She goes for the jugular, that Natalie Goldberg. I sit in a Bakersfield Laundromat because of incomplete plumbing repairs watching a fifteen-month-old girl with enormous eyes and one hoop earring repeatedly toss her stuffed bear on the ground.
“I want attention,” she said with every drop of the flimsy bear to the floor. “Pick up the bear, give it to me, I have attention, I have focus. You notice me.”
I chatted with her and then she wobbled over from the sitting position her Mom-or-maybe-aunt-or-maybe-neighbor-friend had perched her in. She was swooped up and taken from our short friendship.
No more talking to the lady whose blouse was the color of the summer sky in early morning. No more of what I realize in just that moment was actually avoidance of an assignment, a distraction by toddler-attention, a procrastination tactic by a more than willing partner in crime.
Natalie Goldberg had asked me a question. I sat there with my notebook open, pencil in hand and made friends with a baby instead.
Well, it wasn’t a question actually. It was more of a command. Straight from her new book, “Old friend from far away.”
She looked at me, across the table and said, “Tell me what you will miss when you die.”
My relentless little friend toddles up to me right as I write those words, extending a Pringles potato chip from her chubby hand.
“Da!” she says, her mouth, I notice, filled with a chunk of the chip she is offering me.
“Thank you,” I say. “How generous! But you can keep the chip. I am not hungry.”
I keep moving my pencil.
What will I miss when I die?
If I were to die right now, or on my way home from the Laundromat, I would miss the warmth of the clothes when I pull them from the dryer all sweet and clean smelling.
I would miss the sweet contentment of filled drawers and closets with hangers filled with choices, color-and-texture combinations. I would miss seeing Emma in her cherry covered blouse and Sam button his signature shirts, the one my Mom makes and others like them, the pockets carefully lined up with the shirt pattern – matching, in sync, methodically crafted from fabric we buy cheaply at Wal-mart.
I would miss publishing the next book, teaching the next class. I would miss the gift of syncronicity. I would miss the slap of my foot on the pavement and the weight of Hank’s body as he joins me at the foot of the bed or the couch, a canine-living-breathing foot warmer.
I would miss helping Sam untangle the world’s language, straighten it out so I he can get his language comb through it.
I would miss listening to Emma’s profound insights. I would miss reminding her of my close attention to her details. I would miss hearing her wildly large goals and her inate connection to truth.
I would miss connecting with people, even those one-shot-people like my toddler friend and her family.
I would miss sharing daily gratitudes and reading the soulful celebrations of others: some wordy and dense, some singular and terse all smiling up into the face of divinity.
I would miss finishing “Light on Snow” a compelling read, a better indication to me of Anita Shreve as a writer to return to after not-quite-enjoying “The Pilot’s Wife.”
I would miss hearing my voice in my eardrums, miss feeling the way it is when the breath rises in my throat and somehow turns into intelligible sounds. I would miss how it feels to say certain words as they rise from my tongue and lips, words like “nosocomial” and “tangential” and “contemplative.”
I would miss catching sight of Katherine when she returns from Mexico, that first sight after absence – the catch in my breath, the wonder as my heart beats just a tiny bit faster, “This stunning creature came from my womb, her – that’s her!”
I would miss my skin.
I would miss deep eye contact.
I would miss hugs.
I would miss singing.
I would miss standing ovations.
I would miss performing.
I would miss holding a pencil, the smell of the lead as it sacrifices myself on cheap notebooks so that I can discover whatever it is I am meant to discover and then serve it up for you and him and her and them.
That Natalie Goldberg. She always goes for the jugular.
“I want attention,” she said with every drop of the flimsy bear to the floor. “Pick up the bear, give it to me, I have attention, I have focus. You notice me.”
I chatted with her and then she wobbled over from the sitting position her Mom-or-maybe-aunt-or-maybe-neighbor-friend had perched her in. She was swooped up and taken from our short friendship.
No more talking to the lady whose blouse was the color of the summer sky in early morning. No more of what I realize in just that moment was actually avoidance of an assignment, a distraction by toddler-attention, a procrastination tactic by a more than willing partner in crime.
Natalie Goldberg had asked me a question. I sat there with my notebook open, pencil in hand and made friends with a baby instead.
Well, it wasn’t a question actually. It was more of a command. Straight from her new book, “Old friend from far away.”
She looked at me, across the table and said, “Tell me what you will miss when you die.”
My relentless little friend toddles up to me right as I write those words, extending a Pringles potato chip from her chubby hand.
“Da!” she says, her mouth, I notice, filled with a chunk of the chip she is offering me.
“Thank you,” I say. “How generous! But you can keep the chip. I am not hungry.”
I keep moving my pencil.
What will I miss when I die?
If I were to die right now, or on my way home from the Laundromat, I would miss the warmth of the clothes when I pull them from the dryer all sweet and clean smelling.
I would miss the sweet contentment of filled drawers and closets with hangers filled with choices, color-and-texture combinations. I would miss seeing Emma in her cherry covered blouse and Sam button his signature shirts, the one my Mom makes and others like them, the pockets carefully lined up with the shirt pattern – matching, in sync, methodically crafted from fabric we buy cheaply at Wal-mart.
I would miss publishing the next book, teaching the next class. I would miss the gift of syncronicity. I would miss the slap of my foot on the pavement and the weight of Hank’s body as he joins me at the foot of the bed or the couch, a canine-living-breathing foot warmer.
I would miss helping Sam untangle the world’s language, straighten it out so I he can get his language comb through it.
I would miss listening to Emma’s profound insights. I would miss reminding her of my close attention to her details. I would miss hearing her wildly large goals and her inate connection to truth.
I would miss connecting with people, even those one-shot-people like my toddler friend and her family.
I would miss sharing daily gratitudes and reading the soulful celebrations of others: some wordy and dense, some singular and terse all smiling up into the face of divinity.
I would miss finishing “Light on Snow” a compelling read, a better indication to me of Anita Shreve as a writer to return to after not-quite-enjoying “The Pilot’s Wife.”
I would miss hearing my voice in my eardrums, miss feeling the way it is when the breath rises in my throat and somehow turns into intelligible sounds. I would miss how it feels to say certain words as they rise from my tongue and lips, words like “nosocomial” and “tangential” and “contemplative.”
I would miss catching sight of Katherine when she returns from Mexico, that first sight after absence – the catch in my breath, the wonder as my heart beats just a tiny bit faster, “This stunning creature came from my womb, her – that’s her!”
I would miss my skin.
I would miss deep eye contact.
I would miss hugs.
I would miss singing.
I would miss standing ovations.
I would miss performing.
I would miss holding a pencil, the smell of the lead as it sacrifices myself on cheap notebooks so that I can discover whatever it is I am meant to discover and then serve it up for you and him and her and them.
That Natalie Goldberg. She always goes for the jugular.
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