I Am Here. I’m Here. Here I’m…

Hi. I am here.

I am here where I so often am, in a blue chair at the kitchen table. My back faces north and my front faces south. On my left is a pantry. A fridge. A coffee mug with a “J” on it. On the right, a wall with a bit of peeling paint on the molding. My right wrist rests gently on the edge of the laptop. I take a deep breath and this feels good so I take another and a third, through my nostrils. It’s nice to have clear nasal passages. The kind of thing you so often take for granted until a bad cold hits.

I am here and it’s Wednesday morning. The house is quiet. Mani is in our room. She might be meditating. Aviva is still asleep. Pearl rode his bike to school about half hour ago. Earlier I had music on, but now it’s just the sounds of the keys clicking, and the breathing, and if I listen closely, a faint humming kind of sound outside, the source of which I can’t identify.

From here, the mind goes in so many directions. To a dream I had last night, where I was holding a large, sharp knife in the middle of a busy intersection. I was standing on some kind of median. Plenty of people were around but nobody said anything about the knife and I was alarmed that they weren’t alarmed and knew this was privilege in action. I had no malicious intent. And then I realize I’d sliced my own leg — the back, inner right thigh had a fairly gaping wound. I was bleeding and ran inside to strip off my pants and see how deep it was. I also had my period and so there was a lot of blood.

I am here, still, even as I remember the dream.

For many years, “hineni” is a word that has spoken directly to my soul. God asked Abraham, where are you? Which in itself is mysterious, right? I mean, presumably God can see where everyone is, in whatever way it is God sees. But my take on it is that God was really asking Abraham, do YOU know where you are? Like, where are you REALLY? And Abraham answered, Hineni. I am here. I hear this as, I am here, and also I am HERE. I am here and I know I am here. The two are not one.

I am here and I know I am here.

I am here and I am not here.

I am here and I am a body and a mind and a miracle of all systems go. I am here and typing and imagining you there, which is another miracle. My god. My God. God, do you see how many miracles are taking place right this very minute? I sound like a religious fanatic and I’ve probably said it before but I am ok with that.

We started watching “Alias Grace,” a show based on the Margaret Atwood book. In fact, Atwood is one of the producers, which makes me happy because it indicates her approval of the show’s translation of her writing for the screen. Back then, did you know they didn’t use contractions? So there is a lot of “I do not” and “You will not” and “We are going” types of phrases. These lend a certain gravity to everything, and it fascinates me that a tiny symbol like the apostrophe, the slightest closing in of things, can cause an entire shift in tone. Suddenly everything sounds less important, more casual.

I am here. I’m here. Here I am. But “here I’m” doesn’t work without a gerund to follow it. I’m here writing. I’m here being here. I am here, gratefully so.

Fifteen Minutes

8:33pm
I just read a book to Pearl — an old favorite we hadn’t read in ages called “Mrs. Katz and Tush,” by Patricia Polacco. Just when I think Pearl — who turned 11 in April — is done with me in all of the appropriate, growing-up ways, she surprises me and asks if we can read a picture book. Sure, I said, and that is the one I chose from the shelf. As I reached for it, a smattering of dust floated from the neglected shelf. When the book was over, I turned out her light and kiss hered cheek. “Love you,” she said quietly, as I left the room. “Can you come check on me in 10 minutes and whisper, Pearl!“? I told her I would, then came to the kitchen, got a bowl of ice cream, and sat down to write.

8:38pm
This kind of thing used to be a cornerstone of my writing time. I’d get through another day of life and work and kids, then go to my blog to sort it all out (or not, as the case often was). To sift through the pieces and see what could be named. I wrote to find out where I was. A lot of the time, it even worked.

8:40pm
Over the years, this practice has shape-shifted more times that I can count. Facebook has taken over my blog to some degree since it’s entirely possible I have more “readers” there than I do here at this point. But I didn’t start writing for any readers at all. Not a single one. I started — and kept going — because the writing itself, the very act of sitting down to say hello to myself, to find out where I’d been all day, sustained me. It was like an old friend I’d reconnected with after so many years — you know the one? The one you think about every day but for some reason never pick up the phone to call, secretly hoping you reconnect before one of you dies, then wondering it that’s a weird and morbid thought that maybe you shouldn’t say out loud.

8:42pm
One paragraph every two minutes. Already I am remembering something, a language I learned but stopped using on a regular basis. Was I really fluent once? I find it hard to believe. I sit down here, in the space between saying goodnight to Pearl and going back in to her dark room to whisper, “Pearl!” just as she asked me. There’s a bowl of nectarines on the table and a cool breeze after the heavy rain we waited for all day.

8:44pm
Aviva just graduated from 8th grade. When I started blogging, she was four. In September, she starts high school at the same school I graduated from 26 years ago. I can’t even tell you what she’s like because she’s so… herself. This morning in the car, we were talking about her resemblance to me. I told her all those years of sun and smoking didn’t do me any favors in terms of my skin and aging, but didn’t suggest I’d have changed a thing, either. How could I?

8:46pm
I don’t believe in looking back and thinking about changing things. I don’t ask myself questions like, if you could say anything to your younger self, what would it be? She had to experience all of it — moments of utter rightness, when laundry was hanging on a line in the backyard and the light was just so, and moments of wretched loneliness and pain, when every choice seemed impossible. What could I possibly tell her, when she ended up here, when we ended up as one?

8:48pm
This blog has always been a space of a single word: Hineni. I am here.

I see now that it still is.