Slides

I don’t know if I dreamed this, or if it really happened, but I remember a slide show in the living room of my childhood home. There was a whirring sound, a celluloid smell, a triangle of dust-flecked light, and wondrous images projected on the wall. In one instant, the room was transformed into a jungle with brightly colored parrots, and, after a click, a salmon-pink flamingo posed on one leg in shallow water, and then, inexplicably, a flag snapped in the breeze above a white building, suspended for all time in the blue sky of an unknown city that I wished I might one day visit. My family and I were encircled by light and color, transfixed and transported, utterly enchanted. Even my own hand was painted if I held it into the stream of light, and I understood why this was called a magic lantern show.

As part of my recovery activities, I have been going through the 60,000 digital photos I have accumulated over the years, not so much to prompt old memories, but to delete duplicates and meaningless images that are only taking up storage space. It’s a tedious task, but it could have a beneficial result if I am ruthless and decisive, which alas, I am not. I haven’t made a dent in it yet.

It is occasionally fascinating and mysterious. Landscapes and city streets flicker by, some familiar, others long forgotten, unknown strangers are captured in tiny boxes, groups of friends pose in sequences with minuscule variations, random images of my beloved dead still make my heart ache, and playful moments bring back joy. How much of this do I need to keep? Truly very little.

And maybe it is just a contemporary version of a slide show, but quick, compressed and spiritless, the way modern technology renders things, at least to my Luddite sensibilities. There are scans of actual Kodachrome slides from youthful bike rides in beautiful places with impossibly fit buddies, and these we used to project on the wall sometimes, sitting in the living room with those very people, prematurely reminiscing, but it was fun. Maybe there would be burritos for dinner, or an apple pie baked by Teresa. There were children by then, and puppet shows on the floor, and there was probably time for a walk outdoors afterwards, even in the dark. The images transformed and engulfed us, and we relived them, laughing and being human together.

But here I am in my reclining sofa perch, learning what positions I can handle, trying to keep my mind nimble and my hands active, scrolling and clicking, sighing and deleting, thinking a little of Sisyphus, but it is a way to pass the hours, which are weirdly elongated.

I rely on the window of this little screen more than usual now because my environment is so limited and small. This is a functional apartment, pleasant enough, but it occurs to me suddenly that there is nothing of beauty in here upon which to cast my gaze. There is no view of sky, no shaft of sunlight illuminating a bowl of oranges, not even a pleasing arrangement of books, just the plainspoken furnishings selected by the landlords, and how dare I complain? I’m spoiled, I guess. And I realize that this blandness makes me feel sort of flat and uninspired, and I yearn for the nudges of image, light, and color that tend to spark my mind.  

But I’m usually adept at finding beauty, and if my immediate outside view of coiled hose, concrete, and a brown wooden fence does not inspire, I can contemplate the enduring images that have appeared in this recovery time, a new slide show, if you will. Returning from the bathroom in the middle of the night, I see my husband, in a slant of pale blue light, standing patiently by the reclining chair where I have been sleeping, just standing there waiting so he can help me get back in and sorted out. He seems a vision of kindness, strong and gentle. It takes my breath away; the awareness of being loved and cared for.

It is humbling to be so vulnerable, but astonishing to be given the gift of this much tenderness. I feel the weight of compassion deepening within me, remembering loved ones long ago abed on their last journeys, frightened and brave, while I was always well. I don’t know why I was so lucky, but I am learning to be grateful and accept it, learning to believe that I am worthy, and resolving to carry it forward somehow.

In this bland indoor environment, the memorable images always involve people. I see Jan by the doorway now, her bobbed white hair infused with the light she herself seems to emanate, a jaunty scarf around her neck, carrying a sack of food and gifts, sharing stories of our sisters, her heart as big as Texas, and I think, yes, there are such people, the ones who leave you wondering how they lift so many spirits and do so much good and carry their own burdens too, nonstop, manifesting all the purest meanings of love. I even picture Brian, the affable physical therapist,  born and raised in Montana, standing tall at the threshold like a gentleman caller, with his blood pressure machine, sets of silly exercises, and unfailingly encouraging demeanor.

Of the inanimate objects, I like Anthony’s painting best, of course. It’s the view we looked out at for thirty years: orchard and hills, and a dirt road leading to the sea. I also like the refrigerator magnet that says Nonna, in Felix’s fledgling penmanship. And the box of Junior Mints at my elbow right now, given to me by Kelley, reminding me of movies and the candy store on Coney Island Avenue and the right to indulge my sweet tooth now and then. I dislike the sight of the walker, but the cane has a promising demeanor. And a growing pile of letters and papers and postcards to voters on the desk reminds me that I’m still in touch, or will be.

And of course I cannot tune out the nightmare that continues, more brazen and unbelievable than ever, the lunacy enabled by a court and a political party that have betrayed us all. Today I had a text exchange with someone who graduated with me in 1968. “Voting is the key,” I wrote, “but whoever we are, and whatever our small sphere of influence might be, we can each find something to DO. I am bewildered and dismayed by people who pretend this isn’t happening, and by their passivity, they acquiesce and enable. Whoever imagined this is what we would be facing in our 70s? Even we, the Class of 68, who encountered such a tumultuous world, could not have seen this nightmare coming. But we have to stand up to it, even when it sometimes feels hopeless. Who we are is defined by what we are doing now.”

In this moment, all I am doing is talking to you, dear readers. But that’s not nothing. We need to see each other. We need to stay connected.

I will heal and be back in action soon.

But it isn’t up to any one of us. It’s up to ALL of us.

Today, Monte will drive me to a neighborhood near the golf course where I can practice walking with my cane along a road with very little traffic. I will look out onto the reassuring hills, nod to the oak trees, and rejoin my soul to the sky.

And I wonder, was it a dream, or did my family ever sit together watching a slide show in the living room? I like to think we did, all of us present and briefly enchanted, the messy mundane details of our chaotic household blanketed in comforting darkness, with only the yearned-for and hoped-for and barely-imagined in front of us.

Suddenly, I am an oldish lady, newly opened, repaired, and stitched together, sitting in a chair looking back but gradually recognizing that the slide show in progress right in front of me is also an enchantment. It’s a song that has not ended, love and light spilling over, and I am a soul, not a body, bearing witness to the wonder and the grief, charged with the blessed mission of what to do with the gift of having lived.