Pilgrims, We Are...

Pilgrims, We Are...

   The other day, I had the chance to talk with my auntie; well, let me back up a bit.  This woman I had only met six years ago, and this was only the second time I've had a chance to chat with her since then (we haven't met again since).  But in Hawaii, there is an old colloquial pairing that whoever you feel cares for you, or whom you yourself deeply care for, well, she becomes your "auntie."  This can be a close relative who might not actually be your aunt; and of course, this can carryover to someone who might not even be a relative.  In some ways, it becomes a symbol of respect, one-sided in a sense, as usually the "auntie" is just going about her life caring and giving and not seeking much of anything, much less a familial title.  So it was with this friend of my, my auntie, 97 years young and so full of life that I felt more than a bit humble when we both put down the phones.

   She began filling me in on her life (but mind you, only with quite a bit of prodding on my part because like most aunties, she is much more interested in your life than in rehashing hers), a life as a near-Olympic ice skating champion (accepted and taught by the same Olympic coach that brought titles to Dorothy Hamill and Peggy Fleming), a 6-hour daily regimen of piano practice, a competitive swimmer, then adding to it all, asking me if I'd ever seen the photo of her standing with her husband atop an airplane (I never asked if it was in the air or parked on the ground).  Then came the war stories complete with the bombing overseas, accompanied (of course) with the worst food ever.  "No fresh vegetables and no milk for an entire year," she declared, as if not much else was happening outside.  "I love milk, you see," she said.  "Boy, I didn't think I was going to make it through that year."

   Feisty as all get out, she mowed her own lawn (and quite a large one it was) until the age of 93, at which time she suffered a mild stroke (she now uses a walker, she told me).  And as if day-dreaming, she added, "you should see the grass...if only I could get out there now."  Yes, she has a local young man taking care of things but he himself is now nearing a college lacrosse championship so until he returns, her lawn keeps growing as if to pester her, challenging her as if to see who can last longer and yet still look trim and wild (on a side note, do remember the signs of STRoke*-- should you ever suspect something like that is happening to someone, you need only remember the first three letters to test the person, asking them to Smile, Talk and Raise their arms; should any of those prove difficult or not normal, you need to call 911 or rush them to a hospital immediately for drugs can possibly prevent further damage to the brain but only if administered within 3 hours of the stroke).

   And then in the mail comes yet another catalog of audio lectures from The Great Courses, this particular one including Explore the Most Impactful Sacred Writings from around the World.  Hmm, sounds interesting, I thought.  So let's see how you do (remember, these span centuries and are recognized by most of the world): Adi Granth, Mahayana Sutras, Popul Vuh, Apocrypha, Aleppo Codex, Hadith and Tenrikyo.  Here's how some of the wording goes in the preview to the course: Learn the dramatic history of the Aleppo Codex, a historically significan copy of the Tanakh (the Hebrew Bible)...Taste the stories and historical narratives of the Apocrypha (included in the Catholic but not the Jewish or Protestant Bibles)...Delve into the Vinaya, regulations and stories comprising rules for living for monks and nuns.

   Breaking with tradition, I picked up my old copy of Annie Dillard's Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, a book I hadn't re-read since I originally read it way back in 1974.  But here's how her book begins:  I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest.  I'd half-awaken.  He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood.  Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for milk.  And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I'd been painted with roses...It was hot, so hot the mirror felt warm.  I washed before the mirror in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp.  What blood was this, and what roses?  It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth.  The sign on my body could have been an emblem or a stain, the keys to the kingdom or the mark of Cain.  I never knew.  I never knew as I washed, and the blood streaked, faded and finally disappeared, whether I'd purified myself or ruined the blood sign of the passover.  We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.  "Seem like we're just set down here," a woman said to me recently, "and don't nobody know why."...These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air.  You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell.  But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost in the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing.

   While I talked to my auntie, it seemed that I remembered nothing, at least nothing on my end.  Her love of life and the present, and the future, was sucking my memories away, allowing nothing to remain.  97 years old, I thought, what would I be thinking at that age, should I be so lucky?  Would I even wake up in the morning?  Was that pain I just felt real or did I imagine it?  Should I be getting my things a bit more organized around here?  And then like Annie Dillard's cat, it struck me with such quickness and surprise that I guess it's a realization that only comes with 97 years on this earth...life back then was fun, but not nearly as fun as life right now; and if tomorrow came anew, well all the better...more fun!  "Don't nobody know why," we're here, wrote Annie Dillard.  But for Auntie, who cared?  The Upanishads and the Vedas, the Gospels and the Daozang...why waste time over such matters?  Auntie was so full of life that it seemed energy was being drawn to her, as if it was keeping her safe and secure as a representative being of our species.  But, like all aunties, she didn't care about all that; she just continued giving and caring and not seeking much of anything, much less a life title.  If you do one thing...find your aunties!  They may seem hidden to you, but they're out there...

A note on the link to strokes:
*I've used the link to Snopes which demystifies urban myths...according to them, the signs for testing are relatively accurate but still not endorsed by the American Stroke Association which uses a different nmemonic, the word FAST.