The River

There is a new person by the river. Near the start of my walk with my dogs, Gina and Charlie, is a black woman sitting on the same bench each morning. She looks out at the water. She doesn’t notice us until I step on a dry brown leaf. Her face spreads with a beautiful smile as we say hello. At first I think she is one of the homeless people who sleep on the concrete benches along the river’s edge. Then I look more closely. She is nicely put together. She carries an open large fabric bag that appears to hold clothes. She has no bedding as the other homeless people do. Her black hair is neatly swept up in the back and her clothes are clean and neat. On our way back the woman is gone.

Children Sing

Children sing. They sing songs they learn and ones they make up. They sing while holding a parent’s hand. They sing in public restrooms and at bus stops. They sing anytime, anywhere. Children sing until their embarrassed parent says to stop. Or until they no longer have a pretty voice or told they sing off key. Only a few of them sing as they grow older and then only in private or camouflaged in a choir. Children dance. They dance and twirl and wave bright colored scarves. Boys dance and girls dance in backyards and shopping malls, smiling and laughing. They dance beautifully. They dance with grace. Until they are made to feel self-conscious or foolish or both. Until boys are told that only girls and sissies dance. Girls become awkward and clumsy. Both become too shy. Then there are only the dances that are practiced with a friend in front of a mirror. Dancing is done at dances; boys with girls and girls with boys. There are no bright colored scarves. Children are artists. They create endless masterpieces with acrylic paint and crayons. They sculpt with serious faces using playdough. Their art graces doors of refrigerators, walls, and at mom’s and dad’s offices. Children are artists until, in school, none of their pictures are ever chosen to be posted on the board, framed with bright colored paper. Children are artists until the chimney of their cutout houses are glued on by the teacher to make sure it is straight. And everyone knows kittens are not pink. Only a few remain artists, splashing the world with grace and colors. Children are poets. They make up silly rhymes that make no sense, but they giggle anyway. Children are poets until poems have x number of lines and they only rhyme on the third and fifth lines. They must make sense. All the spelling must be correct. So a crimson sun becomes a red sun. The feeling is gone but red is easier to spell. Still it is not chosen by the teacher to be read out loud to the class. Very few children become poets, even in private. Everyday people try not to stare at the woman singing in the street. People laugh to themselves or to the person walking beside them. Smiling she sings joyfully off key. The next week she is not there. She is dressed in white in a white room with white walls and white sheets on the bed and a handful of white pills. She does not sing anymore and wears no smile. He thinks he will sell these canvases splashed with colors that form no picture. Week after week people laugh to themselves as they pass by. Happily he paints his house with purples and day glow orange. People laugh to themselves as they walk by. He paints his driveway bright blue and rose red trimmed with yellow. People walk quickly past him. They took him away. Now the man of colors wears white in a white building with white walls and white sheets on the bed and a handful of white pills. They give him no paints, just paper and crayons. He does not draw or color anymore. On it goes until there is no music, dance, colors, or rhymes. And smiles are few.

Ageing

As a young woman I diligently did exercises promising to prevent a sagging when I was old. Since the exercises did not work, I am now wondering who came up with this idea that made me and other women hopeful. Was it someone old who had successfully done the exercises? Or was it someone who was young and just assumed this would work? In the mirror I examine myself for signs of aging. Why should I worry about graying hair, a drooping neck, or wrinkles? Women are taught to fear our bodies aging; something that will happen if we are fortunate enough to live long. Cosmetic companies offer tiny bottles of cream for a ridiculous price to fight aging after creating the war. And women rush to buy them. Talk about fighting a losing battle. My face has changed. My body has changed. I will continue to age. I intend to live and enjoy the rest of my life.

Reading

It’s almost 14 years since I was knocked out. Fourteen years since I lost my career, my job, my house, my home and my mind. Another thing my injury took from me was reading. I loved to read from a very young age. Through books I’ve lived hundreds of lives in hundreds of places. Just one more page. I’ll stop at the end of this chapter. The book closes in 15 more minutes. It’s three in the morning. I have to get up in three hours. Okay, I’m going to sleep now…as soon as I finish this paragraph. Following my injury I’d forget the story as I read it. Once the book was closed I couldn’t remember what the story was about or even the title. I was heartbroken. Reading was limited to short magazine articles. Losing reading hurt. Last month a friend handed me a book on the life of Leonard Cohen. I let it sit on the self. What was the sense in reading something I’d forget before I reached the end? At last I couldn’t resist. Wanting to learn about Cohen’s life over powered me and I picked up the book. I quickly realized reading was back. I remembered what I’d read. I became lost in the pages. Just one more page. I’ll stop at the end of this chapter. The book closes in 15 more minutes. It’s three in the morning. I have to get up in three hours. Okay, I’m going to sleep now…as soon as I finish this paragraph. Now I am reading a book about the life of Jim Henson. I stopped reading long enough to post this. Back to the book.

Down By the River

Down By the River My dogs and I walk along the river every day. The river is a wonderful place to walk. Trees line the walkway. The grass is a thick rich green. Wild plants grow along the bank including a blackberry bush I can’t reach. The people I run into, all ages and walks of life, smile and say hello. One day I had a lovely conversation with a bitty little girl who told me about her dog and two cats. The river is a place to walk when you are tense or upset. The fast moving water is soothing. The river is a place to walk when happy. Its waters sparkle with laughter. Each day, in the same place, we pass an elderly white man sitting straight backed in a wheelchair. His face is weathered. His long hair must have been confused when it was time for it to turn grey. Instead it turned a sun yellow. We say hello every day as he rolls cigarettes. Beside him are drinks and snacks and a small brown paper bag that I believed held his lunch. Sometimes people sit and visit with him. One is a younger man with a guitar who I’ve decided is his son or grandson. One day he isn’t there. I keep walking. The next day he still isn’t there. I become concerned and pray for his safety and health. The third day when he isn’t there I worry. I also realize if anything happens to him I will never know. There wouldn’t be a note left for me by the fountain or a person waiting to tell me. He would just disappear. The fourth day he is sitting in his spot rolling a cigarette. I say hello as the dogs and I walk by.

Today

At the river a father was teaching his son to fish. As they walked in the river the father instructed his son on how to cast and where. This is was life is about - a father teaching his son to fish on a sunny Sunday morning.

Depression

There must be some way to control this depression that eats my life away. Do not send me pamphlets and articles telling me to smile and think happy thoughts. Those are not for me and those who are like me. My reality cannot be changed with a simple sentence. I take pills, talk to therapists, and read anything I can get our hands on that may offer a few minutes relief. I try to smile and pretend until finally I cannot rise out of bed. It will pass I tell myself. It will pass as it always has. But what if this time is different? What if this time it does not pass and I am left in this dark hell forever? Tomorrow will be better I tell myself as I gather the covers around my shoulders while there is still daylight outside. Tomorrow will be better I tell myself because the thought of it being worst is too, too much to bear.