27 August 2016
69 Summer . 26 Moon . 59 SpaceAge .
We went to a funeral today. The woman who would have been my aunt. Who was, in fact, my step-aunt. My mother’s sister-in-law. AND old school friend and roomate for a year at Berkeley, where my aunt met her husband, married him, and dropped out of the university.
Later she went back and got several degrees.
After giving birth to eleven children.
It’s a long story. Part of me wants to tell it, or the small fragments I have heard, and another part says be quiet and listen.
28 August 2016
70 Summer. 27 Moon. 59 SpaceAge.
The church was lovely. Yesterday. Churches almost always are lovely. It was, and I suppose it still is, a Roman church. Today, a day later, as I continue writing this notice.
Not that much changes overnight. Does it? No. Usually not.
I went there once before, back in the 1980s, when I was studying and the university and fell in with a fascinating art graduate student. Actually I met her because she was the T.A. (teaching assistant, if you must know, is the official title abbreviated) for a very large lecture class I was taking as part of my visual art curriculum. There is another long story. Both the professor and the TA seemed a bit taken with me. Remember, I was older, thirty four or thirty-five that year or another, and I must have stood out from most of the other students who were almost all ten or twelve years younger than I. The professor, a fascinating woman in her fifties or thereabouts – I wish I could remember her name – looked me in the eye one day and said I was very intelligent.
Well, I suppose I am above average. I believe I am. But…
Where was I? Oh yes, going once before to the church were the funeral was held for my aunt. Big family. Children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. As I was saying, I had visited that parish sanctuary once before, thirty years ago, with Cindy Z.
In the slow moving sense of the Roman church, it might have been yesterday. I wonder now if my aunt and uncle were there that day. I suppose I will never know. Just one of those mysteries. They might not have been, I think, because my mother told me at supper, later, that they had suffered a disagreement with the parish and for a while went to mass at another parish, out in Ocean Beach. That was where my uncle’s funeral was. Eight or nine years ago now. We also went to that one.
For many years, I have had a secret admiration for the Roman church, even though I disagree with many of the basic teachings… I suppose I should just be quiet here, but I cannot. There is so much in our human world that I disagree with, and one . . . .
One learns, often too late in life, to keep one’s mouth shut and listen to the wind blowing wherever it goes. One goes.
A leaf grows, and then withers.
Just like a flower.