1 February  2015

We are having a wonderful snow day today.

I am always happy to have the beauty of the snow arrive. The first snow is lovely, before it becomes a mess.

I spend much of my time reading about Buddhism and mindfulness. The clearing of the snow with the snow blower becomes a walking meditation for me. I become mesmerized with the path I clear... 18 inches at a time. It is a beautiful pattern... the juxtaposition of the cleared space with the snow beside it.

I did my social work field placement in London in 1989. I was living in the Borough of Ealing in a nursing home called The Lindens. Much of my life was lived in contrast to the residents of the nursing home, many of whom were confined by their infirmities.

I was an observer... of their lives and the lives of many with whom I shared space... be in on the Tube or on the street. I've always loved observing people and then writing snippets of the lives they've shared with me.

Musings from London

1-19-89

The animal darts across Scotch Common, barely avoiding oncoming cars. I look, expecting to see a cat because it moved so swiftly.

My heart leaps. It is a fox! Burnished red, like a copper cent- shining in the head lights of the autos. I cannot believe my eyes. A fox! A fox? Here in the heart of London?  It crosses in front of me and darts into the dark and fog of the night, into the park.

Why this fox, on this night, in London, in front of me?

A fox- free, wild, running the streets of London. I, a woman, walk free in these streets of London. I refuse to stay caged in the flat at night and I walk free. The fox is in me. I, too, hurry in the dark and the fog of this London night.

2-4-89

The young and the old live here together

Bodies betraying them

In wheelchairs

On canes

Scarred and broken in this, life's battlefield.

A small room contains all

who they are.

Life exists beyond the confines

       of broken bodies

       and small, simple rooms.

The mind takes wing

Like a bird

To leave the cage of the

Sinew and bone

Mortar and wood-

Infinite freedom

2-12-89

The underground cuts through London

       like a knife

       through butter-

       like a knife

       through the heart of this city.

Elevated train-

                     under

                             ground train

Speeding fast, past

        windows

Open to the lives of

       lovers

Voyeuristic glance

      into bedrooms

      and bathrooms.

I look- feeling privy

      feeling privileged

to see such personal

     pieces of lives.

2-26-89

The young man lives in the nursing home. Trapped in a body which has betrayed him he is confined to a wheelchair. I walk quietly past his room and look in. He has the stereo on and his head sways to the strains of classical music.

Up, up his soul soars on the wings of melodies- free as a bird, to leave this confining earth and dance with the clouds and the sun and moon and stars. To forget the shackles of the prison of his body- to go where his mind will take him.

Music soothes the savage beast- and the imprisoned man.

Memories

The pigeon gets on the Tube at Earl's Court. It has an injured right foot and hobbles about, balancing like a seasoned commuter on its left foot. Passengers smile and catch each other's eyes. For a few brief moments we disparate humans, speaking French and English and Arabic are all joined in the experiencing of the bird.

The pigeon gets off at Hammersmith and we all return to our isolated lives.

It is dusk. Lights in the flats glitter like diamonds set against the pink-blue of the sky. Television antennae extend like giant bug feelers into the air to pick up signals. Solitary lives, family lives, are all connected by the common images we watch on the screen. We have intimate relationships with television personalities and pass our neighbors as strangers. It is safer that way.

The hat no longer hangs on the oval mirror on the chest of drawers. The straw hat, that symbol of summer to come after the cold of winter, is gone. There is no need for hope as it is summer. The time for straw hats in the dead of winter.

We are three women riding on the train. She is blond and has the word "photo" written on her hand. The other is darker and bundled up against the intrusive loudness of the boys nearby. And I am a small town Midwestern woman with the word "love" written on my heart and open to whatever life has to offer.

I have just come from swimming. I have swum one and one-fourth mile and am feeling good. My muscles are loose. I walk easily down the street, back pack over my shoulder, a carry-all bag in my hand. Ahead of me a young woman in a heavy winter coat moved imperceptibly. Slowly, pulling herself on crutches, shopping bags slung over the crutches.

It is humid out. I am sweating and I am dressed in a summer jacket. I am walking easily. She has on a winter coat and struggles in her steps.

I pass her then think what a good photo she would make. I argue with myself over whether this is exploiting her or not. I decide to take the picture... it will be shot from the back... her identity will be anonymous and she will serve as an inspiration for me when I get dispirited.

I sit on the bench and wait for her to pass. After she is a little way ahead I take the picture

I get up and start walking easily back to the flat. She is moving so slowly in front of me. Should I ask to help her? Would that seem patronizing? No... she can tell me if she doesn't want help.

I ask her if she is going to the Lindens. Yes. She is going there. Does she want help carrying her bags? Yes. So I take her bags and walk with her... at her pace. It is such a slow pace. I nearly trip over myself... the pace is so slow.

After slow, agonizing minutes we reach the Lindens. I follow her in to her room. I give her her bags and go to my flat. I pass Gary... who is sitting in his wheelchair in his room. He is excited because he is going swimming this evening. I know how he feels.

I say goodbye to Gary. "See ya later alligator," he says.

"After while, crocodile," I reply.

I am standing on the train. It is very crowded as it is rush hour. Next to me stands a young girl. She must be nine or ten years old. She has beautiful dark brown hair and big brown eyes with full, dark lashes. She looks at her mother who is sitting across from her. They are quietly discussing the stop at which to alight from the train. Before each stop she checks in with her mother to see if it's the current stop.

I am aware of what a beautiful child she is. I see her future... a beautiful woman with many suitors. It is then that I notice she has no fingers... only little vestigial stumps. This beautiful child, who by all appearance, should have the world at her fingertips has none.

I wonder what is beauty then? Does beauty allow for less than perfection? Would this child give up her beautiful face to have fingers to hold, grasp, to do simple tasks. Would I give up my fingers to have such a face?