pain

that feeling in your stomach, in your throat- the awful, the fear, the indescribable, unbelievable, unthinkable. my heart crystallizes. the mad hand flings in to the floor like a plate. smash smash smash smash, over and over again, stuck on repeat, a scratch in the seam, my heart dashed to pieces over and over again.

simone weil says we should suffer passively... accept our suffering, let our pain wash over us, that we must not resist it, that we must accept it. she says that in this way we become aware of our humanity, our nearness to God. that it is in such a state that we can at least see the veil that separates ourselves from our Maker. that in this state we do not add to the evil in the world. it is running from pain, resisting the fact of pain, doing whatever we can to stop our pain, that cultivates cruelty.

and in moments of lucidity, of calm, of intellectual poise, i agree. when i have achieved that cool distance, i look back at the pain of life and i agree. i look ahead at all the imaginary hurts that the future contains and i agree. i write let it polish me, oh Lord...

but in the present-tense, in the moment of it, my Ethics and Philosophies come face to face with my human frailty. my human frailty kicks up, rises to the surface, overcomes me... and where i once said i agree, i beg why? it rises up, screaming, NOT YET! NOT YET!

it is the Horror of watching the advance of terminal illness. the Horror of being able to see mortality, to know death is coming. we know it and we can't stop it. every day, every day. and here i am, so far from her. every day, every day, reading while i wait for the dreadful phone call. and just like a child, tempted to turn off my phone so that the call can never come.

i hate this so much.

this morning, i watched the sky change from out my bedroom window. as the it struggles toward dawn, it finds the most lovely shade of cornflower blue. deep and cool. it is a color that has always comforted me. it was the color crayon i used as a child to fill in all our eyes. all of us with the same eyes. all of us with her eyes. our pretty mama. we all match.

time is out of order. all the numbers are mixed up. it isn't supposed to go like this. we should have another 40 years.