Hurry up
As a mom reading to my little girls, I read a storybook about a woman who was always in a rush. Every morning she would walk her little girl to school, the little 6 year old barely able to keep up with the rushed and measured heavy steps the woman took.
One two three one two three one two three like a metronome keeping track of a military march headed toward battle at PS 76 on boston post road and Adee avenue in the Bronx with rabid urgency to get there get back get back clean the house shop for groceries prepare lunch dinner and plan weekend activities and repeat repeat repeat.
I’m always in a rush
no matter there's no fuss
I check the clock I check the phone
I’m always in a rush
Anyhow, one day the woman who was always in a rush accompanied the 6 year olds kindergarten class to visit a glue factory located a few blocks from PS 76 at the end of a dead end street where weeds grew as high as the fence surrounding an empty lot littered with beer cans, cigarette butts, and mounds candy bar wrappers. While the teacher lectured to yawning kids about how glue was made the woman who was always in a rush darted behind a closed door marked “employes” to see what she could see because her tolerance for standing still with the rest of the class was nonexistent and she needed to see what was next on the tour of the glue factory, get the tour over with and rush back home to attend to her many tasks.
In a rush to get back to the kids and the teacher she made a wrong turn and found herself in a small windowless room with huge tubs of glue lined up against the wall. Thinking this was the fastest route back to the group she tripped over a bright orange “caution” sign hedged against one of the tubs and found herself splat on the floor, her eyes searching for the closest thing to grab onto so she could pull herself up get back to the group, walk back to PS76 on boston boston post road and Adee avenue, kiss the 6 year old little girl goodbye rush off to the hardware store to pick up a new sponge with which to scrub the shower that she had to do after her morning shower because there was NO TIME NO TIME. and get back to PS 76 take the .6 year old girl home offer her a healthy snack and while the the 6 year old girl ate her sliced apples and cheese, carry the laundry basket down to the basement where the two ancient yet functioning washing and dryer machines would launder the clothes she would later iron for 6 year old girl to wear the next day
I’m always in a rush
no matter there's no fuss
I check the clock I check my phone
I’m always in a rush
She reached for the wall behind her and with great effort Peeled herself off the floor, stood up, tried to unstick her feet and rush back to the group but her feet would not budge. With determination she straightened her spine, clenched her jaw and attempted to walk towards the exit sign but her feet remained glued to the floor… Frozen in that spot for what seemed like an hour she was finally able to slowly, slowly, methodically pull first her right foot and then then her left foot from the floor and walk miserably and painstakingly toward the room where the agitated teacher was winding down her lecture to the now unruly group of kids pushing and shoving each other or bopping each other on the head with their notebooks or pencil cases eager to get outside so they could use their outside voices and charge down the block screaming about how dumb it was to visit a glue factory which they did as soon as the front door was opened by the teacher once kids stood silent in two straight lines one boys one girls.
The six year old girl noticed how the mother took a few slow steps, pausing between each step to lift one foot then the other. She watched her, questioning what she was seeing. Her mother was not rushing. The girl ran to embrace her. Her mother wrapped her arms around the six year old girl and her tight lipped grimace transformed into a smile.
In the storybook ending the mother finally realizes that it is good to stop rushing and slow down and the mother and the six year old daughter live happily ever after.
But why was the mother always in a rush? And why is this story still lodged in my brain
I will never know but maybe I can look at my reasons for rushing. Be here now, stay in the present, these phrases are part of my vocabulary but my mind/body disobeys, or rebels or just plain ignores the advice of the mindful meditation practice I claim I have. And in fact I do all the right things. Do yoga, meditate, take walks in nature.
It has occurred to me in moments of clarity that I am afraid to let nature take its course and age as all living beings do. Control freak? Me? Anorexia was my go to when as a dancer I was encouraged to be thin thin thin to not think, think, think to eat when my stomach growled and my blood sugar tanked so I passed out on the Lexington Avenue express back to the Bronx after too many dance classes and not enough fuel to nourish my near skeletal body.
How my own story ends has yet to unfold. Hopefully it will not take being glued to the ground to slow me down. Hopefully I can find another route to stop rushing to slow down my aging body.
My youngest daughter turns 53 today. How did I get so old, how did this body become a bag of bones with false teeth and saggy breasts this body of mine that 53 years ago birthed my youngest child, a little red lobster we called her fair like her father, my other daughter 2 years older with olive skin and dark hair with eyes like two cockroaches a petite brown skin woman said peeking into the hospital nursery with all the other newborns and singling out my first born child, born to the 23 year old mother I was, ignorant, innocent, no clue to what life held
the red lobster came home with me to the fifth floor walkup on barker avenue in the Bronx where we lived, the dark haired toddler, the soon to be institutionalized blond man who was her father, the dog who soon became mad with the man's madness circling the one bedroom apartment and me, the mother who fought to stay sane, sometimes successful, sometimes not but always showing up, the show must go and and did go on and does go on decade after decade year after year month after month and day after day. So what's the rush? Just keep moving. Hurry up.
Who is in this body that spins and swirls and can't sit still, that rules her monkey mind now that the red lobster herself has a spine that's fused and fixed with shiny hardware wired to her bones and this body has a bladder that's stitched up with thread and expertise hands yet missing a uterus which fell between her legs and was scooped out and tossed in a hazards waste bin never to be used again to nourish a fledgling soul or help in the creation of fingers or a brain.
Can I truly embrace her