"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"
Please enjoy a little shared yoga after glow in today’s The Mindful Word.
In a mind-drifting moment during Yoga practice this morning, I flashed on a childhood fantasy about leaping in zero gravity like the astronauts. How fun it would be to float freely without burden, without weight forcing me down to the earthbound reality that I could never fly…read more.
“FuckFuckFuck!! No, not my knee!! Not again!”
I’ve done it this time.
Goddamm beginner throwing me off,
catching an edge, and bam! down–
landed on my knee.
Now the thing is huge and blue,
achy and done with me.
Stressed beyond elasticity,
abused beyond belief,
the joint’s gone bad for good.
They begged me,
left and right,
pleaded for reason
for years.
Then right went wrong: gave out, gave up
and I gave in to the knife.
A quick stitchery and I was back.
But for far too long, so many years,
I ran too far too fast–getting nowhere,
jumped one too many bumps–slowing me down,
slammed to the ground–rising up again,
drop-down kneeled in defeat–blowing them out,
cross-checked, side-swiped, full-on collision
knee to knee, knee to shin, knee to head,
pressing their limits to hold me
carry me on, onward and beyond,
only to let me down.
And now, after avowed respect
caution, and a pact:
you be kind to me and
I’ll return in kind,
I reneged on our deal.
I beat us up once again.
And landed there,
in the cold icy wind–felled,
torn, beaten and crushed
in the frozen crusted hill,
crying, “No more!”
Pounding the frozen earth,
“Not one more fucking minute!!”
The last run to the bottom
yielded only pain
where pleasure used to be.
Going down was always the easiest.
Not any more, not this time.
“Not my knee, please God not my knee.
Who’ll stand up for me now?”
“Pass the salt, please.”
I look up at her from my veggie quesadilla plate, my eyes suggesting an answer to the question in my expression, but her face shows no comprehension. She wears sunglasses inside the restaurant.
I pass the salt.
Two shakes and she sets the shaker aside to pick at fake cheese melted over corn tortilla chips. Biting the triangle tip of a chip, she glances up–I think–at me, my head recently returned to face her after scooping up random bits of salsa to topple over one of the soft triangles targeted to dissect and devour.
“When do you think you’ll know? I mean going back.” I ask but already know the answer. How can she know?
“I don’t know. You’re asking me something I can’t possibly know. I mean I could recover next week or continue on like this forever or get hit by a bus as soon as we walk out this door.” She waves to some indeterminate place beyond the restaurant walls.
I know what she means. The asking leaps over logic into faith like a ghost limb needing to be scratched. Nothing there but habit and the act of speaking.
The gap of knowing and being spans eons now. We both know it, and yet we dance this ancient witless dance of caretaker and charge. It’s my job to ask the unanswerable questions and hers to stem the flow of fear with uncertainly, freeing and terrifying, reminding us both to surrender and enjoy lunch.
“Can we have a peaceful family Christmas dinner and forget for a few moments? Will we?” I ask uncertain of her answer, the truth of her answer. I fight the terrible urge to cough.
“Before the bus hits? Sure. Might as well.” She laughs, picking up the salt to shake it once more.
Merry, Merry, Merry to one and all!
In the gaze of the other 