Morsels of Delight Despite Everything
There are always words and phrases; today they are quiet murmurs buzzing through me, so I bring them here to share...
We are now in the tunnel of a seemingly merciless dark and gray, the inevitable slog towards the solstice. Winter in the Pacific Northwest, bleak though it may appear at times, can offer hidden pleasures, assuming one is housed and fed, and not dealing with threats of violence or any other malevolent mishigas (Yiddish, for all you uninitiated out there - it means craziness, irresponsible behavior & stupidity). Thankfully, none of the latter is visiting our household today and that gives us the luxury of thinking about the morsels of delight that are announcing their presence, despite the huge angst visiting so many around us.
Yesterday afternoon, there was a moist chill in the air as we walked from my studio to the local ramen joint and back. Heavy rains from a few days ago gifted us with a lovely soft carpet of brightly hued leaves. We were cheered by this, plus time alone as a couple has been rare for us during the past 6 months, so we don’t take this treasure for granted. As we walked, we noted that the buildings looked especially desolate, with barely a soul outside. This part of Tacoma is a liminal space, filled with halfway houses and group homes sitting next to newly refurbished or constructed condo buildings and drab 1970s-era storefronts of businesses that seem to be limping along. As we approached our destination, a kind-faced, middle-aged Black man emerged from a four-story, brick apartment building and cheerfully said “hello & how are you” to both of us; his bright smile was enough to reframe my perception of the landscape, from grim to not-too-bad.
.
Two Saturdays ago, B-Z could not have walked anywhere, but here we were delighting in his strength and appetite, teasing each other as we went. The modest eatery down the street, Zen Ramen Sushi Burrito, is decorated in an anime-soaked kitsch. The smiling woman behind the counter welcomed us in Japanese and answered questions about the menu. A big screen of continually moving and elaborately choreographed Asian pop stars was fortunately out of view as we sat in a cozy booth next to the storefront window, attending to our steaming bowls of spicy ramen. Mine was as spicy as those offered to me in Chongqing, China, 3 years ago. I had learned then to put a spoonful of the broth on the front of my tongue first, otherwise my oversized tonsils would complain miserably, choking and coughing from the fiery pepper. B-Z made his way through his whole bowl (not a spicy one) with great satisfaction. I was amazed by his returning appetite. I could not finish mine, as good as it was.
We made it back home before the 4:23 pm sunset to get cozy. I went into the London Writer’s Salon’s 24 hour writing cabin to hang with a few writers from different parts of the world. It’s always a very welcoming space. I wrote most of this in that virtual domain. B-Z, by contrast, alternated between video-watching in bed, working on his 3rd draft of his book, and eating yet another meal (I did not). I had a short session reviewing French & Spanish on Duolingo until B-Z persuaded me to watch a few episodes of Midnight Diner on Netflix. The latter offers an intimate view of a certain aspect of Japanese culture, and as compelling as it ways, I really wanted to be reading, so I pulled out the latest issue of The Sun Magazine, and inhaled my favorite section, Reader’s Write, looking for raw honest stories to inspire my own, before turning out the light.
The day was filled with uncomplicated pleasures, and I found myself feeling the grace of that fully. It seems that this forced immobility has switched on some new skills, probably ones that come with a long creative practice as well as the harvest of elder-hood. This state of ease has not been simple to arrive at, especially with a partner navigating cancer healing protocols and our lovely, neuro-diverse young adult son in the house whose very committed quest for emotional stability continues to keep us on our toes. The days of wishing I were somewhere else, wishing I was not so tethered by domestic responsibilities, are diminishing, and I’m feeling more liberated by this hunkering down.
Over the past few years of immobility, there’s been more than a few times that I’ve glanced at the photos on social media of folks who have traveled and lived in beautiful spots around the world, and thought about how my dreams of such adventures have stalled and may never be realized in this lifetime. Now I look at these photos with more complexity: there’s an appreciation of my friends’ good fortune (something like compersion) but also a knowing that all may not so perfect on the other side of those glowing photos (such as cancellations of flights, lost luggage, illness, etc.). I’ve also been cultivating joy in remembering the amazing places that I HAVE visited over this lifetime (journeys that I may not have really appreciated fully at the time). Some of these photos can be jarring, as they are glimpses of a reality that may soon disappear; places that are rife with conflicts or burgeoning ecocide unseen in the camera lens. For some people with privilege, it can feel like we are running out of time; there’s a desperation to get to the whole bucket list before we can’t do this sort of thing anymore.
While traveling abroad is not in the calendar for now, I’m discovering the heart-opening journeys of internal work that was long avoided and cherishing the preciousness of semi-predictable routines. I get up, do my morning ablutions, tend to the cat’s needs, heat water for my tea, write in my journal, go to a silent writing session online, do my yoga stretches, read and delete emails (responding to one or two), listen for the sounds of our son’s morning coffee making and that of B-Z’s shower, prepare my breakfast, and so on goes the day. I know that these little gems of ordinary life are fleeting in a world of authoritarian regimes, drowning refugees, gun massacres, and unsheltered neighbors, and when I feel too oppressed by these realities, I remind myself of the courage of humans who are rising in solidarity in Iran, China, and elsewhere, and then look for the moss growing with abandon in between the pavers, and I take heart. I am finding some grace in that process of sitting still after so many years of hyper-mobility and overwork.
Gratitude is the catapult that lifts us up and over seemingly unnavigable terrain. With the world of fear and violence that coats everyday life in Amerikkka with a slime that seems unshakeable at times, it’s amazing to find peace of mind in any corner, but it’s a necessity if we’re going to move through this threshold.