Story Time

Story Time

"Tell me a story."

"Oh. Okay. Well, once upon a time there was...

"No, now. Today."

"Oh, okay. Early this morning an old lady with a crooked nose and one bent finger that...."

"NOW! Not this morning."

"The old lady is in the room now, here with us, her bent finger in her pocket, concealed, hidden safe. She's standing in the corner, not hiding really, but not ready to assert herself."

"What's 'assert?' Like dessert?" Laughter.

"No. Assert means to step forward and demand to be seen and heard."

"And then dessert." Much laughter.

"There is no dessert in this story, but we could put a desert in. Do you want that?"

Pause. Thinking about giving up dessert, then, "Okay, desert. Put in a desert."

"So she has to leave the bedroom.  There's no desert here."

Laughter. "Yes, but in a desert now."

"It was hot in the desert and, of course, sand everywhere. When the wind came up, just a very small wind, but still a wind, she had to walk with her eyes closed, her bent finger hidden in her pocket, guided forward by her nose and especially her ears. She could hear the tiniest mouse sounds, the hidden whispers of the universe that most people miss."

"What happened?"

"Well, what happened is she was walking in the desert, that's what happened. There isn't a crisis in every story."

"No wolves or bears?"

"No, especially not in the desert. And this woman, this very old, bent, blind woman, smelled and heard all the tiny life, the microscopic life around her with every step. Her walk in the desert with ants and mites, flies and fleas, was more interesting to her than if she had encountered a lion."

"No lions?"

"No lions. But wait. Stop. Look. Listen. Smell. There is something. She has slowed down now, only one step every minute, until after 10 minutes...

"And 10 steps!"

"Yes, after 10 steps, she bends her old knees, smiles at the creaking sound her knees make, bends her knees until she is kneeling in the sand. She takes her hands, even the one with the bent finger, out of her pocket and bends over so her hands are buried in the sand and her nose is almost touching...."

"Is she okay?"

"Yes. She is just where she wants to be. Her hands are deep in the sand, her nose is almost touching the sand, breathing the fresh, filtered air, and she rests. She rests. She even stretches out and lies on the sand, not too straight because she is old, and her body doesn't straighten out the way yours does."

"And she had to keep the bent finger in the sand."

"Right."

"I could lie flat in the sand."

"Yes, you could. Straight as an arrow."

Laughter.

"But there she lies in the warm, soft sand, as comfortable as a queen's bed, as warm as a baby's blanket, and as peaceful as sleep. But she doesn't sleep."

"What does she do?"

"Nothing. She is waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to go to sleep so she can go to sleep. She is very tired."

"We're connected?"

"Of course you are. We are all connected. Especially you and the old woman; she's in your story."

"And I'm in her story?"

"Of course. She will go to sleep and dream of you and hope...hope...."     

"That I dream of her!"

"Yes. How did you know?"

~

That was a long time ago, but he still thinks of his old woman who must be very very old, on the other side of the world, in a vast desert, a real desert or an imaginary one. It doesn't matter because she is connected to him, and, really, connected to everything. Just as he is.