I’m in Canada, the land I’ve escaped from everyday for the past 11 years. A constant conscious effort, pulling myself away, extirpating my soul, my guilt, backing out a millimeter at a time, all energies into that specific persistent motion that running away constitutes.
But then, here I am now, under a pure blue sky, children and grandchildren busying themselves around me while I watch the same Sun as in Beijing.
This is what I wanted, to flee and come back, to sit in peace at the sound of leaves brushed by a light breeze, the little feet of kids marking the beat, birds and planes flying in mysterious patterns over my head. My voice finally quieting down, unheard, its tones almost invisible.
I wash the dishes and the cling-clang of the cups and plates summarizes what I’ve got to say. The splashes of water as I mop the floor stand as decent punctuation. The sound of the dryer for the laundry making long rotating sentences, tumbling up and down like lyrics I could have invented.
I sew buttons like important words awaiting to be traced on paper, fixed for a purpose, useful and appreciated. I handle the broom the way I handle myself, made for something, well defined in the dictionaries of all the languages that can be. I soak a shirt because of a stain, careful to clean my ideas by the same occasion. I stretch the sheets over the beds, flattening creases with two hands, for I do not wish any bumps or crevasses during my stay. Sometimes, clichés are the way to go.
This is time. These are hours I’m made to understand. An involvement with things that matter very much in the end.
This is a type of time I can definitely count on, which can remain anchored in the body, making itself be touched in all its height and width. Time I can measure using my fingers when they turn the wooden spoon in the spaghetti sauce or the oatmeal. A time I relate to, that has the smell of strawberries and sugar with a dash of thick cream.
This is the time I need, one for brushing and braiding your hair, fancy colored elastics to hold them in place. Specks of time to pick up your toys left in the hallway. Bright plastic shapes reminders of games and laughter, of evenings spent building Lego houses, and tickling you.
This is what I mean by time, drops of moments to add soap in the washing machine where your clothes float. The shape of towels awaiting to dry you by the swimming pool, the walks to the park where I’ll push the swing high and fast while you shout “Again, again!”
Indeed, I’m back for a short while, entirely back, running behind you, afraid you’ll fall and hurt your knee, holding your hand to cross the streets, wiping your face full of ice-cream, or holding a Kleenex to help you blow your nose.
I have now all the time in the world.
Let’s empty the garbage cans, clean the kitchen counters, put the groceries away in the cupboards and fridge. Lets rinse tomatoes, or peel peaches, prepare a bowl of blueberries, or unwrap and cut some cheese. Lets add some salt to the soup and crumble crackers, stir pasta in boiling water, or toast fresh bagels. Lets watch marinated kebabs roast on the barbecue. Dip French fries in a mixture of mayonnaise and ketchup. Lets answer the phone and say hello. Read the morning newspaper, and set the table. Lets hear footsteps and awakening voices as the morning coffee brews. Climb the stairs, out of breath, to get your slippers, a T-shirt, an extra diaper.
Time devoted to cartoons on TV if it rains, or to watching flowers bloom in the garden, finding a name we all agree on for their unusual kind of purple. Of course, seeing animal shapes in the white puffy clouds. Or noticing stars at night. The dew on the wide rhubarb leaves as the sun rises, dandelions you pick for a bouquet.
All of that time, I know, and I know it well. Catching seconds suspended around my head to make them mine, able to rephrase different parts of the day, to even read myself back and recognize a signature.
Hear the wind meet the trees, gently rocking branches. Hear, hear. There are cars moving along. The vibrations of engines reaching the front porch. Lets open all the windows and their bright white curtains to allow the chipping of birds, the buzzing of flies, the slamming of car doors tell us what time it is for us, arranging our routines around the tangibility of household chores. Recurrent gestures, the narrow movements of familiar objects like dresses and pants drying outside on a rope, blue pins to hold them, sleeves flapping against the fence.
You’re improvising a tent with pillows and blankets. I open the parasol. Together, we water the basil, the parsley, and the lilac tree. I open the doors to let you in or out. I pay attention to voices and wonder whether there’s a hidden meaning I should catch the same way I grab all the time I can hold in my arms all at once.
The summer was, therefore, an ideal moment to come back. To perform a multitude of small tasks. To reply present whenever I show up. To accompany all of you in your adulthood and childhood, having at last gone so far away that, in a spherical world, I return to where I started. The place where I cannot go any further. The greatest distance from the beginning being itself, only separated by lots of time, by what’s required for realization to fully come about, pouring a glass of apple juice, or chopping a banana to put on your toast, zipping up your sweater while laughing at your jokes.
I become someone you know, wrapped in the fabric of days and weeks, serving some yogurt with fruits and then, washing the bowls. Waiting for your naps to end. I’ll answer the door and your questions. I’ll sing if you ask me too. And as I sit to contemplate the allures all that time has now taken, I feel pride and satisfaction. I’ll throw the red ball in your direction, blow soap bubbles, write on the sidewalk with chalk time and time again, to make it stay a bit longer, a bit wider and deeper, a bit more material, with a taste of soil, of grass with ants running wild, and grains of sand between your toes.
History is slowly backtracking. It is showing signs of withdrawals. A few hiccups sometimes, perhaps a cramp here and there, a tenth of a second for those resilient manifestations of panic, that’s all. Nothing more. I think it is finally leaving me, accepting to eventually set me free. History allowing me more and more to be contemporary to myself, there in the present, for it is so rare to meet oneself in that evanescent point in time. One is always either focused on the future, or hung up on the past. But to get a glimpse at who one is right now is exceptional, I think.
It only happens through simple, domestic gestures, where a sense of being matches the trajectory of hands ironing clothes, or pouring a glass of chocolate milk. This is when I know best who and where I am, and what precise tasks understanding has later to perform.
In such instances, the letters of the alphabet fall into place, gifted with a clear purpose. Time is no longer an entangled line, just a solid point on which to proudly stand, dusting shelves, rubbing a sink, taking meat out of the freezer for today’s lunch.
I find the roaring of the neighbor’s land-mower reassuring, like a grip into reality. Distant voices from the street, or the howl of a truck driving by like an auditory tapestry able to contain me, delineating a place into which I can safely move, without incidents or accidents, without fear of dilution. Making the beds, unfolding the tablecloth, all activities preventing sinking. A firm ground for my tiny thoughts, their joy expanding all the way to the extremities of the second where the entire world happens, with me in it, perfectly synchronized.
I am here, now, with a rag, a dishcloth. Or sitting outside sipping iced-tea. Watching over you. I am on that chair, on that sidewalk. I am turning on the hose to water the roses. I know why I am here. And know what ‘now’ looks and feels like.
In a way, this is what I expect from love, and how I view its gift. A strong location for the present, being on the same plane of existence as you all are, an encompassing appropriateness and straightforward satisfaction filling the cracks in my head, holding the pieces together. Tight and clean. Reliable surfaces. Tasting ham baked in maple syrup, boiling eggs for your breakfast, and listening to you giggle your mouth full.
It is fine to grow old, dear. So fine and softly warm. A time to fully be, each minute I encounter while fastening your sandals or turning the TV off, a wet facecloth to wipe your cheeks, mashing potatoes and carrots, finding a blanket if you shiver, bedtime stories and a few lullabies.
Laolao
But then, here I am now, under a pure blue sky, children and grandchildren busying themselves around me while I watch the same Sun as in Beijing.
This is what I wanted, to flee and come back, to sit in peace at the sound of leaves brushed by a light breeze, the little feet of kids marking the beat, birds and planes flying in mysterious patterns over my head. My voice finally quieting down, unheard, its tones almost invisible.
I wash the dishes and the cling-clang of the cups and plates summarizes what I’ve got to say. The splashes of water as I mop the floor stand as decent punctuation. The sound of the dryer for the laundry making long rotating sentences, tumbling up and down like lyrics I could have invented.
I sew buttons like important words awaiting to be traced on paper, fixed for a purpose, useful and appreciated. I handle the broom the way I handle myself, made for something, well defined in the dictionaries of all the languages that can be. I soak a shirt because of a stain, careful to clean my ideas by the same occasion. I stretch the sheets over the beds, flattening creases with two hands, for I do not wish any bumps or crevasses during my stay. Sometimes, clichés are the way to go.
This is time. These are hours I’m made to understand. An involvement with things that matter very much in the end.
This is a type of time I can definitely count on, which can remain anchored in the body, making itself be touched in all its height and width. Time I can measure using my fingers when they turn the wooden spoon in the spaghetti sauce or the oatmeal. A time I relate to, that has the smell of strawberries and sugar with a dash of thick cream.
This is the time I need, one for brushing and braiding your hair, fancy colored elastics to hold them in place. Specks of time to pick up your toys left in the hallway. Bright plastic shapes reminders of games and laughter, of evenings spent building Lego houses, and tickling you.
This is what I mean by time, drops of moments to add soap in the washing machine where your clothes float. The shape of towels awaiting to dry you by the swimming pool, the walks to the park where I’ll push the swing high and fast while you shout “Again, again!”
Indeed, I’m back for a short while, entirely back, running behind you, afraid you’ll fall and hurt your knee, holding your hand to cross the streets, wiping your face full of ice-cream, or holding a Kleenex to help you blow your nose.
I have now all the time in the world.
Let’s empty the garbage cans, clean the kitchen counters, put the groceries away in the cupboards and fridge. Lets rinse tomatoes, or peel peaches, prepare a bowl of blueberries, or unwrap and cut some cheese. Lets add some salt to the soup and crumble crackers, stir pasta in boiling water, or toast fresh bagels. Lets watch marinated kebabs roast on the barbecue. Dip French fries in a mixture of mayonnaise and ketchup. Lets answer the phone and say hello. Read the morning newspaper, and set the table. Lets hear footsteps and awakening voices as the morning coffee brews. Climb the stairs, out of breath, to get your slippers, a T-shirt, an extra diaper.
Time devoted to cartoons on TV if it rains, or to watching flowers bloom in the garden, finding a name we all agree on for their unusual kind of purple. Of course, seeing animal shapes in the white puffy clouds. Or noticing stars at night. The dew on the wide rhubarb leaves as the sun rises, dandelions you pick for a bouquet.
All of that time, I know, and I know it well. Catching seconds suspended around my head to make them mine, able to rephrase different parts of the day, to even read myself back and recognize a signature.
Hear the wind meet the trees, gently rocking branches. Hear, hear. There are cars moving along. The vibrations of engines reaching the front porch. Lets open all the windows and their bright white curtains to allow the chipping of birds, the buzzing of flies, the slamming of car doors tell us what time it is for us, arranging our routines around the tangibility of household chores. Recurrent gestures, the narrow movements of familiar objects like dresses and pants drying outside on a rope, blue pins to hold them, sleeves flapping against the fence.
You’re improvising a tent with pillows and blankets. I open the parasol. Together, we water the basil, the parsley, and the lilac tree. I open the doors to let you in or out. I pay attention to voices and wonder whether there’s a hidden meaning I should catch the same way I grab all the time I can hold in my arms all at once.
The summer was, therefore, an ideal moment to come back. To perform a multitude of small tasks. To reply present whenever I show up. To accompany all of you in your adulthood and childhood, having at last gone so far away that, in a spherical world, I return to where I started. The place where I cannot go any further. The greatest distance from the beginning being itself, only separated by lots of time, by what’s required for realization to fully come about, pouring a glass of apple juice, or chopping a banana to put on your toast, zipping up your sweater while laughing at your jokes.
I become someone you know, wrapped in the fabric of days and weeks, serving some yogurt with fruits and then, washing the bowls. Waiting for your naps to end. I’ll answer the door and your questions. I’ll sing if you ask me too. And as I sit to contemplate the allures all that time has now taken, I feel pride and satisfaction. I’ll throw the red ball in your direction, blow soap bubbles, write on the sidewalk with chalk time and time again, to make it stay a bit longer, a bit wider and deeper, a bit more material, with a taste of soil, of grass with ants running wild, and grains of sand between your toes.
History is slowly backtracking. It is showing signs of withdrawals. A few hiccups sometimes, perhaps a cramp here and there, a tenth of a second for those resilient manifestations of panic, that’s all. Nothing more. I think it is finally leaving me, accepting to eventually set me free. History allowing me more and more to be contemporary to myself, there in the present, for it is so rare to meet oneself in that evanescent point in time. One is always either focused on the future, or hung up on the past. But to get a glimpse at who one is right now is exceptional, I think.
It only happens through simple, domestic gestures, where a sense of being matches the trajectory of hands ironing clothes, or pouring a glass of chocolate milk. This is when I know best who and where I am, and what precise tasks understanding has later to perform.
In such instances, the letters of the alphabet fall into place, gifted with a clear purpose. Time is no longer an entangled line, just a solid point on which to proudly stand, dusting shelves, rubbing a sink, taking meat out of the freezer for today’s lunch.
I find the roaring of the neighbor’s land-mower reassuring, like a grip into reality. Distant voices from the street, or the howl of a truck driving by like an auditory tapestry able to contain me, delineating a place into which I can safely move, without incidents or accidents, without fear of dilution. Making the beds, unfolding the tablecloth, all activities preventing sinking. A firm ground for my tiny thoughts, their joy expanding all the way to the extremities of the second where the entire world happens, with me in it, perfectly synchronized.
I am here, now, with a rag, a dishcloth. Or sitting outside sipping iced-tea. Watching over you. I am on that chair, on that sidewalk. I am turning on the hose to water the roses. I know why I am here. And know what ‘now’ looks and feels like.
In a way, this is what I expect from love, and how I view its gift. A strong location for the present, being on the same plane of existence as you all are, an encompassing appropriateness and straightforward satisfaction filling the cracks in my head, holding the pieces together. Tight and clean. Reliable surfaces. Tasting ham baked in maple syrup, boiling eggs for your breakfast, and listening to you giggle your mouth full.
It is fine to grow old, dear. So fine and softly warm. A time to fully be, each minute I encounter while fastening your sandals or turning the TV off, a wet facecloth to wipe your cheeks, mashing potatoes and carrots, finding a blanket if you shiver, bedtime stories and a few lullabies.
Laolao
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