I admit I am tempted to try to name the atmosphere, a bit like recollecting a taste – the sweet, the umami, the mouthfeel – to shape it into something that can be put safely in a box. Identified and controlled. Like an ingredient in the recipe that makes us who we are. In this case: This darkness. This ambivalence. This vague childhood fascination of knowing there is an unknown something present in the energy that is as explosive, rich, and mesmerizing as death.

Is this a wisdom that only exists in the lifetime before rationalization becomes a habit? A trigger for sense that ushers us to a different kind of innocence/ignorance? A mature and willful distance. The illusion of control that we are so afraid to lose.

If this atmosphere of my memory is real, maybe it has no name because I had no name for it: for a sense memory connected to a psychological process but not to language. So it slips around the traps in my mind and flows into moments of my day, unexpectedly. Darkly.

And I am still fascinated. Like touching a wound. Like sticking a finger deep into the bloody gash to expose the mystery as… mystery.

Here is something as dark and textured as mushrooms. As sickness and birth and sex. Something true that cannot be contained.

And here is the rub: how to let it be. How to know that there is this dancer’s smile in the world and know that it will rush over me as sticky and ambivalent as menstrual blood – and just let it be, making no attempt to tame all this wildness with a story?

Nothing is a clear shot. Or at least if there is such a thing it is a rare. And maybe it is an awful metaphor no matter what.

Metaphors are interesting things. How often we use them when the vehicle of the metaphor is something we’ve never actually experienced ourselves. Making it, what? An embedded metaphor in a way? An effective way to remove the idea further from the body rather than bringing it back to lived experience?

I woke up cold this morning and pulled on long wool underwear and rain pants to walk Leonard around the block. At 4:30 it is still completely dark now. I am surprised to pass three men in work clothes, plodding along through the suburb carrying plastic grocery bags. Heads down. Not in a group. Three individual encounters. Leonard stays quiet and calm, so I consciously breathe.

Home again. And in the library with a cup of coffee. I find my butt slipping off the desk chair. “Butt in the chair”. It’s not a metaphor is it? “Difficult to keep your butt in the chair”. Just write.

But the truth is, if you are still wearing you rain pants your butt will not stay in the chair.

E. is laughing at me. With me. Leonard stretched over the little rug with his eyes closed.

This is my life. A random, mundane moment. Sometimes I would think I would trade all the highs for more of these relaxed moments – before the news-site headlines creep into my thoughts, before anyone needs more from me than I can provide with a slow stroll through a damp morning and the opening of a treat-cupboard door.

E. brings me coffee. I slip off the plastic pants and am suddenly mindful of the texture of the wool underwear. It is such a silly thing – this illusion of comfort and the connection to something so simple/difficult, to a past culture that I have never experienced and can only imagine where every morning is as cold and damp as this one, but warm with breath of dogs and sheep and maybe a goat. It’d be fun to think this was some sort of genetic memory. But I am sure I have seen too many films, read too many books, wished for a life other than the one I landed in.

What would it be like to wake and move a body through a series of motions – lift, twist, tug, heave – without dwelling on horrors halfway around the world over which you have no influence. What would it be like to have to focus on the immediate, present, physical world. The daily tasks repetitive motions, rituals of will: order, comfort, sustenance. It’s it a form of prayer? A metaphor for what we wish for the world? A vicarious effort to make things better for everyone, by staying alive – contributing? By tending what we can touch?

Scott Peck wrote a book long ago and tried to define love strictly as a verb. It changed the way I thought about my life. About the people who “loved” me, and my responsibility in loving. I am thinking about compassion. As a verb. Maybe the term compassion fatigue is all wrong. Compassion isn’t what is wearing us down.

What is wearing us down is helplessness.

The world is too big. Our reach?… is not a metaphor.

Finding a way back is difficult.

Leonard is up several times a night now. It’s like having an infant in the house. And I worry almost as much. When he sleeps through the night now, I’m still awake listening for his breathing.

No walk this morning. Just a tour of the bushes in the front yard. The moon looks full, although technically waning. From this past week, I’ve learned to tell the time this time of year by the moon’s journey past the light post, over the shed, and across the street to just touch on the top of the nursing home’s roof. Midnight. Two. Three.

When my alarm went off at 4.15 he sighed but made no move to get up. So much for a tight morning schedule. So much for the springboard into a new (school) year, where I could pull myself together again body & soul as they say.

No morning walk. But a coarse pill shoved in the back of Leonard’s throat while I hold his snout up so he has no choice but to swallow. This is something of the pain we cause while trying to do good. I’m flooded with ambivalence but learning to hold it well. Responsibly.

In the living room, I move through the warrior positions and my shoulder hurts. My achilles bites. I am realising these are sensations that I will have to live with from now on. An infant grows through colic and a teen through “growing pains”. But these new pains will settle into my body and I will live with them. If I am very lucky my years will double over themselves from here, slowing in terms of change, but better-practiced in acceptance. Accommodation.

So I am trying to reframe the pain as tenderness. I’m trying to reframe all of my pain as tenderness.

This past week I have had flashes of anger. I’ve had memories surface. But as soon as I try to hold them, the details dissipate. The words grief and sorrow seem so intellectual. Signifiers with no corporal reference. Words-as-metaphors: vehicles lacking tenors. I think about the single sob my body ejected before my mind understood the situation of my mother’s death. Was that grief? The expelling of a single owl pellet of fur and bones, and the useless, undigestible bits of 55 years.

There is nothing more to be gained from this.

After the pain, after the vomiting, after the open wound has closed, there is tenderness.

And tenderness makes a soft bed for forgiveness to grow. Hope in the shadows of moonlight.

Yeah. That is sappier than I wanted it to sound.

Leonard has been sick for 3 days now. Up and out into the yard three times a night. Not long after we brought him home he got sick while we were at work and he tore down the curtains and blinds in the house trying to get outside – if we’d wondered, it was clear he was desperately housebroken. On Monday we had to replace the blinds again.

He’s five and has had two surgeries for bizarre skin growths, so I often worry about what might growing on the inside. My little collie mix lived to be 18. And it was so hard in the end. I know I won’t have Leonard that long, and it is a thought that I carry around in my gut. Sometimes I listen to him breathe at night as though he were a newborn. If he stays in his bed when I get up in the morning to walk him, I worry.

I imagine.

We had to muzzle him yesterday because he snapped when the vet touched his belly. It took three of us to keep all 47 kilos of him on the x-ray table that made a terrifying noise when it moved into position. The two vets told me that not all dogs are that difficult.

My chill pup was “difficult”. No matmor wants to hear that.

But his blood work was fine and the x-rays showed a clear gut. No masses. No obstructions. I’m pretty sure one of the medications she prescribed is for potential ulcers.

Maybe I’m not the only one who goes through the days imagining the worst and suffering for it?

At any rate, what’s making him ill isn’t visible. Some bug he at? Contaminated water he drank? The newly-empty, end-of-corona-restrictions house from 7 to 3?

His body is holding onto something and it’s keep us up nights.

This is familiar. So familiar that I know it won’t kill either of us, though.

Well. Part of me knows that.

Love is clinging. And I don’t believe there is any way around that.

I have no ambition to deal with this fact of life by detaching from the world around me. I’ll be lagging along the the noble path if that is really necessary.