Yesterday we got the two inches that push us over the record for snow for the season.
When I was a kid, Josh (my neighbor friend and super long-time childhood crush) and I would build these forts out of the snow in the front yard - that's right, not out of the curb snow, but the actual yard snow - into which we could sequester ourselves, though not at whole body height, in comfortable crouch positions. As I have told folks that we did this for years on end, and how Wisconsin winters have changed, anyone not from here or younger than I am has said "Well, you were so little, so of course the snow seemed deeper." You kidding me? Look at the stuff we've gotten in the last few years! *Mice* couldn't make a decent crouching fort out of it!
But not this winter. Finally, not only did we outdo my own personal records, but also the State record for our recorded history so far. Wow. And now I am ready for it to be done. Not "run off to Tahiti cuz I hate the stuff" done (or even a wedding in Aruba, wink wink) but just worn out. I was reading back over a few entries and I saw that in August I was fading under 90-something degree heat. Now it's February and under zero again, with windchills well below. Hmmm. Well, I guess I can't love all the seasons all the time.
It's been since the holidays that I have posted. I quickly finished up my WCATY class for the term, after the holidays, then immediately began commuting to Milwaukee once a week to teach the inaugural class of Miksang at Marquette University. This in itself, though a big chance to schedule, life and energy, wouldn't have been such a time suck, but I also was working a lot of hours at the Overture, my part time job, as this is our busiest bus show season. And then, there's the weather, Milwaukee regardless of the weather, a snowstorm every Thursday for weeks on end. In there, my godmother visited my house for the first time and we finally saw Dan and Sus again, but otherwise my weeks mostly consisted of a January of shuffling from one job to the other, one of the main reasons I left my other fields of work.
I also have had lots of insights about pretty important things in the post-holiday season: that in fearing becoming my mother, I often embody the less savory aspects of my father; that I tend to isolate a lot when I have time on my hands and get lost without structure; that I pretty much hate driving; that up until now I have still had a hard time valuing my own work (so I gave myself a raise and promised myself two days off a week, which has helped a lot!); and that I need more visual art in my life - making it, seeing it, even just looking at books of it. So it's been a strong time of growth and nurturing, which I am now implementing, as Overture has slowed down...
So the latter part of this isn't as record-breaking in the traditional sense, but here's one record I'd like to think I am breaking - the karmic record of my family, with its self-and other abuse, bit by bit, postcard by phone call by quiet moments with the cat and a book of Andy Goldsworthy's work. Nothing huge, but very significant.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Monday, December 24, 2007
"You leave just an echo, like trains forever leaving"
-from a Matthew Herbert remix of Nils Petter Molevar's "Marciful"
I woke this morning in silence. The low hum of the humidifier that's been on now for over a month, keeping our lungs damp in a blown-heat house, was all that could be heard. The streets dead because of Christmas Eve (we're in the kind of neighborhood folks mostly leave to go home from, not the vice-versa, when it comes to holidays), the visiting cats in momentary peace with Aviva (Kiki and Gracie are lovely but have fought most of the last week with our kitten), and the furnace off, the house held in some limbo suspended state. Last week, in writing classes, one woman called the present moment "limbo" and I have been savoring the inherent ambiguity and truth of that possibility - that in order to be in a time that never really exists, because by the time we know it is happening it has gone, we are in a moment that, in fact, is between moments, somehow. That's what the moment felt like - a moment between moments, between separate feelings and separate experiences. Then I realized I was holding my breath, and when I began breathing again, everything began moving again.
My first thoughts went to my brother, the elder of the two, with whom I haven't spoken now in over three years. My last contact with him was over Christmas of the first year I cut contact with him - I emailed him, sad to be apart, but also needing the space, and tried to express this ambiguity to him. Justifiably, he emailed me back and said that I had to set a really clear boundary. Either we were not in contact or we were. I chose to maintain, and it's been silence, since. I have no idea of how his life is, though I certainly have my guesses. My therapist told me awhile back the most sage piece of advice I've received in years, though I cried to hear it: "Do not contact him again until you feel ready to accept him even if he hasn't changed at all". I'm not. And I don't know what I am doing with this limbo, but I do know, that like in meditation, it's not intended as punishment - for either of us - or denial. Just to be space, to be the room between then and now, so I can digest, stop for a moment and let it all sit a bit. I sincerely believe that my relationship with Dylan, and all its wonderful concumbent parts, wouldn't be here if I hadn't taken this space. That isn't blame, just noticing the beneficial effects that "nothing" has on me.
When my grandfather died, many things hit the fan, and they hit fast. It was 1999, and my mother had only died a couple of years before. My eldest brother had gotten married to a woman with whom I had a lot of conflict, and her with me. I was in Portland when he actually passed, and my brothers had to file through many address books to find me - I, ironically, was normally very astute at giving my itineraries to interested parties, but not this time. Instead of flying back, I chose to drive back - a modified version of my original plan, with one of my best friends at the time. I needed the space, though I wasn't able to articulate it at the time. And now, when I look back, I am glad I took it, though it hurt my brothers' feelings (both of them) and confused everyone, including me. The estate sale, arguments over boundaries and rights, confusion over money, not to mention the actual death, funeral, mourning, whole nine, were very, very tough on me and the whole family, creating conflicts that haunt me to this day, and setting into motion, for me, the issues that fostered the final isolation I have chosen from that brother and his wife and son. At first I worried I was just doing what my mom would do - not speak to her best friend for eight years out of anger (or that's how I perceived it, anyway) but now I realize more clearly that there is no substitute for space, just as there is no substitute for being present.
Dylan and I spent yesterday with his parents, having Christmas curry (as his mother says "a new tradition!") and exchanging gifts. I went to Milwaukee the day before to spend time with Alex and Tyler, and we went sledding down sloshy hills just to get out and be active, our best way to spend time together. It's been a very mellow Christmas, moreso than ever, and I have actually liked this time, though there is a perennial undertone of sadness. I feel relief not to be trying to make traditions happen that I may not have liked in the first place, or trying to play a role in someone else's family. We took a family portrait of Dylan and me, with his parents and Aviva in the background (accidental but oh-so-cute!) and although I missed his siblings, it did feel like some sort of family to me, which is both incredibly hard and a huge relief to say. It's been a long time - I was always glomming onto my eldest brother's new family, and Alex and I have had a hard time making holidays perky with just us and his son.
Aviva is asleep next to me, Dylan nursing a Christmas cold and in a little bit, Becky will come over and we'll live out one of her Christmas dreams - to chose who she spends (at least part of) it with, baking cookies and watching movies. I have cried a couple of times, simple acknowledgment that although the "required" festivities are over and these are now just a couple of days I have extra-off when the Y and my favorite coffeehouse are closed, there is still an undercurrent there that tugs me, and likely the whole family I was born of, now alive or dead, like an echo, like trains forever leaving...
I woke this morning in silence. The low hum of the humidifier that's been on now for over a month, keeping our lungs damp in a blown-heat house, was all that could be heard. The streets dead because of Christmas Eve (we're in the kind of neighborhood folks mostly leave to go home from, not the vice-versa, when it comes to holidays), the visiting cats in momentary peace with Aviva (Kiki and Gracie are lovely but have fought most of the last week with our kitten), and the furnace off, the house held in some limbo suspended state. Last week, in writing classes, one woman called the present moment "limbo" and I have been savoring the inherent ambiguity and truth of that possibility - that in order to be in a time that never really exists, because by the time we know it is happening it has gone, we are in a moment that, in fact, is between moments, somehow. That's what the moment felt like - a moment between moments, between separate feelings and separate experiences. Then I realized I was holding my breath, and when I began breathing again, everything began moving again.
My first thoughts went to my brother, the elder of the two, with whom I haven't spoken now in over three years. My last contact with him was over Christmas of the first year I cut contact with him - I emailed him, sad to be apart, but also needing the space, and tried to express this ambiguity to him. Justifiably, he emailed me back and said that I had to set a really clear boundary. Either we were not in contact or we were. I chose to maintain, and it's been silence, since. I have no idea of how his life is, though I certainly have my guesses. My therapist told me awhile back the most sage piece of advice I've received in years, though I cried to hear it: "Do not contact him again until you feel ready to accept him even if he hasn't changed at all". I'm not. And I don't know what I am doing with this limbo, but I do know, that like in meditation, it's not intended as punishment - for either of us - or denial. Just to be space, to be the room between then and now, so I can digest, stop for a moment and let it all sit a bit. I sincerely believe that my relationship with Dylan, and all its wonderful concumbent parts, wouldn't be here if I hadn't taken this space. That isn't blame, just noticing the beneficial effects that "nothing" has on me.
When my grandfather died, many things hit the fan, and they hit fast. It was 1999, and my mother had only died a couple of years before. My eldest brother had gotten married to a woman with whom I had a lot of conflict, and her with me. I was in Portland when he actually passed, and my brothers had to file through many address books to find me - I, ironically, was normally very astute at giving my itineraries to interested parties, but not this time. Instead of flying back, I chose to drive back - a modified version of my original plan, with one of my best friends at the time. I needed the space, though I wasn't able to articulate it at the time. And now, when I look back, I am glad I took it, though it hurt my brothers' feelings (both of them) and confused everyone, including me. The estate sale, arguments over boundaries and rights, confusion over money, not to mention the actual death, funeral, mourning, whole nine, were very, very tough on me and the whole family, creating conflicts that haunt me to this day, and setting into motion, for me, the issues that fostered the final isolation I have chosen from that brother and his wife and son. At first I worried I was just doing what my mom would do - not speak to her best friend for eight years out of anger (or that's how I perceived it, anyway) but now I realize more clearly that there is no substitute for space, just as there is no substitute for being present.
Dylan and I spent yesterday with his parents, having Christmas curry (as his mother says "a new tradition!") and exchanging gifts. I went to Milwaukee the day before to spend time with Alex and Tyler, and we went sledding down sloshy hills just to get out and be active, our best way to spend time together. It's been a very mellow Christmas, moreso than ever, and I have actually liked this time, though there is a perennial undertone of sadness. I feel relief not to be trying to make traditions happen that I may not have liked in the first place, or trying to play a role in someone else's family. We took a family portrait of Dylan and me, with his parents and Aviva in the background (accidental but oh-so-cute!) and although I missed his siblings, it did feel like some sort of family to me, which is both incredibly hard and a huge relief to say. It's been a long time - I was always glomming onto my eldest brother's new family, and Alex and I have had a hard time making holidays perky with just us and his son.
Aviva is asleep next to me, Dylan nursing a Christmas cold and in a little bit, Becky will come over and we'll live out one of her Christmas dreams - to chose who she spends (at least part of) it with, baking cookies and watching movies. I have cried a couple of times, simple acknowledgment that although the "required" festivities are over and these are now just a couple of days I have extra-off when the Y and my favorite coffeehouse are closed, there is still an undercurrent there that tugs me, and likely the whole family I was born of, now alive or dead, like an echo, like trains forever leaving...
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Dharma for dinner, lunch, breakfast and snack
In reviewing my hand-written diary for the last month, since the notebook is almost full, I ripped out the dharma talk pages in order to file them with other dharma talks from the last five years. What was left was a minority of pages recounting daily activities, snippets of novel (I write most of it directly onto laptop now, much to my own surprise) and the occasional poem (don't write many of those anymore). Out of a notebook of 200 pages, less than 50 were daily writings or journal entries, the rest were notes from the last month and a half dharma rampage of sorts - a week in Toronto doing Miksang teacher training (and the notes in the notebook were only from the times I wasn't type-transcribing the entire weekend's training!), Shambhala Arts training Levels 1 & 2 in Minneapolis with Lisa Manley, a weekend study of the Heart Sutra and Non-Violent Communication with Paul Shippee, plus a talk last Monday night with John Dunne, Richie Davidson, and Father Thomas Keating on contemplation and education. Phew. As Becky noted, at least the talk we went to last Monday wasn't a whole weekend and was, in a certain respect, "dharma-light" in comparison to the rest of the month. If you extend back into the notebook before, you get a September of Venerable Khandro Rinpoche's visit, and the super-uber intensive Shambhala Guide Training which has authorized me to give meditation instruction. It's been a very full few months, ironically, also the three months (almost done now) in which I am required to sit upwards of 30 hours a month, to meet the 'probational' requirements of becoming a meditation instructor.
Although Laine and I have joked that we should have a stamp for our kitchen calendar that reads "Miri on retreat", these weekends aren't truly retreats. Recently, birdfarm asked if she should attend a weekend retreat of these sorts, and I was able to see that it wasn't what she needed - she needs peace and quiet, not barrages of information and philosophy. As helpful as those things are, they aren't always what's needed, and in seeing so clearly that it wasn't what she's needed, I pushed aside my own fear of sounding ungrateful and realized that, in fact, getting sick the last few days (before my vacation of 10 days, which begins today), forcing me to cancel classes and pt work, was also a result of too many dharma weekends, too many non-retreats. Too much information, travel, and lack of time to digest. I *am* grateful, but Becky pointed out as I confessed this to her that it's not helpful if one uses dharma as an excuse to block oneself from what one really needs - days at home doing laundry, listening to itunes, calling friends who've recently lost loved ones (two in one week! ouch!), or reading mystery novels (shout out to Laine's rents for the Cara Black book).
I am primed to look over these notes now in the next week, make cd's from my recordings of the Paul Shippee talks, and do some digesting. I am also primed to "watch it" a bit with this stuff in the future. It's especially hard because I already teach some weekends, and weekends are becoming more and more precious to me. Luckily, and it feels so weird to say this, there are no more "retreats" or dharma weekends planned for the rest of the year. I just need the space to digest. I am teaching two one-day workshops, but those feel like a breeze so long as I have a Saturday before them to putter around the house and not get dressed.
Time to go grade WCATY kids, who are sharper this time around, as well am I. Repetition is such a blessing - a class that killed me the first two times I did it now feels so much easier, even with my fullest and youngest class ever (25 5th graders). It is funny how repeating sometimes makes a task easier (like this teaching) and sometimes repeating (like weekend after weekend of dharma talks) just makes things clearer, though not always easier. Sigh. : )
Although Laine and I have joked that we should have a stamp for our kitchen calendar that reads "Miri on retreat", these weekends aren't truly retreats. Recently, birdfarm asked if she should attend a weekend retreat of these sorts, and I was able to see that it wasn't what she needed - she needs peace and quiet, not barrages of information and philosophy. As helpful as those things are, they aren't always what's needed, and in seeing so clearly that it wasn't what she's needed, I pushed aside my own fear of sounding ungrateful and realized that, in fact, getting sick the last few days (before my vacation of 10 days, which begins today), forcing me to cancel classes and pt work, was also a result of too many dharma weekends, too many non-retreats. Too much information, travel, and lack of time to digest. I *am* grateful, but Becky pointed out as I confessed this to her that it's not helpful if one uses dharma as an excuse to block oneself from what one really needs - days at home doing laundry, listening to itunes, calling friends who've recently lost loved ones (two in one week! ouch!), or reading mystery novels (shout out to Laine's rents for the Cara Black book).
I am primed to look over these notes now in the next week, make cd's from my recordings of the Paul Shippee talks, and do some digesting. I am also primed to "watch it" a bit with this stuff in the future. It's especially hard because I already teach some weekends, and weekends are becoming more and more precious to me. Luckily, and it feels so weird to say this, there are no more "retreats" or dharma weekends planned for the rest of the year. I just need the space to digest. I am teaching two one-day workshops, but those feel like a breeze so long as I have a Saturday before them to putter around the house and not get dressed.
Time to go grade WCATY kids, who are sharper this time around, as well am I. Repetition is such a blessing - a class that killed me the first two times I did it now feels so much easier, even with my fullest and youngest class ever (25 5th graders). It is funny how repeating sometimes makes a task easier (like this teaching) and sometimes repeating (like weekend after weekend of dharma talks) just makes things clearer, though not always easier. Sigh. : )
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Feeling Tension versus Filling Tension
I admit it. I am addicted.
I can't seem to stop watching Jericho. Of course they planned it this way - that toward the end of the first season you would stop everything in your life - you would drop all social activities unless they involve others watching Jericho with you, you would stop sex, eating, anything that got in the way of watching the riveting final hours of a town constructed from the post-Apocalypse. But I have it on DVD, which makes it far worse, as those of you whom watch TV shows on DVD know full well.
For the last couple of months, about the time span I have had these DVD's on hand, I have also ramped up meditation practice to, on average, 1 hour/day (as part of Shambhala Guide requirements, but I am also happy to report that it has helped my practice a TON) and I have also started working out regularly (3-4 times a week, swimming or elliptical at the Y) and both of these activities, as regular habits, are almost addictive - I feel off when I don't do them, and clear when I do do them. For instance, yesterday, I had this tremendous anxiety about getting back to work after a week of basically vacation in Toronto, and after watching an episode of near-war situation Jericho, of course. But the fact that I had both worked out and meditated in the morning set me up to see the anxiety pretty quickly, regard it, acknowledge it, and get to work anyway, wading through the piles of emails and getting my online class set up for WCATY.
But what if meditation and exercise didn't have to fight Jericho? I won't be asking that until I am all caught up with the show, I fear. In the meantime, writing also tends to fall by the wayside (you see it wasn't in my list of regular healthy activities ramped up up there) - it has gone back into the perilous position of something I don't do just to do, regardless of how I feel (which is where things like contemplative/meditative practices and exercise MUST go for me, lest I forget the part where I love them and believe I hate them until NOT doing them makes me totally nuts).
So here I am. Baby steps. A meditation instructor recently told a friend of mine "Just sit for 5 minutes", as she was having anxiety returning to meditation after long absence. And I feel like I can use that, too. "Just sit down and do the blog, baby, you don't have to write a chapter of the novel and three letters all in one day". It's the "making up for lost time" feeling that I have a hard time shaking - I used to have it, almost ridden with guilt, at the end of every weekend, and I certainly have it still after vacations, where the lack of structure, which is a necessary freedom now and again!, also means that things I don't do without structure fall apart.
From the "good news" side, I have finally nailed down one very significant aspect of organizing my days, besides the exercise and meditation (and writing!) in the last week alone. For a long time I have plagued myself with uber-long to-do lists, and I have tried prioritizing them and giving myself a break when I don't finish them, but it always feels like there's some super human me on the other side of the fence getting it all done (Yeah, me, 5 years ago. Ugh. Not going back to that!). Starting Tuesday, my first day back from vacation, I made a two-thing to do list (both were pretty complex, mind you, but I knew all I had to do) and then, I did both things, plus a few extras while I was at it, but the key thing is that I got the two things done that would have made me nuts had I not done them (sounds like common sense, but I'm not so good at this particular task!) and didn't worry about anything else. I gave myself space, and didn't feel guilty when some of it went to a Jericho fix. All this while PMS'ing! Not bad!
This afternoon, some of the tension returned and I discovered I wanted to fill it with a list of things to do, and so choosing to write was choosing space and acknowledgment over busy work. This feels like a shift long-coming, and I am sure it won't be without struggle, but if I can learn to work in this realm instead, this realm of reckoning and choosing to feel the tension over filling it, things could be a lot more peaceful in my life. I recognize that I have an awful lot of room in my life right now, for two more weeks, anyway, and actually celebrating that, even if with tv, or best with fall walks and calling people, DOING NOTHING, is great. Some kind of something - step, improvement, cause for cheer, to be feeling instead of filling.
I can't seem to stop watching Jericho. Of course they planned it this way - that toward the end of the first season you would stop everything in your life - you would drop all social activities unless they involve others watching Jericho with you, you would stop sex, eating, anything that got in the way of watching the riveting final hours of a town constructed from the post-Apocalypse. But I have it on DVD, which makes it far worse, as those of you whom watch TV shows on DVD know full well.
For the last couple of months, about the time span I have had these DVD's on hand, I have also ramped up meditation practice to, on average, 1 hour/day (as part of Shambhala Guide requirements, but I am also happy to report that it has helped my practice a TON) and I have also started working out regularly (3-4 times a week, swimming or elliptical at the Y) and both of these activities, as regular habits, are almost addictive - I feel off when I don't do them, and clear when I do do them. For instance, yesterday, I had this tremendous anxiety about getting back to work after a week of basically vacation in Toronto, and after watching an episode of near-war situation Jericho, of course. But the fact that I had both worked out and meditated in the morning set me up to see the anxiety pretty quickly, regard it, acknowledge it, and get to work anyway, wading through the piles of emails and getting my online class set up for WCATY.
But what if meditation and exercise didn't have to fight Jericho? I won't be asking that until I am all caught up with the show, I fear. In the meantime, writing also tends to fall by the wayside (you see it wasn't in my list of regular healthy activities ramped up up there) - it has gone back into the perilous position of something I don't do just to do, regardless of how I feel (which is where things like contemplative/meditative practices and exercise MUST go for me, lest I forget the part where I love them and believe I hate them until NOT doing them makes me totally nuts).
So here I am. Baby steps. A meditation instructor recently told a friend of mine "Just sit for 5 minutes", as she was having anxiety returning to meditation after long absence. And I feel like I can use that, too. "Just sit down and do the blog, baby, you don't have to write a chapter of the novel and three letters all in one day". It's the "making up for lost time" feeling that I have a hard time shaking - I used to have it, almost ridden with guilt, at the end of every weekend, and I certainly have it still after vacations, where the lack of structure, which is a necessary freedom now and again!, also means that things I don't do without structure fall apart.
From the "good news" side, I have finally nailed down one very significant aspect of organizing my days, besides the exercise and meditation (and writing!) in the last week alone. For a long time I have plagued myself with uber-long to-do lists, and I have tried prioritizing them and giving myself a break when I don't finish them, but it always feels like there's some super human me on the other side of the fence getting it all done (Yeah, me, 5 years ago. Ugh. Not going back to that!). Starting Tuesday, my first day back from vacation, I made a two-thing to do list (both were pretty complex, mind you, but I knew all I had to do) and then, I did both things, plus a few extras while I was at it, but the key thing is that I got the two things done that would have made me nuts had I not done them (sounds like common sense, but I'm not so good at this particular task!) and didn't worry about anything else. I gave myself space, and didn't feel guilty when some of it went to a Jericho fix. All this while PMS'ing! Not bad!
This afternoon, some of the tension returned and I discovered I wanted to fill it with a list of things to do, and so choosing to write was choosing space and acknowledgment over busy work. This feels like a shift long-coming, and I am sure it won't be without struggle, but if I can learn to work in this realm instead, this realm of reckoning and choosing to feel the tension over filling it, things could be a lot more peaceful in my life. I recognize that I have an awful lot of room in my life right now, for two more weeks, anyway, and actually celebrating that, even if with tv, or best with fall walks and calling people, DOING NOTHING, is great. Some kind of something - step, improvement, cause for cheer, to be feeling instead of filling.
Monday, October 01, 2007
A Very Novel Novel
The search for the novel inside me continues. Like Michelangelo, I don't think that I am making anything up - writing this whole time has felt much more like divining. Recently, one of my students whom I am also tutoring has gotten into exploring mixed genres of writing, and in particular, shows very strong aptitude for lyric essays (please check Seneca Review online for great examples!) She pointed out to me that she thought my "project" sounded like it might be suited to this form, too, but it's taken me weeks of that suggestion stewing in my head, along with many articles and reviews and examples sent my way from her (also for her benefit, of course!) to get me to actually experiment with the form. This is the first try, and I am really pleased with it. Here it is, in not-very-edited form. Please keep in mind use of first person here is mostly fictional, though the emotional intent is similar to real life, the facts, fact-sounding though they may be, aren't.
Comments are welcome!
---------from "Stranger Ancestors" (working title of "novel" in progress)----------------
My mother kept silent from age 42 to 50.
In the later years of life, the inner ear recedes in on itself and makes of any noise a maze.
Though hearing aids can assist the sounds in entering deeper into caves of the cochlea,
it is rare to ever recover whole sounds.
She claimed she couldn’t hear, too.
How does one dis/prove a deaf/mute?
Such guilt to even assume she’d waste any of her very few words
on a lie like that.
Often, in grief or response to similar trauma, subjects lose their ability to hear
earlier than the typical timespan, which is chemically predisposed to occur in the mid seventies. Sometimes, because of this early loss, the shocked subjects refuse to speak.
My father-in-law has a similar early hearing loss. But he isn’t silent at all. In fact, he
constantly interrupts, not having heard others’ words, and jolts and juggles his own sounds, constantly pretending he can hear everything, including himself.
Women are more likely, socially, to respond to this largely genetic indisposition with silence, rather than arrogance. Being the quieter sex trains such subjects for the reticence and subtleties of early hearing loss. Many embarrassing incidents can be avoided this way; however, lifetimes of social interactions also crumble in these cases, compounding the loss.
I am lucky they never met. Imagine what a holiday mess that would be! My father-in-law wailing away without explanation, his stream of consciousness impotence in face of his auditory ignorance. And my mother, pushed over by the force of his steam train presence, would have heard his intention loud and clear, pounding her butterfly heart, like an action across the world making impacts unseen.
Ironically, it has been found that the inappropriate overly-loud speaking to the deaf so commonly found on the part of the hearing is often a parallel behavior in the deaf themselves, as they have no volume regulator of their own. Rather than looking into the face of the listener – who may reflect back a shame or pity they’d rather not see – they newly, early, nearly-deaf often choose, especially male subjects, to barrel forward without bar.
I read a fantastic book on sign language when my mother was 43, after she’d been silent a year. I hoped we could learn to “speak” to each other this way, but I of course missed the point that she was done communicating altogether. The book, “Train Go Sorry,” has become irrefutable confused in my mind with another book published in the same era, “French Lessons,” as both are memoir-fact books, and had similar facts, tone and even colors on the covers. When I moved to France for a study abroad year, the two became even more interlinked, as I often felt both dumb and deaf in the face of speaking French every single day.
Because second languages are stored in a separate part of the brain from the primary or mother tongue (except, of course, in the case of being raised from birth in a plura-lingual environment), stroke research has found and been able to point at the strange ability of otherwise mute stroke survivors becoming able to speak, fluently and without question, their secondary or tertiary languages, but without being able to either recognize or form their mother tongue, regardless of age.
My maternal grandmother had had a stroke when I was young and for a few days, it is rumored, all she could speak was French, being that she had learned it when she was a child, though later, as a teenager in school. I remember her mostly in French, and so I felt strangely close to her in France, and yet, I had the hardest time parsing out anything beyond the basic nouns and verbs I needed to get enough food to eat. Beyond that, at bars and on the street, as soon as I missed just one word, I would become so ashamed that I couldn’t stick to the frame of the speaker, whether directed at me or not, and the world would grow grey and silent in misunderstanding. I wrote to my mother about this near the end, having had no contact with her all the year, feeling so distant from her without her face to see. I expressed a great deal of sympathy for how she must have felt the last few years, and thanked her for passing on the French her mother had taught her. I hoped she had broken her vow and read the letter, feeling me touch her through it. She died a day after my exams were over, and I flew home early for her funeral.
Studies find that babies cannot hear, after the age of 16 months, the basic sounds of languages other than their mother tongue and any other languages sung constantly in their presence from their time in the womb. This is striking because many sources now confirm that when a baby is actually born, or perhaps soon before, it is born with the potential to hear and discern all languages, and this deafness of human potential is a fast and distinct loss. It can never be regained later in life, though aptitude toward language learning can assist in regaining some semblance of discernment of differing sounds.
I found the letter, months later, unopened on her desk.
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