YES AND NO - for Murray, with love.
20March 2012
The act of writing is, for me, a form of meditation, wherein I allow all thoughts to surface in order to sift and observe those which hold meaning and inquiry.
I write those words: ‘meaning’ and ‘inquiry’ and find myself immediately stuck, the words seem vapid – perhaps because of jetlag; or perhaps because I have them in the wrong order. Surely it is ‘inquiry’ that comes first if one is to end up with any sort of ‘meaning.’
So, thoughts surface and then I let them sift through the holes in my brain until some come to rest on the mental warp and weft of my mind. Then I poke around with these, turning them this way and that, in the hope that the negative ones will add new value to the positive ones. Ah, the art of manipulative meditation.
I’m basically a cheery little soul; I like to think of myself as a ‘yes’ person. Yet the truth is that quite often I have to experience and validate the ‘no’ in order to get to ‘yes’. I used to think it was a sad and bad thing, but now I accept it as my process. Furthermore, I appreciate it, as ‘yes’ is so much more rewarding after having examined the validity of ‘no.’ Are you still with me? I’m not sure I am either. Perhaps I should give an example.
We returned from our three-week trip to Europe yesterday, more specifically we returned from France. Those of you who have been following will know I’ve already explored the yes and no of England. The entrance into New York City is pretty brutal; from Immigration Hall, where thousands of simultaneously disembarked passengers from god knows how many simultaneously landed planes, were doing the slow shuffle through a snaking line, were treated to CNN’s Wolfe Blitzer bumptiously informing us of the rampant hatred simultaneously occurring across the globe. Depending on where you were in the line, you might also be informed of the horrendous state of American politics and the economy. It’s a hell of a way to end a vacation…or for many, to start a new life.
And then you battle the conveyor belt for your luggage which by now is riding 3-deep with the thousands of other suitcases, hoping you don’t put your back out after remaining immobile for seven hours on a seat that hurled you through space at 500 mph - especially worrying now that you have gained extra body weight from eating practically non-stop during the duration of the flight.
And then, after days spent walking the beautiful streets of Paris, followed by days of drifting in the glory of Provence, the taxi ride from JFK exposes you to the seamy side of Queens, and Riker’s Island and on, to Lower Harlem and you think, what the f—k am I doing here? On Friday, just four days ago, we were shopping at the outdoor market in Lourmarin, where stalls of fresh, locally grown produce proved that goodness still exists.
This morning we shopped at Whole Foods where there was a Whole load of crap. Whole plastic is more like it – everything from nuts to soup to lettuce to juice to yogurt to cheese, all wrapped in plastic. If we are what we eat, then we’re in a Whole lot of trouble in this country. The two of us wheeled our wicker market basket home like forlorn children.
But the sun was shining, the air warm. Ok, it’s probably global warming but if the trees are in blossom let’s have the courtesy to admire them. And then there is home. We have one. How great is that? I’ll tell you, having been without one several times in my life, home is a blessing beyond words. And this one is filled with peace and light and love and the best bed we’ve slept in since we left it three weeks ago. So the food isn’t from a farm in Provence, but we won’t go hungry. So America has had its day, but it’s not Afghanistan.
Tomorrow we’ll walk in Riverside Park. It won’t have the wonder and solitariness of the walk we took with our friends on Sunday. Leaving their 500 year-old apartment at the top of the village we wound our way down the hillside, peeking over stone walls into magical gardens until finally we were on a worn path through the woods; then doubling back along the country road before taking another path up, up the hill to our lavender field; the lavender plants pruned back hard in readiness for their season. The cherry trees were pushing tight-fisted ruby buds out along their branches…branches that still held clumps of dried cherries from last July.
The sun, still strong on the west bank of the Hudson, is beaming its light over here, where the brick-faced buildings glow with all the heroic loneliness of a Hopper painting; a landscape whose outer, hard-edged reality, gives a richer meaning to the reality of my inner landscape, where thoughts abandon themselves to memories, and love is alive and well.
Maggie Photo