09:46 Crisp brilliant Sunday morning. Mother, in crimson red houserobe, Sony headphones perched firmly on head while intently watching her favorite dominical news/talk show (The Andrew Marr Show), declares solemnly: Putin on the brink of war. Woke up very early this morning with overall sense of plenitude, again amused by familiar paradox: how the suffusing of personal identity into [a] larger whole(s) -result of progressive levels of individuation- can create an even wider ranging feeling of ease, of comfort .. a considerable free flowimg expanded awareness and clarity dwelling within, or enmeshed into, a general sense of equanimity. The interplay of these now not-anymore-so-distinct levels in an unnameable dance of aliveness alternating slices of nuance, shadow, light; resulting in a state suggestive of multidimensional synaesthesia. Yesterday afternoon a 2,75 hour walk with my mother in Greenwich park. Out the house through the front garden, (three kinds of blue flowers) then slowly up the hill, entering park sideways between a formidable set of stately houses on Crooms Hill. Just before the famous Rose Gardens, she asks: What do you think, should I be buried here in London or cremated and transported as ash and laid next to my mother in Belgrade? The sober tone and clarity surprised me. No pathos, no traces of sentimentality or regret. Very practical, making clear that her overriding concern is not to make a big fuss or trouble for us, the two sons in Europe, or the grandchildren spread out in several countries, and different continents. My oldest sister, in Brazil, herself unfortunately in failing health, was not being considered. A bit later on, while making the return journey, on the heath passing an amateur soccer match of obviously all-African players, I asked Mother if she had a sense of having lived a long life; after pondering for a second or two, she said: Havent thought too much about this. It [life] comes all in one chunk and goes on until it stops at some point. After two weeks here, feel that my main task has been accomplished; visit around birthday, making things more harmonious, an adieu of sorts. On the way to the park, and even before while sitting in the living room, the dialectics of checking where we were at: the usual refusal to comprehend my way of life on mothers part, her mocking superior tone, later while walking pooh-poohing all my examples at pointing alternatives to the already long spent status quo -her blind defence of it (If it could have all been different, why isnt it?)- .. until at some point, in front of a beautiful little church, she aked for silence. Perhaps Ill stay a while longer. Maybe meet a few friends. Even though Lacans conclusion to text on (in)terminable psychoanalytic relationship between client and therapist -anotated in Edinburgh Universitys wonderful main library four decades ago, still rings true: The analysis ends when both realize that it can go on forever. [my paraphrase, from memory] Same in [my] life, relationships, favorite places. The natural inclination of (radical, as pertaining to roots) non-attachment almost dictates such an attitude: even -or especially- when the going is good, or at its best, it may be time to move on to new pastures, adventures, and challenges. Keeps the pony inside one happy, with brio, plainly in joy, almost touching the never ending arc of a far away reflecting rainbow. On boiler in kitchen just noticed a 3x3 pink ceramic plaque, on it b/w vintage photo of old ladies doing gym, with following text: Age is mind over matter. If you dont mind, it doesnt matter. [Mark Twain] Made in China, of course.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 11:05:20 +0000
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