3/16/2022 

Help, mom says, in her basso voice as she comes down the stairs, repeating it, as if it were a musical theme, of one note steady note.  Oh, what a nice kitty, oh, what a nice kitty, and then the wrinkle of mail, or paper, then a heavy huh sigh to let out, then another help, and then some higher singsong about something, to herself, and then blowing into a Kleenex, and then more self talk, as if she were reading a commercial offer out loud while trying to figure it out.

Mom comes and sits with me at the table, as I drink my tea and lemon water.  What would you like?  Soup.  Soop, she says, in a child's old dialect.  She says other words like that.  Br'aww'th, for broth.  Her dry voice sqeaks, on cue, good bru'aww'th, by the way.  To'oast(uhh.). Good toast anyway, she says, which is her own way of appreciating things, believe it or not.  She looks at my tee shirt.  Amherst College, she says.  and look where we are now.  Yup.

You need to do something with your hair, she says, clearing her throat.  Sighing lightly.  She looks down, playing with her Kleenex napkin.  Well, as long as Bonnie is doing okay, I guess we're doing alright.

To my mind's eye she looks more and more like the little old Breton woman by the side of the road in the Louis Malle film, Vivre Le Tour, more or less expressionless as the Tour de France.   A little blank, a long passive stare, her soul silently ticking within, under the white grey hair and the just perceptible smile, a silent clock that still ticks within.

But she's actually doing okay.  As long as there is peace, and I did my morning sadhana and yoga chants yesterday.

You're hair's getting nice and long.  I explain I don't want to go to the barber, for Covid reasons, yes, it looks great.  You shouldn't do anything with it.

When she came down initially, the anxiety, fueled by the green tea, spiked, but ...

I think I can find my way back upstairs, all by myself.  You want some help?  No, you're busy.

I walk her upstairs as she carries her Pepsi, as I carry the new thick biography of Sylvia Plath, to go with the hardcover one of Ted Hughes.

I come back to the kitchen.  The cat is back in, avoiding the grey tiger who's currently looking over the bird feeding area above Bonnie's raised bed.

I feed him the rest of the can.  I can't do any dishes while he's here in the kitchen, particularly with the noise of the silverware as it clacks in the sink as I rinse it before the hot soapy water.  I draw up a grocery list.

I've been hard on myself while here, and no wonder, if you look at it.  What the hell am I doing with my life, but trying to be honest, but lazily sleeping away, sometimes in pain, sometimes in respiratory pain in the dry winter air of cold January, wishing away that I was a teacher, but unable to move a muscle toward that goal somehow.

There's no point to stress, if it's going to eat you alive.  No one else would do that to themselves, why should I?

See, as in the Bhagavad Gita, see the intention behind the karma yoga, and worry not about the result.

You'll see things with a better sense of humor anyway.

I sit in lotus pose on a couple of pillows before the storm door, letting the sun shine in on me after I puff and push and roll my belly muscles upward, then side to side, a kid at this, no swami yogi am I, the muscles hidden under a layer of what once was sugary irresistible carbohydrate dough and pasta.

I chant mantras for five minutes, then various cleansing breaths, with puffs and action through the nostrils and lungs expanding with energy and breath.

Mom has a sense of humor.  What can I do, but allow for it, and not mock her little heh heh heh, and these sadhanas--I get nervous if I don't get them in--are like bathing in the pure baptismal water and light.  They really help, sensually, getting back in touch with this beautiful instrument, the body, and the breath and a calm connected feeling that begins to flow throughout all your cells and atoms.