Faultlines and Bloodlines
Some days I am certain I sense my mother's essence, shrouded in the tiny steam cloud dancing above a bowl of miso soup.
Or isn't that the offbeat rhythm of her shuffling house shoes I hear echoed in the strokes of my bamboo tea whisk?
All of the ardent efforts of my generation's attempt to be spiritual not religious can not erase the image of a group of altar guild ladies silently arranging calla lilies and irises, privilege pausing to bow down in awe at the beauty and power of nature -- too transient for them to ever tame and emboss but within their capacity to appreciate yet never fully comprehend.
At every turn there is a new book or other product preaching about the futility of material things and selling a plan that will ensure that you will live in the Now not the past. The past is too brilliant of a dancer to fall for such bunk. Bloodlines of the past hold up a mirror that dares me to look at my own future or at least come to terms with those who have already lived it. Reconcile or forever be locked in this dance.
Silences, especially at night, lead me to ponder the fault lines under my bed. A cracked windshield, spider web smile lines that can overnight become ravines. Silence was the beacon call to sleep when my mother read at my bedside, those commas and dashes that gave her the chance to let her eye glance from the page to my bed to see if I was truly, finally asleep. Even now, hours before I need to rest my head for the night, I can hear the silence and wonder if the next sound will be the page turning or the book closing and the light turned off for the night.