Description
“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
SIMONE WEIL
April of 2001, my mother suffered a catastrophic brain aneurysm. A vessel embedded deep in her frontal lobe swelled and burst. She was known by all as one who illuminated the room she entered; she brought music into the spaces she inhabited. The aneurysm has stripped her leaving her speechless these long years. Like a riveted beak- you cannot speak. A story to tell, to someone. Ah, dear One, to stop and travel at your pace asks much of this world and the hurry-up obsessed people in it. For us to pause and genuinely bend an ear to you, to lean into the awkward misunderstanding and nonlinear narrative feels wrong somehow: it’s culturally taboo. Fearful to disappoint that inner god demanding we never deny attention. FOMO is the currency of this temple. So, I rarely stop and listen. I don’t weep at this devastated, inconvenient reality, it take too long.
To follow you through a maze of thoughts and memories of times long past is like a puzzle that takes time to bring the pieces together right. We Island hop from memory to joke to tease. Eventually you sigh as much as to say: “they’re not following me anymore,” or “perhaps I don’t remember where we were going now.” Grace to you precious mother. Womb who gave me life. You who suffered me into life. Grace, love, and presence. May those rivets break free that I might hear you sing again.
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