A Mallard in Repose

It's been 40 days. I counted them. 40 days since I saw that lone mallard duck. 

I was on a walk. As I approached the edge, just about to pass the memorial that is like a small park, but in some ways is also like a cemetery with a design that invites you to enter to sit at one of the granite slabs, invites you to read the descriptions, to honor those that have served, to feel comfort in the tall birch trees that stand among the tufted grass, their white skin peeling off like pages in a book.

And when you approach from any direction, you see the tall slabs of granite that grace the edge of the sidewalk, water trickling down. In the middle you see the shallow geometrical shapes, filled with water, and down the center is a long path–the entire memorial is meant to be walked, to soak in the beauty, to take in the quiet, taking our minds somewhere, to make us think and appreciate. You can walk up and put your hand into the water. I've seen teenage boys ride their bikes through. I cringe when they do, only because it doesn't feel like that's what it's meant for, but it's so inviting, and at the same time, it causes a quiet stir inside. 

So, it was here that I was taken aback when I saw a single mallard peering into his own reflection or so it seemed. He stood at the edge of the water just looking in as though he was in a trance. I walked past and continued on with my walk.

The next day I walked the same path and I hoped to see the mallard. I did. Only this time he was curled up near the same spot that I saw him the day before. I felt sad. I asked myself why I felt sadness. Was it because I wasn't used to seeing ducks alone or appearing as if they are in contemplation and then snuggled up as if they are suffering a great loss.

I sat at one of the granite slabs and watched the mallard. It was peaceful, even as the street traffic passed by.

And then there came a passerby and he began snapping photos with his camera. He approached the mallard, the mallard got up and walked away and snuggled up in a different spot. The man tried again, only to cause the mallard to move again. Finally, the man stopped.

The mallard resumed his repose.

Random Acts

"Happiness 

often sneaks

in through

a door you 

didn't know

you'd left

open."

–John Barrymore

On Saturday morning I decided to take myself to breakfast before going into work. I needed the fuel of a large platter of eggs, hash browns, and bacon, so that I could focus on work without the interruption of hunger. 

The restaurant was busy, but I was taken to a table with seating for four that was near another table with a solo breakfaster. I ordered a decaf coffee and a water. When the coffee arrived, I took a deep breath, inhaled the aroma, and drank. I released a long breath as I imagined what I had left to do at work. April 15th was almost here and I felt relaxed and relieved.

The server appeared, ready with a smile. He asked how my weekend was going. "So far so good. A little bit of work today. How's your weekend going?"

"It's going good...where do you work?" he asked.

"At a small tax office."

"Oh, it's your busy time."

"Yes, it's almost done. Just waiting for a few more checks for extensions."

"I'm curious. How does an extension work?"

"Well, you get an additional six months to file your taxes, but if you owe money, you still have to pay that with your extension request."

I satisfied his curiosity. I smiled at him. He said he'd place my order and it would be up soon.

I took another sip of my coffee, and heard the gentlemen next to me say, "Nothing like tax talk on a Saturday morning."

I looked over to him briefly to acknowledge him and gave him a smile. I didn't have my glasses on, since I often take them off when I'm eating, so I wasn't able to see him clearly, or maybe because of my introverted ways, I didn't rest my eyes upon him long enough.

I sat for a few moments, maybe even two or three minutes, then out came the notebook. It's always interesting to see how long I can sit if I'm dining in a restaurant alone, to see how long I can sit before pulling out my notebook. When I was done writing, I sat still again, then I reached for the book I had brought. I was then transported out of the restaurant into my own world–I had slipped into the quiet where I feel at home amongst the bustle, being surrounded by loud noises, chatter, and movement, yet immersed in my own quiet space.

When my breakfast arrived, I wiped down my utensils with the napkin, set them down. I mixed my medium done eggs in with the hash browns, added salt, pepper, and tabasco sauce. I enjoyed every delicious bite of my meal and I knew that it would get me through the morning. The server had been by a few times to see how my food was. Everything was great. 

I sensed that the gentlemen was getting ready to leave as his server was asking if he needed anything else and he said he was ready for the check. I also still have moments of shyness, otherwise, I may have looked up, started a conversation, or said goodbye, but pair moments of shyness with a natural inclination toward introvertedness, and well, it doesn't make for the most outgoing of individuals. 

When my server came by again, I said that I was ready for my check. "Well, actually," he said, "the man that was sitting there, he paid for your breakfast."

"Oh my goodness. How nice of him. My gosh." I was taken aback with surprise.

"So whenever you're ready, you're free to go. Enjoy the rest of your day."

"Thank you, you too."

I was going to pay for my bill with my ATM card. I didn't have any cash with me, but I still wanted to leave the server a tip. I went over to the convenience store and bought a few postcards in order to get cash back. I went back to the restaurant and handed him his tip.

I felt a deep gratitude inside and I felt something open up inside of me that would fill my day with an added lightness– a happy, grateful feeling. I felt giddy at the kind gesture of this gentlemen–this stranger–a fellow human being, who for whatever reason, at that moment in time, expressed a random act of kindness.

And to him, this gentlemen, whom I may never see or recognize again, I thank him dearly. I will remember.

Film: After Life ~ Reflection

I've had this film on my mind for the past few weeks. When I first watched it, at least 10 years ago, the question it posed made an impression on me: If when I Die, I can select one memory to take with me to the beyond and relive that memory for eternity, what would I choose?

The film was stored in my mental river. I'm not sure what has drawn me back to this movie recently, possibly it was recharged by watching another Japanese film dealing with death and reading a handful of Japanese literature lately that brought me back. 

The film is told, for the most part, through a series of interviews with the dead who have arrived at a way station. They have one week to decide on just one memory that the counselors will do their best to recreate on film for the dead to view one last time before they depart to heaven and live this memory for eternity. The counselors gather as much information as possible from each person in order to bring their one memory to life. In some cases, when a person cannot think of any memories, their tapes are ordered: one for each year of their life. They then sit down, watch and search.

As I began giving thought to the memories in my own memory bank–if this were real and I were in their shoes, what would I do? At first, a memory came to me easily enough. Then I thought of how much depends of what stage of life we're at and whose in it at the time. But if I'm already dead, that changes. 

Then after watching the movie again, I had a change of heart. I realized that it would be too difficult to select just one memory, and to be honest, after I started thinking about what one of the characters said, he reminded me that it might actually be a little sad to relive the same memory forever.

I identified most with an elderly woman in her eighties who reminded me of my grandmother. She had nice round cheeks that were lifted into a smile. While she was sitting for her interview, as soon as she heard birds chirping, she looked to where she heard the sound coming from, and all her attention shifted. She didn't say much. She had a bag in her lap that she was taking leaves out of and setting on the table, one by one. She asked if there were any flowers in the garden. In the spring they told her. 

After asking her a series of questions: Was she married? Did she have children? and being met with nods of her head to say no, the counselors realized that this woman had actually already chosen her memory. She had sort-of locked into her childhood when she died, so instead of the 80-year old woman we saw, she was actually a young girl inside. They show a scene toward the end where she is sitting on the bench swinging her legs with the happiest, most carefree expression on her face. That is one of my favorite moments in the movie.

There aren't any special effects in this film; instead what you'll find is a touching, sometimes funny, sometimes sad expression of the afterlife and an exploration of the memories these characters hang on to, the power of all of our senses; and in turn, how these expressions encourage us to reflect upon our own treasured memories.

**

After Life (known in Japan as Wonderful Life) - 1998

Directed and written by Hirokazu Koreeda

As I Wake

As I wake, 

cool air slips through the open window 

caressing my cheeks and forehead with its freshness. 

Small birds chatter away, a single crow sounds his horn–

and then my senses perk up as I hear the familiar 

and welcome sound of Canadian Geese pass overhead, 

with their deep guttural, honk-honk–I take a deep breath, 

smile, and live in the moment of waking. 

Friday Morning

As I left the house Friday morning, the sky opened up bright. The rain began again, streaming down like morse code, delivering a message with the most positive vibration--a message that I could not decipher except in how it made me feel inside. 

The Human Condition ~ Selling a Magazine Subscription

Walking back from the laundry room, it was near evening; I looked up into the sky, when I saw a black man in his thirties approach the duplex we live in. He was wearing a satchel that seemed to be bulging with books, a clipboard under his arm. "Hello" I said as I walked up behind him carrying my laundry basket full of warm clothes. He turned and gave me a wide smile and an energetic "good evening." He went into his sales pitch; I walked past him so that I was closer to the door. In as polite a manner as possible, I asked him if he could get to what it was he was selling because I had something on the stove. I smiled. He said no problem and with his continued joyful nature, he added that he was a single father and this was his last stop and that he needed to sell one more magazine subscription. 

"I don't have any cash. All I have are these quarters," and I pulled out the baggy of quarters from my pocket. "I don't usually carry cash. I'm sorry." 

"Are you sure you can't help."

"But I just told you I don't have any cash."

I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable. The night seems to be getting darker. Finally, he accepts that I'm not going to buy a magazine subscription. His smile and joy disappear like a magic trick. Poof. He doesn't say thanks for your time or anything. He just shakes his head at me, gives me a dejected look, and turns to go.

"Good luck," I say.

I might have bought what he was selling if I did have the money. On the other hand, the way that he acted when I wasn't able to help him, makes me think twice. I can see the situation from both points of view. I can appreciate his disappointment, yet how can a person be so bold, to expect another human to produce something that they simply do not have in that moment. 

I was perturbed. I forgot to look back up into the sky because, now, I was distracted. I don't like disappointing people; more than that, I don't care for people that are nice when they want something and then turn their act off when they don't get what they want. 

I'm always leery of sales people; however, if you're going to try to sell something, at least have the courtesy to see your script through and be kind either way. After all, you are taking someone's time.

The laundry in my basket turned cold. As I walked into the house, I couldn't help but to re-contemplate the human condition, and the weeks since this occurrence I haven't been able to get it out of my mind, in this specific situation and in general.  

A Good Cry

From time to time, K. and I get together for lunch. We used to work together long ago and kept in touch. It's hard for me to believe she'll be 64 this year. I told her that her spirit is like a 30 year old to me and she has a glow about her–a youthfulness–that doesn't make her seem her age. 

K. is picky about where we eat, so I was pleasantly surprised when she said yes to the Indian restaurant that serves a lunch buffet. Is it clean she asked. Yes, I said. Is it good?   Well, I like it...yes, it's good. We chose a table near the back in this dimly lit restaurant with colorful walls and Indian music playing in the background. We went up to fill our plates with a variety of Indian fare. When we get back to the table, we both admire our plates. To me, it's like a palette of desert colors waiting to be painted into a beautiful piece of art, and the spices take me somewhere far away that I'd like to experience in real time. K. is excited and after taking her first bite, she is in love with this place and plans to come back and bring back her co-workers. I tell her I'm so happy to hear it, that I'm glad she likes it and was willing to give it a chance.

We talk about our lives, about how we have in common this drifting quality, this thing in both of us where we never really found "careers" and that neither of us has ever aspired to "success" in the traditional sense. It's interesting for me to juxtapose our similarities given the age span between us. 

We talk about how I'm trying to get pregnant and how it's scary, being older and not having a super solid foundation, but having a deep feeling that things will work out if indeed I am able to conceive and follow through with a healthy pregnancy. She tells me how she's always wanted children, but she said from the get go her husband made it clear he did not want children. He did not want to bring a child into this world; and I have to say, I used to feel exactly the same way, but things have changed. I have changed.

My mother conceived me when she was 43 and I was born in the summer when she was 44. This year I will be two years younger than the age she was when I was conceived. When I told my brother, who practically raised me, that hubby and I were trying to get pregnant, he was so excited for us and said that he and his girlfriend had wondered about it. I told him of my concerns, being older and all; and of course, he reminded me of our mother having me when she was close to my age. I said, yes, but...and gave him a few of my concerns. He said to keep positive. I said, yes, and asked him if he would pray for me, and he said of course. 

At this point I don't want to get my hopes up because first we have to actually get pregnant and second...well, it's very possible we can't. It's difficult to make a decision to want something, something as big and life changing as having a baby, only to feel that the odds are against you, even though you see older mothers conceiving and having healthy babies all the time. We haven't' been trying terribly long, but each month I get my period, there's a small sadness that hovers over me. When I see pregnant mothers, there is a longing inside of me. When I play with little A., I want so much to be a mother. But, this is in my body's hands and in God's hands. What will be, will be. My migraines are a whole other issue. I can't take any medication, except Tylenol, which really doesn't help. I stopped taking the daily meds right away when we knew we were trying and hubby said to be sure to speak to the doctor about the medication I take. I remain hopeful. 

So K. and I talked about all that and she assured me that she had no regrets at not having children, but the thought didn't leave my mind, and I vowed to myself and hubby felt the same way; we don't want to have the regret of at least not trying.

We also talked about movies. First it started with me asking her if her husband was emotional or if he was more like my husband, which is probably like most men–which is hardly emotional. 

I gave her a recent example. I told her how we were in a nice restaurant and for some reason I decided to tell hubby about a Japanese movie that I had watched called Departures and how although there was a bit of light humor throughout, ultimately, it was a melancholy film that moved me deeply, especially the final scene. I told her that as I described the final scene to him, I choked up and that he gave me this look to say are you really going to start crying in the middle of dinner while I'm trying to enjoy my steak and shrimp. I pushed through it without tears. 

So here I am retelling the same final scene to K. and the strange thing is, I thought it would be out of my system; instead, I was reliving the moment and I choked up again, only I let the tears come and she got emotional and she started crying and then laughing and then I started laughing and crying again and then laughing because here we are in the restaurant, two women crying over their meals. 

She then told me about a movie that made her emotional called Hachi. I told her I hadn't seen it but that I knew of the movie. And well, we went through the process again because as she told me what the movie was about, she started welling up and her emotion touched me and we were crying and laughing again. 

I noticed that her tears were a lot bigger than mine. I reached into my bag and offered her a tissue to wipe the mascara that had trickled down her face.