Synchronicities and January 2022 Reflections

I resigned on Monday from my corporate marketing role and a HUGE weight was lifted from my shoulders. Plus, this week a few small synchronicities have played out and given me a deep reassurance that…

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Grace of God

I was late getting my daughter from school. I overslept my nap, after staggering into the house and straight to bed. I come home this way more often than not the three days I drive to the South Bay for work. I leave before 5 a.m. and inevitably fall asleep at the wheel coming home in a warm sunny car, in stop-and-go traffic, at 2, 2:30 p.m. I leave the office at 2 p.m. because it’s the only way I’ll get home within 90 minutes. If I leave later than that, I have to wait till 7 or be mired in traffic for untenable lengths of time.

It’s not like I really fall asleep. It’s not like my eyes shut, and I veer all around the place. It’s more that my eyes become fixed and glassy, and a weird and total lassitude usurps my limbs like a drug. A fog fills my brain. I know it’s bad, but I also know my eyes are open. I’m not “asleep.” Or am I? A couple of times, including today, even though my eyes were open, it took a mighty effort to make my limbs respond as I began drifting over the lane divider.

Anyway, I get home exhausted and make a beeline for my bed. I barely had time to get my shoes off and duck under the covers before I was fast asleep, with my scarf pulled over my eyes.

I got up 45 minutes later, refreshed, but late for my daughter. Refreshed isn’t the right word. I wake up from these naps more often than not in a distinctive, unusual state. I feel better, first of all. But, more important, and revelatory, is that I feel… completely at peace. And it lasts for a while. Whereas before the drug of sleep pricked me and flooded me with terror while at the wheel, once it’s been sated a little, I feel flooded with a feeling of well-being.

It’s very different from waking up on weekend mornings. Then, I usually awaken happy and peaceful too, but before long I begin feeling life crushing in on me a little. I inevitably think, What am I supposed to be doing right now? What time’s the soccer game? Is it too late to go to the farmer’s market? Do we have any eggs? Should I walk Daisy? Or do yoga? Or stay in bed? And then I roll over, overcome, and pick up my phone — dreadful, I know — and begin reading the New York Times feed, which is inevitably full of bad news. And that taints my morning. I taint my morning of my own free will.

Funny that I do that.

Anyway, when I waken from these afternoon naps before collecting my daughter, I feel sweet and dreamy. Safe. Quiet inside. Yet, also focused. From the moment I rise from the bed to the moment I’m out the door to drive to Berkeley, only a few minutes pass — maybe five. But they might as well be 30. I’m focused, yet relaxed, filled with sweetness like custard. I feel protected, as though I’m surrounded by a nurturing bubble. It’s a rare feeling for me. I treasure it. I’m mystified by it. I don’t question it. I don’t want to rock the boat.

My daughter was slightly peeved at my tardiness, but within ten minutes I learned she’d started the book I’d brought home from one of the little free libraries I pass on my walks while she’s at tennis. I learned she’d started the book, liked it, had gotten into it. I knew that wouldn’t have happened if I’d been on time. So I felt okay about it.

I could see from the car clock that my daughter would only have a little over an hour for tennis. The program is two hours, and usually she plays the whole time. I was right. When we pulled into the parking lot, she had exactly one hour and eight minutes to play. Sometimes they go over though. In fact, today they did so significantly, and M. got a good hour and forty minutes of tennis under her belt.

And I got to see my dad.

I almost didn’t go.

It was a beautiful time of day. I was feeling a little anxious in that way I have when I can’t decide what to do. Indecision and too much choice is one of the things that triggers anxiety in me.

I struck out from the tennis courts, across an urban park shaded by towering eucalyptus, majestic oaks, and tawny sycamores dropping cinnamon colored leaves like candies in the path. A lawn unrolled over little hillocks on the way to busy MacArthur Avenue. I passed a homeless encampment beside the abandoned Victorian manse, a playground where a young mother sought the last square of sunlight to warm her shoulder blades.

I crossed into the residential streets, admiring the October light. It was the witching hour, that very special hour when the sun is slipping down the sky, casting long gold shadows every which way. Everything looks charmed and charming in this light. Everything becomes a flashbulb image. I can’t look enough. I gulp in the sights, and everything looks significant. The empty cane-backed chair on the blue painted porch, not least of which.

I was heading toward my father’s nursing home, but I felt myself hesitating. It was so pretty out. And seeing him has been hard lately. Harder than usual. I wanted to see him, but I was afraid. I was afraid I would find him in a bad state. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell if he recognized me or not. Afraid he’d be asleep in that scary way he has lately with his mouth wide open as if gaping for air, the bones in his face and head already skeletal.

I was afraid he’d be in a mental fog, looking at me warily, saying I’d damaged him terribly with my testimony.

I didn’t know if I could handle any of that.

I made my way over the ridge separating Broadway from Piedmont Avenue, noticing a little teak cabinet on a shady front porch. I had a whole conversation with myself about teak for outdoors. Ah, that’s why they can have that piece on their front porch… it’s probably already weatherized, since it comes from such humid countries… ah, I should look into this…

That sort of thing.

I passed by Cesar, Caffe Trieste, KronnerBurger. At each place, I hesitated slightly. Did I want to enter and write my Medium article there?

The sun was so pretty. The thought of going inside seemed inane. Why would I do that?

I crossed the street, flowing like water over the ground I covered. Thinking of Lassie in Lassie Come Home, the way the writer describes her pace as that pace that dogs have, that trot that eats up the miles. That’s the kind of walk I have when I get into a rhythm. It’s a nice feeling. It’s like nothing can stop me. I flow like water over the ground, finding the path of least resistance, nimble, agile, fast, and strong.

I passed the bakery. Briefly considered getting a pastry for my dad.

When I got to the corner across from the cinema, I saw the Wine Shop with a sign out front: Tastings: Barolo!

I flowed like water across the street and into the wine store.

“Oh, sorry! That’s tomorrow!”

I flowed like water out of that place, back across the street, and now two doors from my father’s nursing home.

Which is why I called this article Grace of God.

You see God, Goddess, Force, or whatever you want to call it, steered my path tonight, and led me exactly where I needed to go.

Even as I came up to the door of Piedmont Gardens, I hesitated slightly.

You see, the light was so pretty.

I checked the time. I could easily pass by and walk up the hill into Piedmont, admire the beautiful homes there, the leaves gathering in the gutters, the leftover Halloween decorations and pumpkins. Lots to drink in and admire. Plus, I’m feeling out of shape recently. I could certainly use the exercise.

Then I thought, how ridiculous. You can’t be this close to your father and not go in.

Sometimes when I feed him, I get annoyed a little. I’m sure it’s “normal.” Even if it’s terrible. It’s just, it’s hard. It’s not that easy to feed your dad like he’s two years old. It hurts a little. It’s also very sweet of course. There is no more important work. I realize this.

Still.

I went in.

I made my way upstairs, grabbing a sip of water at the water fountain outside the elevator — the first sip of water since before my nap, I realized.

On the second floor, I peeked in the dining room at my father’s table where he could always be found at dinner time, my father, the champion eater, as reliable as Big Ben.

His chair was empty. As was Mr. Yang’s, who died last week at 102.

I headed to their room.

At his door, I hesitated. The room looked different. Had I mis-judged? Over- or under-shot?

I realized it was just a new resident, in Mr. Yang’s bed. The energy of the room had changed entirely.

I don’t know the man and can’t judge him, obviously, and I might very well be writing soon that he’s a fine fellow.

But the feeling I have is not good. He seems… rough around the edges, as I told my daughter. She said, What does that mean? I said, I’m not sure. I just get a funny feeling. Not a warm feeling. Not a good feeling. He seems like the kind of person who if he has kids, they won’t be coming to visit.

Unfair maybe. Oh well. That’s what I sense. Why? He just looks like someone who’s lived his life in a sloppy way. Someone without high standards. My daughter pressed me. I said, But Mr. Yang came from a good family. One of his kids came every day.

My dad was in bed. When I first saw him, the first time in a few days, I was slightly shocked. He looked gaunt and grey. It’s like he’s taken on a slightly spectral aspect. I don’t like it.

But as I drew closer, and he saw me, he erupted in wreaths of smiles. He chuckled. He looked amazed. He looked like he’d been searching for me in a forest for 500 years and had suddenly stumbled upon me. He shook his head, delighted and mystified.

“I just keep popping up, right Dad?”

We’ve had this little game for a while. My dad was a merchant marine and thinks he’s still actively shipping. (Thank God for small mercies.)

So, when I pop up like this, I think he thinks I’ve discovered him in some far off seaport. It’s as if I showed up in Yokahama, out of the blue. He looks at me in pure shock and delight.

We spent some time tonight in fact, working on how he’s going to get to the ship. He’s due there at 5 p.m., he told me. He was concerned about cars, something about two cars. I told him not to worry. He’d get there. He always does.

He’s faithful like that, my dad. When he had early dementia and was still relatively active and strong, he’d show up at my house “for babysitting” at 3 a.m. This was nearly 20 years ago. He’d ring the bell. I’d open the door, fear in my throat, and there would be my dad. “I’m here for babysitting!” he’d say, brightly.

I’d tell him he still had six hours to go, and I’d see him tomorrow.

Once, his doctor called me to say he’d developed a habit of parking in the parking lot and staying in the car for 4–6 hours before his appointments.

That’s the thing about my dad. He knew he was losing his grip, that he couldn’t tell time. Yet, he was STILL never late. For anything. Never let anyone down. Even if it meant he had to arrive half a day early.

This evening, his mouth was webbed in phlegmy strings, the way it’s been lately. The nursing home refuses to give him real water, juice, or punch (let alone Jack Daniels, which he requested last month) because they say he’s now a “choking hazard.”

Yet, whenever I come, I first thing get him a glass of punch and a straw. I hold the straw, and he sucks that baby down in practically a single draught.

Then, I apply a ton of chapstick to his parched, cracked lips.

This is our new ritual.

“Wow, you’re thirsty dad.”

“You’re telling me!” he quips.

I picked up the play we’ve been reading of late: Playboy of the Western World, by Irish playwright John Millington Synge, which is absolutely amazing, by the way, and continued where we’d left off.

As I read the crazy, amazing vernacular Synge has created, reproduced in this gem of a book, I noticed my father was following every line acutely. When the parts were racy, he’d raise his eyebrows, feigning shock in this fun way. When it was funny, he’d chuckle. When it was really funny, he laughed. The language is absurdly, incredibly, crazily IRISH. It’s not Gaelic. It’s this crazy hackneyed delightful and deeply rhythmic blend of Gaelic, English, and slang. And it’s a rollicking ride for sure.

Here’s the thing.

My dad, who hasn’t been out of bed now for over a week, who teetered precariously in his wheelchair for the week before that, who may never be anything other than supine again in his life, my dad, who is now forbidden real water, but must drink water the consistency of pudding, who’s head and face look like bones, has the wherewithal to laugh, joyfully, cleanly, delightedly, when I read something about Christy Mahon the murderous protagonist who’s managing to delight “all the women of Ireland.”

He had so much fun.

I thought, I bet the staff here doesn’t know he can be like this.

I bet they don’t know he understands. He can’t really speak anymore. When he tries, his efforts peter out into gobbledly-gook after a couple of words.

But, he understands. He understood everything. Each reaction was tuned perfectly to the action in the book.

I actually have newfound respect for my father as of tonight. I learned something about him.

I knew he loved to read, but I didn’t know he loved literature. What a snob I am.

He always read Robert Ludlum and that ilk.

He understood this book completely, and I tell you not many people of sound mind and body, young of years, and well-educated would understand or take delight in this particular book. You might say it’s an acquired taste.

After a while, I paused and said, “Did mom ever speak this way?”

He tried to answer. Language failed him, but I could tell from his voice tone and expression that yes, this reminded him of how my mom talked a good deal.

My mom was first-generation Irish, born to two Irish immigrants. To this day, I don’t remember my grandfather having an accent because to me, he was just my beloved grandpa, who died when I was ten. I don’t recall my grandma having an accent either. But, of course they did. Of Counties Cork and Kerry.

And when I get apoplectic, a brogue pops up in my language too. Can you believe it? My mother, though born in this country, was famous for speaking with a brogue when she got mad. And so do I. I hear it myself, this bizarre sing-song suddenly spilling from my mouth. It’s hilarious and disturbing, and completely out of my control.

The sounds of Synge’s characters, Christy Mahan, the Widow Quin, Pegeen Mike, this whole crew, delighted my dad. It made me feel my dad perhaps knew and understood my mother better than I had realized.

After 25 minutes, I put down the book. I slathered another layer of chapstick on my dad’s lips. I told him I loved him to death, and I hugged him. I explained I had to pick up M. from tennis.

I set out.

I set out, and the sun was still in the sky, though only barely. The sky was like the underside of a golden bowl. The sun was a shimmering chartreuse disk slipping behind a dove-grey cloud bank at the horizon.

I walked as water flows, cutting corners at every opportunity. Flying past the homeless I’d passed on the way there. I found a little footpath through a kind of jungle between two major streets. I waved thank you at the cars that saw my determined stride and gave way.

I made it to the park, where light and color ebbed quickly by degrees. I heard youth playing basketball, saw a stout black man of about 40 on the playground swing, pumping his legs like a kid. I passed the abandoned mansion, the cement foundation of the burnt-out recreation center, the piles of garbage. The graffiti proclaiming “Ohlone Land.”

I made it at 6:02, relieved to not be chided as I was last week by Coach Terry. When I’d arrived 22 minutes late, he’d looked at me over my daughter’s head and said, “You’re a good mom. Your daughter tells me you’re a good mom.”

It looked like they would play late today, and so they did. I watched these sleek, strong high school girls, my daughter among them, hitting the ball, calling balls in or out, running in glee to the opposite side of the court to be Queen when they succeeded in besting their partners.

As we pulled away and onto MacArthur, we saw the moon low in the sky, bullion-gold, rising behind a tangle of Sycamore branches in the center divide. The full moon rose as we made our way home, as the sky deepened from rose to lavender to periwinkle.

When I’d dropped my daughter at tennis a mere 90 minutes before, I had wanted to possibly go to a cafe to “write a Medium article.” But, I had nothing to write. Something led my feet sure as the moon that rises straight to my father where I had a gleeful experience — and something to write about.

It’s that tension. We have to live life to have something to write about, to have something to share. At least I do. Life is stranger and more wonderful than fiction. I find this always, and repeatedly. I could not have invented in my wildest dreams the charm of this evening.

Synchronicities and January 2022 Reflections

Grace of God

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