Wellness – Innerdialects

My friend Jamil recovered from an auto–immune disease then went back into it. We met two years ago at a restaurant: her eyes like twin lighthouses. How dyou do this Jamil? I want to ask, but words turn to noodles in my throat.

She has lil narratives of new meds that work briefly before other symptoms kick in. “There’s some long nights, you sweat it out, you cry, but in the morning a miracle happens. You’ve got thru another dark place. You have new energy, sometimes. But other days, you search the mind for images, of Hope, of Strength. I find tremendous strength in Joy. Not just random positivity but the peace of God that passes human understanding..that Joy is the Strength of Christ, displayed right thru His life, death and resurrection….”

we go silent a bit. The soup is still warm, like us, two different humans in a time of Change. Jamil has put on the weight she lost, her feet hurt, the wrists are covered with long cotton sleeves. This woman has no space for mourning.

I’m dizzy with her funny bones- her stories of children and husband. You’d think she didn’t have one jolt of pain. Jamil has small and larger seizures, she swells, her joints scream, scream. I’ve been with her in ER. We both remember us in days for better, for worse!

The hour goes in the next. Our silences are rich. She loves ice cream but can’t have much. We share a scoop, then some. I’m supposed to be on a diet too. I have my share of pain management to work thru’; am allergic to pain killers, yeowww.

So, today I remembered Jamil, especially after last week, after a wee tablet for tummy ache: who knew it would kick in like angry mice in my skin?! Sunday morning I have unruly blisters in the lip, temple,

Dear Lord God, I can’t ask you why – but here I am. Sure there’s far better folks out there, going thru worse. This morning am making this List I need, to combat painful encounters of any kind; (this will not go well with human rights activists, but might help some of us with Irreversibles) :

Never feel entitled to a life free of intrusions.
Pain can be like an overstaying guest, but I’m the host of me. So I’m rethinking this one:
Pain can be my Travel Agent, taking me places we get to, when we leave confort.
Pain is a Friend, my Associate . Once I think that thru, my muscles relax. (They teach this at Lamaze classes!)
( I don’t think y’all will like this list, so am shortening); my partner:Pain is a shared emotion, not just with scores of precious ppl, but with One Whose very Resurrection, pulls my decay to life.
Pain is a type of death: when you come out of each contract, (you once were in neutral gear), now you’re an eagle. Everything we knew, is re-defined. Here we free-fall in skies. This is not gravity – the pull has Shifted. Here you’re seeing with eyes shut wide; you’re staring at Eternal Perspective; you touch soul. The spirit rises on wings with no, no recoil. It is your 206-bone – marrow being sifted like wheat. The blood type you once had doesn’t matter: you’re gazing into the Unseen with eyes that cannot flinch at the sun. You’re no longer scared of heights of ignorance or depths of newness; of certain types of discussions on immortality that once made you cringe. You’re afraid and yelling but you see that things are more …more …more than what we confess. You’re transfused, if willing, by the Blood of Jesus shed on a Cross: transacting our hell for a life free of even emotional bondage, already. Eventually we will all die: but where is my spirit headed? That Q becomes central, beyond survival skills.
Last one: Pain is physical, but It is a visa to a new Term, a Terminal with one gate. A narrow Gate. The only baggage allowed is your spirit. You watch your remains shrivel and go. You arrive when you leave. You are light, lighter, Light. The first whispers of Pain? They are just the introduction to this passage. Now we gaze thru’a glass darkly,but oneday, face to face with the One Who killed death for us. So yes, like it or not, humans will master a certain degree of pain, in our trip into Freedom from gravity. We get to choose our Response to It.

Blesseday🌿🕊🌿

For FMF Writers. ‘Table”.

Our table seems to expand with every new person. I don’t know how they did it back then, we now are more conservative a Society. (Conservative as in : conserving on personal space/ sharing). We buffet, we carry bag/ take home. We have little side-table, collapsible ones too, with flaps down sides. Yes, but not my husband.

When we went shopping for the last table we bought and still have- by nothing but the sheer grace of God and all His angels specially trained to take care of homes like ours, … well he wanted a six seater glass table. It has a lower layer, frosted glass- but still glass.

I remember the day we bought it, at Powai, Mumbai; our third child was just in, a tiny gorgeous visually challenged cherub, but he would grow, and he would want to climb this thing. But Jeff wouldn’t listen. They’d learn, he said. Train them well, they’ll learn, learn how to take care of good things. How to be careful, not be rowdy around it.

I turned to the Salesman for mercy, but he was helplessly taken by my truly beloved’s passion for glass. “Ma’am, you can let your children sit on this table, even lie down, this is no mere glass, this is Italian …”

It stood on four seemingly- tender steel legs that looked feather light, I wasn’t convinced. But Jeff has these large brown amber eyes that seem to melt when he wants something badly and he wanted that table. Two years down we had to shift cities/states, my heart sank. India is no small country, our furniture went on Inter State highways and heaven & hell know how many bumps. Shashi our neighbor had wanted that table, Jeff wouldn’t hear of it.

When we unpacked and re-assembled it, it looked as good as new.

Ah’m.

The tales this one can tell:

birthday cake cuttings with the kids’ friends falling at it till it swayed 70 degrees one birthday when there was a weak table-leg;

the times we prayed here, chatted, tried a new recipe, made cards, painted nails, made calls, talked into the night, lit candles, salvaged bouquets over a day old, got new lilies, fixed an old vase, lost spoons and found them later elsewhere, made new friends, got new plates and mats, re furnished our white backed chairs (Jeff wanted those white dining chairs too, fabulous as they look ~ fine steel rod backs in red brown wood frame, they are white, and this is not a small family, we love our paints and colors and crayons and tubes of acrylic….

Jeff re-furnished each chair recently, it all looks elegantly loved.

“They’ll learn,” he said, also persistently insisting on using our best glassware too. “Why not use it all now, we celebrate every time…”

“I’m keeping them for special occasions,” I sulk every Sunday. And every Sunday he takes every plate out, our best ware for the day that’s supposed to be treated sacred.

“What if they chip?”

He turns those eyes on me with, “They haven’t yet, if they do…we’ll have to get new ones.”

After all these years, I’m changing. I’m glad for the way this ‘Italian’ glass and white steel thing makes me feel, its glass lower layer with frosted rain drops, and white chairs. From a barely-anointed Clean-Bee, I’m turning into something unspeakable everyday, slowly, inch by inch, am getting addicted to cleaning accessories and mat decor. Nor worrying about it breaking anymore: unsure why.

Oh ok, it’s a She, and She’s still a beauty, a friend,

a family member that reminds us of the fragility of moments, and how quick and sheer life is, transient, yet resilient.

She reminds me to constantly dress up for one another, always treat each day as a cause for celebration. Funny, I never thought of her that way, till writing this. Never gave her a name, but then she’s each of us: breakable, and yet if treated with care, can still stand.

……

This Post prompted by FMF WRITERS: Word: TABLE.