It was a long, long time ago, in Scranton, Pa.
Time with my dad was
Always precious.
He worked
So hard
All the time
In his
Grocery
Store.
He worked.
He slept.
He worked
Some more.
But it was Thanksgiving.
And he was taking me
To our
Traditional
High school.
Football game!
I was young,
Much younger
Than
High
School
Age.
Being with my dad
In sports,
Watching,
Talking,
Sitting
On the couch
Was bliss.
In real life?
Unbelievable.
Strangely
I don’t remember
Anything
Of the game—
I do remember:
The layers and layers
Of clothing
Bound around me,
Smothering
Me,
Hobbling
Me.
This was,
Of course,
Pre-polar-tec,
Pre-down,
Pre-the
Technology-
Of-
Outdoor-clothing.
That’s how old I am.
I might
Remember:
Hot chocolate,
Its color,
Dark brown muddy,
The paper cup,
Chewed around
Its rim?
Maybe not.
But clarity returns,
In sharp relief
When I remember
Coming home:
Our house,
207 Arthur Avenue
Opening the heavy door
Walking in,
Bulky
With
the
Cold,
Filled
With
Dad-
Bonding.
Descending
Into a warm cloud
Of deliciousness.
Everything
Seemed
To stop,
As I stood
In the middle
Of the
Living
Room.
Every Thanksgiving smell,
Turkey
And
Pumpkin
And
Stuffing
And
Excitement
And
Heat
And
Safety
And
All
Of
It.
Enveloped me
In a warm cloud
Of love.
The memory fades.
The love remains.
My parents—
Her quiet strength,
His warm and kind heart.
They loved me
So good,
In their way—
It took me
Forever
To not be
Focused on
What
They
Were
Not
Able
Give me.
It blinded me
From seeing
What
They
Did
Give
Me.
They allowed me
To become
Who
I
Am.
From the black high-top
Boy-sneakers in 1958
That I demanded,
That I needed,
More than
Life
itself,
To joining the ashram
In 1989,
Leaving my
Contracted
Teaching job,
Turning
My
Back on
Building
My pension–
To all the times in between—
I stretched their picture
Of acceptability.
They did their best.
They loved me good.
Their love
Remains.
~~~
From a post on Facebook
The anthropologist invited the children from the African tribe to play one game. He placed a basket of fruit near the tree and announced, addressing the children: “The one of you who reaches the tree first will be rewarded with all sweet fruits.” When he signaled to the children to start the race, they locked their hands tightly and ran together, and then they all sat together and enjoyed the delicious fruit.
The astonished anthropologist asked the children why they all ran together because each of them could enjoy the fruit for himself. To which the children replied: “Obonato”. Is it possible for one to be happy if everyone else is sad? “Obonato” in their language means: “I exist because we exist.”
~~~
I exist, I know today
And probably not
Ten moments
Before today,
I exist
Today
Because my parents
Existed.
I am me
Because they
Allowed it
In their imperfectly
Perfect
Way.
And
I am a writer and a teacher,
I exist as these things,
Today,
Only
Because you are here,
Existing as reader and student,
Friend and companion,
With me.
I exist because we exist.
We exist because each other exists.
We are literally in it together.
OBONATO.
~~~
I am stepping out on a limb here, with cautious eagerness, to share Installment One, of Niki B, sharing This is Joy, Canine-Style. Here it is, for your pleasure:
http://coacharuni.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/IMG_1315-1.mov
~~~
Dear Friends,
Be safe, be well.
As things appear to constrict around us,
Let’s soften and relax,
Just like on the yoga mat.
Breathe and relax,
Feel and watch,
And
Allow.
So much to be grateful for, while such change and hardship unravel around us.
Wishing you and your families
A safe and warm and delicious time,
Together and apart,
OBONATO—
We exist because of each other.
All blessings,
Aruni
~~~
Our Wisdom Circle is canceled for next Thursday the 26, Thanksgiving Day. See you in two weeks, on Thursday, December 3rd.