8:42 a.m. - 2005-07-06
Discarded Treasures Rant
And so, in my tiny new castle, I kept my hair safely away from the windows lest some interloping prince should gain entry. In solitude, Rapunzel thrived, learning to cook salmon, to read Thomas Merton, to sit in the quiet without terror. I found beautiful affirmations inscribed on purple plaques at the Bodhi Tree. They hung from every mirror, promising radiant health, divine protection, guardian angels insuring safe passage. Daily, I pronounced them with conviction to the girl who looked back in wonder from the bevelled glass. I enrolled in a ballet class. My limbs were long and surprisingly limber, moving easily like a child's. I took myself to a Tom Waits concert at the Wiltern, just me. I talked to strangers in the next seats. Without the ususal shyness. Each night, I enjoyed the sleep of the innocent, hugging a trash can bear I named Oscar. Weekdays, I played Spades for a living with the patients on Ward I. In between the magazine collages and plastic suncatchers, I would lie in the deep grass of the recreation yard, reading my Rajneesh, listening to the cawing of crows and the squeals of the patients forgetting their cares on the shuffleboard court. Around my neck, I wore a crystal on a black leather cord. It hinted of powers, magical and benevolent. I looked at the sky with confidence. It seemed the pieces were all beginning to fit. At lunch, I would go to the thrift shop, squeezing into slightly tattered Guess jeans, finding new treasures to display on the white walls that enclosed me like a fresh, clean hug. Decoupaged photographs of the rocky coast of Northern California. Threadbare scarves to drape over lamps. Souveniers from places I had never been. Other people's discards were my favorite things. I liked to see the value in what had been carelessly tossed. The reclaimed memories of strangers were given places of honor. Welcomed with dignity into my private space. I liked the idea of sudden grace. Eleventh hour salvation. The thief on the cross. Every corner of my heart sang of possibility, self forgiveness, redemption. Weekends, I would comb garage sales for yet more amazing rubbish. I gathered things to myself, carefully selected barnacles. Beautiful and ugly, Transforming them into some unique gestalt of freedom and acceptance. I seemed to take such deep breaths there on Burbank Boulevard, as though the air itself was laden with hope. Slowly I emerged anew from the familiar cocoon, brushing the glue from my wings, stunned at the bold and intricate patterns of my own discovered flight. I felt self contained and yet strangely at one with everything animated with life throbbing senselessly. The thin resilient trees, the clouds awesomely reconfiguring in the moment I would never have again, the hum and buzz of nature, the God who would reclaim me like some precious find that only He could see. I lived like this for some time, each morning a bright package to be opened, each evening a cosmic embrace. One afternoon like any other, I returned from work. As always, I pressed "play" and waited a second to hear the messages on my answer machine. Looking back, that second was another of those pivitol moments in time when everything could easily go one way or the other. What exactly hung in the balance, I am unable to articulate. Only that reeling backwards may have spared so much pain and joy. And so, the moment proceeded as it had to. Startled, I heard the poignant yearning of Roy Orbison's voice. He sang, "I was alright ... for awhile ... I could smile for awhile ...". It was Rick, letting me know in his way that he was back. Of course, the choice was mine. I could push "erase" and be done with the despair that summoned me like its own private slave. I could go about my evening. Broil my salmon in olive oil with just a touch of basil. I could read about the liberation of my soul. I could hug my scruffy bear, pressing my hands against my ears. I could recite my affirmations. Perhaps cry just a little for star crossed lovers wherever they may be. Or I could let down my golden braid, there from my second story window, there in the room full of me. Let down my hair and take my chances. The gossamer cocoon beckoned from a dark corner. I responded.
�
�
