Viewing

Tonight we went to The Place for The Viewing. There was much to see. Old friends, not so old friends. Familiar faces made thin and wrinkled by time. Remember? Yes? No. Oh yes! Greeted at the door. Jackets go here, there's photos, a Guest Book, She's over there, Wine, Coffee, Tea, pressing the experience on me. So much. So much to see.

Photos: of Marc and Penelope, so young. So daringly gazing out at us from the shadows of light on paper. Immortal then as we believe ourselves to be now. Or more likely, as we are slowly learning we are not. Not at all.

So beautiful: the connection of the two of them over time. Seeing them grow up, old together through these relics of the past. These photos. What’s left over. And I looked at my beautiful, daring, bold friends with their hands provocatively resting on hips, bellies. Toques pulled down over shaggy hair...

I just looked into their eyes: my friends, the strangers. Over and over. Looking into people’s eyes. Barely registering the smallness of the talk. Just looking at the light of being shining shining shining lighting the irises, expanding the pupil, contracting, glinting, shifting almost faster than I could see. All the light and shadows that make blue, hazel, grey, green... Sorry, what did you say?

So thankful for the hands of my friends. Held. The humour. Laughs. Irreverent singing. Boxes of Kleenex placed discretely everywhere. The strong pin-striped shoulders of friends, teachers, pieces of me. Because John Lee said it best: they gave me Me. And I am so humbled by that. By that power. By that gift. By that generosity. I am overcome. Because I cannot imagine being anyone else — no, that’s not true. I can. I have been someone else. This is who I want to be.

And we can say: it's so sad. I even said: it’s so sad. I’m so sad. But it’s not until being here. Alone. That I am actually sad. That the tears come. But you see, I’m not alone. I’m writing to you. Without this writing, there would be no tears. Without this writing...

There was a Guest Book for us to write our thoughts. I was avoiding it. Thinking. Composing my Thoughts. Hoping this would take long enough that I would miss my chance. "Go and write," Maiko said. "Go." So I went. I slipped to the front of the line. In front of John, who stepped outside to cough. "She's sensitive to it," he said, handing me the pen. I started with my well-composed Thought, my clever idea, my "expression." And then the words took over. The idea took over. The feeling. And I kept writing. The tears holding on tightly to my ribcage. (I will not. I will—) I signed my name. "This is me. This is what you've meant to me. This is the very least that I can say. This is me." I handed the pen to John. And I walked away, back to my friends, to Gary. And I hugged him. And I sobbed into his unrecognizable suit jacket. I held on to the solidity of him. And he held me. And I tried not to cry, but there was no stopping. And Maiko saw it, and she spoke it, that it was the writing that did it. The writing...

This is the key to me. The expression. The moment of speech. And it is this that they gave me, those two, the courage to speak. The voice is mine, but the channel, the pathway, that I cleared with their help, their wisdom, their guidance. Persistance to help me find my way.

Do you see? Everyday — every day I remember something. I learn something anew. That is the profound effect of teachers. Shadow and light.

Even tonight.
Tonight.
Tomorrow we go to The Place again. This time to Remember.

We Look. We Talk. We Rest. We Reflect. We Return. We Remember. We Continue...

OH! I forgot my card! That quote, of Marc's, written on the card. I want to tell you... It will have to be tomorrow... tomorrow... tomorrow.......
Goodnight, Marc. Goodnight, Penelope. I am thinking of you.