ust waiting today. For M. to get home, for the mail to be delivered, until it's time to make dinner. I should be working on projects but I'm at a total loss for how to even start, and my usual tricks aren't working. I don't know what's wrong with me but clearly something is.
Yesterday I received a packet in the mail from my grandmother. I opened it up and a wad of ancient letters spilled out with a post-it note on top reading, "Inventory reduction. Love, Bubby." I got one of these from her before but this time it was the real dregs: nonsensical typed characters on a single sheet, crumbled yellow tape from where it had been attached to the fridge, still in the original envelope my mother had dutifully mailed it in. A scrap of torn notebook paper with nothing on it but a small red marker scribble. A postcard from my mother with a small area marked "message from Satya" in which I had squiggled four lines. The postmark reads 1980, when I was three years old. They all smell like her house.
I don't know how to feel that she's saved them all these years, and I certainly don't know how to feel now that she's sent them all back, preparing for her own death. She's waiting for hers, and some days, like today, I think I might be doing the same.
Golly gee, sounds like you are depressed!!! As one who has been there & done that a lot you have two options. 1) Enjoy it. After all, being depressed is a part of life. Enjoying being depressed is a little bit like being in the world, but not of it. 2) Change your state by doing something very physical such as chopping wood or kung fu. Works every time.
As for preparing for death, somewhere Murshid says that is the purpose of life -- or maybe he says it is the purpose of a spiritual life.
Posted by: gangel99 | December 5, 2006 8:45 PM