I am in midair somewhere between Saskatchewan and Manitoba and putting quite a bit of effort into getting my breathing back to normal. The boys and I boarded a flight to London and further on to Budapest. Exciting, yes, but the rattling of the plane claws at my enjoyment like a crazed cat. Up down then shake. Repeat until most passengers are white faced and wide eyes. The plane and my food tray are dancing. Nope, not good. Seat belt sign on. Seat belt sign off. The ding that announces the on/off sign switch almost makes a tune. I have a hard time appreciating any music right now as I am busy holding on to two food trays, mine and Sasha’s, and trying to think hard if I have any unfinished business. Grossly unfinished that is. Drama queen I am not, but the rattling of a plane does that to the sanest mind. I am reduced to a human-size lava lamp only with food in it instead of sparkles. Less glamorous by all means. Tony questions me with a look that is both scared and annoyed. “Can’t eat anything if we do this.” Well, we are not really eating right now. We’re as helpless as the grains of rice spilled on his t-shirt like little bunnies scattered all over a field. Rice listens to no one when high in the air, and my stomach subscribes to the same unruliness.
Month: July 2011
This would not my first choice location-wise, if I were to choose. The grass is mowed to perfection, the playground equipment is too complicated for its own good and there is an army of picnic tables looking like square monochromatic grazing cows minus the horns. Truth is, I find man-made open spaces like this intimidating and that’s a sin in itself as it limits my enjoyment. But I have at least half an hour to kill with the boys so there. I have a good book with me, so I eagerly drop myself in it and start walking down rows of words like they are trees in a forest I get to see for the first time. In the meantime the boys decide to visit the playground but it doesn’t spark their interest much so they move on to greener pasture, no pun intended but it fits.
“The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.”
Don Williams, Jr. (American Novelist and Poet, b.1968)
There is no stranger smelling air than the pool air. Panels of humid chlorine you bump into every step of the way, some whiff of soap and shampoo drifting from the showers, shards of mixed voices hitting the water surface like skipping rocks and exploding in wet syllables only to smoke towards the ceiling incessantly, it’s a funny mix, I’m telling you. Every day now I am taking the boys to swimming classes so I gladly subject myself to pool air immersion because equipping my boys with life skills such as this is the noblest of purposes.
I am lying on my back in the tall grass by the stream. I cannot see the boys, they are far away and way past the tall reeds but I can hear their voices clinking every now and then. I close my eyes. I hear birds, I hear the grass swooshing in the breeze and the water rolling in liquid tumbles all the way to where there boys are then further down into the ocean. This is a place very few people know about. My happy place.
We walked through bushes and down steep hill sides to get here and we jumped over fallen logs that give us some benign scratches every time. Paying the toll, I’d say, it’s fair. The horsetail on each side of the path that cuts through the thick rainforest is as tall as me and the path is narrow and a bit muddy. The air is damp and green, and the leaves sieve the sunlight as if it were liquid.