I searched for her … my mother …. I waited through lunch, but she did not visit today. I sat, meditated, read a page or two. Yet, the scattered crumbs of memory blew away in a whirlwind of restlessness.
My grandmother did visit for a bit and left me wondering…am I like you? Sensitive, irritable, exhausted. As a child I was often overwhelmed by my own sensitivity to her presence…once I carried a long forgotten incident between us to my mother seeking resolution … comfort. I instead found, “That is her way.”
That is her way…
It seemed as though in her absence L was invited to visit as I remembered his poetry. With a manual typewriter, his carefully composed words on white paper. Where are those papers?
Where are the poems hand written on scraps of paper…recycled holiday cards…mailed over the years? Poems written before the tremors silenced my mother’s hands…where are they? One spoke to me of acceptance…how her walker was her friend.
Slipped into books…as if they were flower blossoms? Tucked away into little wooden boxes … as they are treasures?
Where are those books…the wooden boxes?
Were they given away? Did I cast them aside unknowing ….
Dragonfly wings ... shining silken garments. Now my heart is aching. Who will give it rest?
Young Dragonfly wings ... rich embroidered garments. Now my heart is aching. Who will give it peace?
Dragonfly bursting its cocoon ... plain white linen garments. Now my hearts aching. Who will give it love?
~The Book of Songs (cited: Anonymous,The Jade Flute. Project Gutenberg
Looking backward ... I cannot see the ancients of days.
Looking forward ... I cannot see ages yet to come.
Only heaven and earth have remained,
And will remain forever ...
I am alone, I grieve, I drop tears into the dust ~Chen Tzu-ang
Glazed silk, newly cut, smooth, glittering, white,
As white, as clear, even as frost and snow.
Perfectly fashioned into a fan,
Round, round, like the brilliant moon,
Treasured in my Lord's sleeve, taken out, put in—
Wave it, shake it, and a little wind flies from it.
How often I fear the Autumn Season's coming
And the fierce, cold wind which scatters the blazing heat.
Discarded, passed by, laid in a box alone;
Such a little time, and the thing of love cast off.
The traveler goes on,His sleeves blowing back and forth
With the autumn wind,
And the evening sun sheds lonely light
Upon the bridge suspended between the cliffs.
~Miner, Introduction to Japanese Court Poetry, 115