The Off to College Moon
Shabbat gratefuls: Luke. Leo. Early Supper. Gabe and Ruth on Monday. Jon, dead two years on September 4th. Kate, always Kate. Kate’s Creek. Kate’s Valley. Wild Strawberries. Wild Raspberries. Cool, clear Water. A White Pine. A Douglas Fir. Pablo Casals. The cello. Pamela. BJ. Sarah. Great Sol. Zeus. Hera. Dionysus. Orpheus. Eurydice. Tiresias. Homer. Odysseus. Scylla. Charybdis. Circe. Transformations. Metamorphosis.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Transformation
Kavanah: Creativity Yetziratiyut similar to the Greek: Κέφι – The spirit of joy, passion, and enthusiasm that overwhelms the soul, and requires release
One brief shining: Dreams slip into our lives during those times when, according to Jewish tradition, the neshamah-soul leaves the body for journeys of its own, not sure right now what dreams if the soul has gone its own way, but a few weeks ago I had a dark dream of a killer who stalked me and my friends, leaving death, dead bodies in his wake, a dream which yesterday I shared in my dream group with Irene, Irv, Marilyn, Sandy, and Clara and which I need to write myself into. Which I’m about to do.
The killer had the look of the character from the radio show, the Shadow. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.” Floppy hat that covered his face, long dark cape. In the dream the Shadow character went everywhere; even when he didn’t seem to be nearby, I felt his presence. My first pass at this dream had a literal take. Cancer. Bringing death wherever he goes. A specter always with me, his shadowed presence blocking the light.
Dreams, Irene says, present psychic issues we need to address. They are not prophetic or literal, rather evocative and symbolic. So, if not a shadow who knows what cancer lurks in the hearts of men, what?
As the discussion grew richer and deeper, Irene asked what would happen if I turned and had a conversation with the Shadow figure rather than avoiding him. Oh, I said, I can write that. That’s what this is.
I turn, slowly, with some hesitation toward the figure slouching behind me: “Do you want to tell me something? Or, are you just a stalker?”
A gravelly voice spoke from beneath the hat’s broad brim, a face not visible: “Stalker? Yesss. I ssupose you could ssay.” His sibilance was less like a snake’s, more like a child’s bothersome lisp. “But only because you keep moving away. Not really sstalking. Waiting. I’ve been waiting.”
I tried to see under the hat brim. Not successful. “Waiting for what?”
Dark shoulders shuddered. Was he laughing? “Waiting for you. To stop.” A slight turn into the light and his face, lined, wrinkled, and bearded came into partial view. Seemed familiar somehow.
“Oh,” I said, reaching for the hat brim and before his hand could reach mine, grabbed hold, and flipped it off his head. A sigh, not a gasp. “You.”
“Yes,” he said, a crooked grin on his gray bearded face, “You.”
A moment of quiet, an aha creeping from toes up to my head. “You’re me. I’m you.”
“Just so.” He took off the cape to reveal a Vermont Flannel shirt, an LL Bean blue fleece over its red-blue plaid, that black forever belt purchased at a Renaissance fair years ago in Minnesota, Levi’s, and Keene’s. “Just so.”
“Give me a moment, please.” I went still. Confronted by a specter neither from beyond nor from story, but from within. A Shadow Mountain shadow. I gathered myself. (Just now. Since I’m learning all this this as I write.) “O.K. I’m listening. Not avoiding.”
His eyes twinkled and the gray beard moved up toward them as he (I) smiled. “Thank you. This will be brief. Though it could be long.
A while ago you moved to Colorado with the intent of carrying your Minnesota life with you. Become a docent at the Denver Art Museum (DAM), join ranks with the Colorado Sierra Club while seeing the grandkids more often and learning to live a Mountain, Western life. You did the same, if you recall, when you moved, reluctantly, to Andover. Though then you did stay more connected to your urban, political, and cultural life. At least at first.
Here in Colorado the disruption of the old urban politics and intensive cultural life became complete. DAM was no MIA and trips down the hill were more onerous even than those from Andover to Minneapolis. The Sierra Club back then was not in vibrant shape and your work, legislative work, would have required even more trips down the hill. Then came cancer. After that Kate’s illness, Jon’s divorce, Vega’s death, then Gertie’s, then Kate’s and a little over a year later, Jon’s, then Rigel’s and Kepler’s. All the while surgery, radiation, castrating drugs to lower testosterone. Surveillance and blood draws. Also the immersive qualities of Mountain life, reinforced by the discovery of Congregation Beth Evergreen.
The result? A life buffeted by chance, by death and disease, bolstered by Wild Neighbors, Mountains and Streams, Jewish life, life with Kate in a place where she felt every day was a vacation. A wild Water ride, a raft that has spat you out on the shore of 2024 with Ruth in college, you a Jew, grieving become memory and gratitude, no dogs, lots of friends and family, but nearly drowned more than once, exhilarated, panicked, grateful to be alive. Maybe a bit woozy because it got going pretty fast there for a while.”
“Well,” I nodded, “When you put it like that.”
“Yes.” He gave me a kind smile, “And I do put it like that.”
“That’s it?”
“For now. There is more to the story. Here’s the question I’d like you to consider. Now that you’ve landed, how and who do you want to be in this always changing world?”
