A girl possessed

Crystal is a whirlwind. Even her hair is topsy and turvy, always tied up in uneven fistfuls, part lines crooked and pigtails askew.

She enters the playroom at a dead sprint, beelines for the rocking horse and rocks furiously for 13 seconds before beelining again to the next brightly-colored object that catches her eye. Seven minutes later, having shaken and tossed every toy in the room, she simply spins, arms out and chin to the ceiling, in the middle of the linoleum floor.

Even as four-year-old's go, Crystal is almost alarmingly energetic. But what is being four, if not for spinning, jumping and tearing about? Childhood manifests itself vibrantly in Crystal. She is a girl possessed by a bounding, leaping soul.

Lullaby

Javier's onsie has a two small holes in it: one under the armpit, and one around his ankle, where the 'footie' meets the leg. It's second-hand, and stained in a few places, but it's clean and freshly pressed. He's been dressed with love, which can never be shabby.

I press my nose against his baby-sweet neck. Scents of soap, warmth and a mother's perfume are nestled there. I cajole and cuddle him, and his face lights with a silly, toothless grin at the tickling sensation of being smothered in kisses.

His small head teeters on a wobbly neck, straining to investigate the world of the ceiling above him. Eyes rest and focus on a rainbow-colored kite suspended from sagging tiles. In a gentle voice I tell him of light and prisms, color and sunshine. He listens, gnawing thoughtfully on a dump truck as I speak.

We spend the hour similarly engaged, while a dozen other children shout and sing, laugh and give chase around the toy room. Javier stands, tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and bounces with enthusiasm. I point out that he is quite a big boy now, and soon will join the teeming mob. Childhood will soon be upon him, complete with all the mysteries and whimsy that are his right.

A whistle blows, and my shift is over. His mother, young but so loving, is waiting at the door. With pride and affection she cradles him, and he joyfully buries his small face in her breast. Softly, and as rhythmic as the shuffle of her slippered feet against the linoleum, she hums a Spanish lullaby. Her music creates an acoustic veil between Javier and the din of the homeless shelter and, lulled as if by incantation, he becomes unconscious of the turmoil surrounding him, feeling only that he is safe and loved.

Back, and complaining already...

Back in the states again, and logging in to my poor, neglected blog after all these long months. If you know me, you know that we're happily settled in Boston with new jobs, a new apartment and even a small, white dog to complete the picture. Newton was named after the famous Sir Isaac. He doesn't exactly live up to his namesake in the intelligence department, but he's extra cuddly, so I let it slide.

The beauty of blogging to an audience of none: no explanation for my absence, or these changes listed above, is necessary. Therefore, I will jump headlong into my blog once again. This time, I hope it will be with a more disciplined posting schedule.

Another perk of having no followers: no one minds what I say. In light of this, I will be saying any and every thought which illuminates the inner caverns and pathways of my pretty little head. Ah, freedom! Another word for "no one cares."

Let me begin, then, by complaining. As a new resident to the metamorphosing neighborhood of East Boston (or Eastie, to those who frequent such haunts as Trainor's or Kelly's Square Pub), I am shocked and appalled at the state of the neighborhood's trash collection practices.

The problem is, residents are encouraged to leave their bags of trash on the ground the night before trash collection day. Dirty. And the filth is then compounded by the fact that East Boston is infamous for its skunk population. I'm sure I don't need to describe the scenes of garbage carnage and destruction one witnesses the following morning. Yesterday, I stepped over a stinking tray of discarded chicken fat, covered in flies and maggots.

What really shocks me, however, is the simplicity of the solution: trash bins. A trash bin, with a proper lid, would reduce litter, render street sweeping almost unnecessary and relieve the citizens of East Boston from the horrors of a putrid, reeking river of trash each Tuesday morning as they walk to work.

I intend to solve all social ills on the blog. Check back frequently.

Church

A young child sits silently and obediently beneath her mother’s soft, strong arm on the wooden and high-backed pew. Her thin legs dangle and swing from the seat and only the preacher’s head, mouth earnestly uttering old and sacred words from the Bible before him, appears in her line of vision. He’s the ring master at the centre of this Sunday circus, flanked by organ and piano on either side and a host of clowns dutifully performing various assigned tasks.

But above centre ring, high above the preacher’s balding head beaded with perspiration waits a ceiling. It’s higher than her mother’s arm, higher than the preacher’s waving arms and higher, even, than the upper reaches of the ornately carved baptismal chamber. Peaks of white rolling mounds like the icing trim of a wedding cake are cut into perfect rows and lines and squares, an infinite grid of white. The child runs her eyes down each row and back again, loving the curves, cultivating a tenderness for the mounds and lines. If she could dip her small finger into the ceiling and then her hand, she could pull it back to her coated in a buttery smooth loveliness. But the ribbons and waves of white are not to be disturbed.

It’s there, above the warm realities of her close, teeming world, she firmly believes in the God they’ve come to worship, this solemn congregation that never looks up. She sees His omnipresent mist swirl and seep between wooden columns, caressing each white moulded dollop of plaster in His translucent cloud of being. She sees Him sway and glow with the rhythm of the sermon and swell with love at the crescendo of a favourite hymn. And at the service’s close, as the last worshiper steps into the sharp morning sun and blinkingly greets his fellows, the mist slips unnoticed behind, and she sees it unwind itself from the columns and rows of crevices and silently hold each worshiper’s torso close as they walk away, the strands pulling and separating with the growing divergence of paths.

Edinburgh

Those bent on attacking the ancient Castle of Edinburgh would have found it formidable. The craggy hill juts almost sheerly up from the coastal plain, and well-placed cannons peer down from the dizzying height of the walls. Long before it was a English fort, however, it was a sacred and religiously vital monument of the original Scots, before Romans march to the highlands and before their kings were deposed in favor of the British.

King Arthur's Seat, to the north of the city, is reminiscent of how the castle hill, pre-British control. The climb is heart-poundingly steep, but the wind at the top is fresh and the heather is sweet, and the view of the city around it unrivalled.

I've included pictures of both from our trip to Edinburgh over the weekend. You can see the sandstone buildings at the base of the castle hill, each laboriously built by the Scots the English used as slaves, and each carved beautifully into the side of the hill, making the streets wind and twist into and under and around each other. It really is a fairytale city.

Sacrifice

There's a man who washes dishes at Liam's brother's pub. He begins at 9:00 am every day, and finishes at 10:00 pm. The plates are heavy and soiled with grease, the kitchen is hot and close. He doesn't say much, as his English is limited, but he jokes in his broken words, and each member of the staff truly enjoy his bright smile and pleasant demeanour.

Lately, Cannon's been leaving early. He's taking an English class from 7 to 10, so he can improve, and communicate in this new country he's made his home. Instead of going home at 10 to spend a tired bit of an evening with his wife and young daughter, Cannon then returns to the pub after class to finish every last dish that's accumulated in the 3 hours of his absence.

I find that absolutely beautiful, and had to share it with you.

Loss

In the moments between unconscious sleep and the first fleeting thoughts of an awakened mind, where dreams and truth slip and twist around one another, a lonely feeling haunts me.

It's always the same hollow, the deep black of a hurt that will never be resolved, never entirely heal. My friend is gone. She's gone and gone and gone forever.

Seven months have passed, but the same emptiness swallows my mind as those first waking thoughts remind me what's missing. She's looking at me, big brown eyes full of love and devotion, and a companionship complete and whole, without one word ever spoken. She knows I love her too and she sits comfortably beside me, but deep down, my conscious mind knows she's leaving. There's no warm brown fur under my stroking fingers, and there'll be no small friend in the bed beside me, nose pressed against my cheek to wake me, ready for our next adventure.

Then my mind plays the meanest trick of all. It's a twisted thing it's always done, especially in social settings where I should be particularly appropriate or well-behaved: it shows me the most horrific thing it can muster. In this case, it's my friend, fur rotted, or mostly so, in a shallow grave in my mother's garden, the elements of the last seven months having decomposed my darling into a horror beyond recognition. Sometimes an active imagination is not a blessing.

That thought passes, too, and as my mind drifts and eases towards those last few seconds of semi-consciousness, the hollowness returns. I'm close enough now to reality to shake my brain awake, grasping at the morning light and holding Liam close, a warm, safe balm against my chest. The dark feeling is fading and my rational mind is able to talk itself calm again, but there's a desperation tucked deeply away from the cool light of day and I know it's permanently a part of me, just like she is.