Sunday, October 08, 2006

not enough sleep

One of the problems with writing a personal but public blog is that while one is certainly free to write about one's own life as thoroughly or as superficially as desired, that life is never truly one's own. And those whose paths are inextricably entwined with ours are entitled to the privacy that used to be the societal norm, before the days of internet confession and reality television encouraged everyone to believe that their every waking moment had to be lived out loud in the public square. As if everyone had a right to know. As if everyone cared.

In the past few days things have not been going well for my little mother, and I find my concerns for her too raw, too difficult to put down here in this, my flimsy little conceit of a journal. I cannot forget that these pages are accessible to all, equally to those of good or ill will, and that while I have the right to expose myself to any sort of scrutiny I wish, I cannot assume that right for anyone else.

But I've been reading A Salty Piece of Land by Jimmy Buffett, a reliably breezy, occasionally reflective and always snappily narrated tale of adventure in the Caribbean, and I came across a passage (very) late last night that gave me pause and odd comfort. In it, Cleopatra Highbourne, the 101 year-old captain of the 142 foot Lucretia muses at the end of her long, adventurous life:

"Tully, this is not the same city I knew as a teenager, when my father and I raced from Martinique. Hell, there were rapids on the river not far from where we sit. Miami was just a trading post then, where the Seminoles would bring their fish, fur, and gator hides down to the market. Tully, I am damn near as old as this city. Age is like an opium dream. I'm not quite sure what is real and what is not anymore. I find myself rambling more, and I think I talk to as many ghosts as humans."

It is that kind of wisdom that I already miss.


My mother has never sailed or been to Martinique. But her life was full of hope, wisdom and beauty, and her reality these days has the fluid quality of those opium dreams, seeming to weave effortlessly back and forth between the world I know to be true and another which I cannot or will not see. There is some solace in knowing that such dreams are universal and timeless.

Mom has always been a stubborn and resilient woman. And although I need her to continue to be, I acknowledge that her own needs may be otherwise, and greater. I know it isn't my call. Right now, I have a feeling it's hers. And right now, I have a feeling I'm 1346 miles from where I should be
.

12 comments:

Anonymous said...

My dear, dear girl. Two years ago I was 132 miles from where I felt I needed to be. My father felt that I was precisely where he needed me to be, which is to say, close enough for comfort, but far enough away that he knew I was still leading my own life.

His needs were for me to let him live as he wished. I wished for him to need me there. He won. I visited frequently but did not stay.

It was very hard.

By the time he died, my mother no longer could remember me. I moved her close to me, because she didn't remember her own home, either.

Two weeks ago, she stroked my face when went to see her. My friend played piano for her, and my mother held my friend's hand and told her "you're a good one."

It was a great day.

You will come to love the stranger in your mother's body. It is a different love, but well, love is love.

Lisa :-] said...

((((gigi))))

Cynthia said...

Gigi, y'all have my thoughts and prayers. Hang in there.

neil said...

Well, I met your mum through your posts and I'm glad for that. I've read this post a couple of times, because while I agree with miz shoes, I have the feeling there is something deeper going on. I hope that whatever outcome is reached that there is peace for all. It might be a bit raw right now, but the film The Notebook might be worth a look.

Paul said...

You should know that your accounts and descriptions involving your mother have always been full of love, awe, and gentle humor, and that they have engendered no small amount of affection for her among people who know you through this medium. We are all of us fans of Gigi's Mom.

I think that, in the future, you will be grateful to have written these passages while this classy little lady was still full of life and love and humor and elegance.

Robbie said...

I understand. We confide our deepest emotions to those we trust and in a place of comfort. Although, a blank screen in the privacy of our own home can delude us into thinking that we are in a comfortable place, one comment can come along to blast that feeling out of the water.

I'm sorry for all that you are going through with your mother. Growing old isn't for the weak or faint of heart.

I'm driving to Texas in December if you'd like to hitch a ride back. ::::G::::

Anonymous said...

i'm sitting here staring at an empty comment box. trying to think of something to say, to bring some comfort. it's really...impossible. All I can say is, I read your post.
I understand. And I will be thinking of you. hugs.
~amy

Lisa :-] said...

In answer to your comment on "Better Terms..." Haven't had time or energy to double post, so I can be found at "Coming to Terms..." these days. Stop by... Lisa :-]

V said...

[[[[ Hugs ]]]]
V

tiny dancer said...

Gigi, you ARE there.

I wish you strength and comfort on your latest journey.

Anonymous said...

You'll be in my thoughts and Prayers. I lost my mother almost five years ago.

alphawoman said...

Gigi I hope all is well.