Friday, June 21, 2013

Death and Sleep

Thinking about the fact of death.  Not in a morbid, scary or I'm-going-to-do-it way, only because someone we know is probably beginning the process.  Suppose once we took our first breath as newborns we began the process so let's say this person is racing to the finish after 88 years. 

In the flush of robust health and the relatively young age of 57 it is easy to say I'm not afraid of death.  Pain, yes but that's another subject and one in which I hope never to have an intimate acquaintance.  Death, however, seems much like sleeping. (Such an original thought!)  When I've lived through a big busy day the sweetest place in the world is my pillow.  I sink onto it with such relief, even with the sense of a lover found after a long absence.  I close my eyes with no fear of the oblivion to follow but with relief, even eagerness.  There is nothing to fear in sleep.

When my mother way dying I believe she reached for it as I reach for my pillow.  She'd been ill for years.  Tired for years.  Everything was an effort and although she loved and was loved, those ties were not enough to claim her.  My paternal grandfather died during one of her hospital stays.  Mom cried.  He's gone before me!  Death was the longed for embrace.

Today we seem to fear death. I fear not my own but the death of others.  It's the grieving that kills.  Death in a way is life.  I hope when my time comes and I pass through that door I will feel as I do now and find that I was right.

 The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Geometric dreams.  Vivid dreams that are staying with me.  I go through dry patches where nothing dreamt survives into daylight.  Now (had to stop then.  The theme from Lawrence of Arabia on the radio.  Great sweeping panoramic exotic sounds.  Music so aligned with the breath.  Had I been holding my breath? for I took a huge deep clearing one at the start, like a breath of release or relief.  Music is such a powerful medium, because it moves through time and is not static like art?  The written word moves through time too and has changed the course of history repeatedly.  But music!  I think if we could saturate war zones with Debussy's Syrinx or Williams soundtrack to Schindler's list, soldiers would put down their weapons and weep with the sheer beauty.  But then I am constantly arrogantly amazed that people don't think like I do.  Like litter.  Walking the dogs I am forever picking up litter.  This 5km dead end road is bordered by giant gum trees, green hills, brigalow scrub, wattles and is quite simply, very beautiful.  So why am I picking up soft drink cans, KFC containers, cigarette packs and other common detritus of modern society?  A few days ago while riding I saw from my higher vantage point someone had flung a bag of garbage into the undergrowth.  Haven't picked it up yet as I need Richard with me to hold the dogs - and to help carry it back.  The point of this is not to have a whinge per se, although whinging does satisfy, but to illustrate that naturally people don't think like I do or they would never litter).

Which is a long seque from dreams.  I don't know why I'm remembering dreams again.  The first dream had our road transplanted to a caldera.  On the opposite side, on the rise leading to the lip was another collection of buildings.  The next night I dreamed of a flood, traced it to a neighbours dam, blue and half filled with water.  The dam was shaped like a roasting pan.  Last night, no dams or calderas but a bathroom with long louvered doors, a former vet nurse, a man tied at the wrists and the rope looped over a coat hook, horses, children underfoot, changing clothes, perfume and guests having a party on the verandah on the other side of the louvered doors.  Complicated and untranslateable. Why do we dream?  The unanswerable question.  The mind entertaining itself while the interfering conscious self sleeps? 

I would like to know the meaning of my dreams but find, as in reading Tarot for myself, that I am unable.  There is no eureka moment, only frustration and confusion.  Despite this I still like to write them down.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Auction of a Life

Yesterday drove to Esk to attend an auction of household effects.  Jacqui's effects.  Jacqui is in a home now and the contents of her two story queenslander with dormer window were spread across the lawn for all of us strangers-in-hunt-of-a-bargain/find to paw through. 

There was a rack of clothing; old ladies clothing, that was also going to be auctioned off.  It was a sad sight, dark pastels and navy blue sweaters with white piping, a pinkish purple mottled jacket.  I could almost see the old lady wearing them.  Now, instead gazing out at her garden with the twin pony tail palms (lot 239) she is gazing at what, 4 walls?  other lost and lonely faces across the dining room table, quick smiling nurses with permanent creases between their brows? 

An entire lifetime gone in an afternoon.  We bought the imitation Tiffany lamp.  Thank you, Jacqui.  I loved it when I saw it and one day, I hope, someone else will adopt and love it too.  Instead of a rack of old lady clothes, dresses and skirts and sweaters, mine will be a drawer of jeans and tee shirts.  Jacqui's auction was a timely reminder.  Time is fleeting.  A baby, a child, a young woman, a mother, a crone.  All gone with the auctioneer's hammer.