Closer

As a newly ex-Berkeley student who was interested in matters spiritual, I found my way through an American friend to a group of Britons who seemed like-minded, which in 1970 placed me in a north London home talking to a five-year-old.  I like kids, so it was natural that we would strike up a conversation.  I am sure our exchange began with something on the level of Legos, but damned if things didn't veer off in an adult direction.

'You are not your body', the little boy announced.  He was looking awfully serious and, in the way of kids, had moved into this territory without transition.  Being new to the UK, I always seemed to be misunderstanding what people were saying.  Sometimes I missed words, but more often it was the cultural underpinnings of British life that confused me.  So, I looked at the little boy in a friendly, noncommittal way that could lead in any direction.  We could revert to Legos, talk about the dog, discuss farting or find some other little-boy conversational topic.  But, no, he assumed a five-year-old rhetorical height and pronounced, once again, 'You are not your body'.  I remember sighing, forcing a smile and limping my way down the stairs to join the parents, the friends of my American friend, probably en route to a concert, certain that the evening would be a long one.

And now it's been a long time, 40 years, since this little boy made his pronouncement.  He is still in my mind, and why?  Was he actually some sort of seer reincarnated in the Finchley Road?  Was he an evil spirit?  Or was he just some kid rattling off adult thoughts by rote?  In retrospect, I wish we had explored the matter of bodies and why we are not them, the kid and I.  But in the moment, he seemed rather horrifying.  Too much pseudo-insight, too little child's spirit, and the parents must have been a bundle of laughs.  The strange thing is that the kid and his utterances have endured.  From the mouth of a babe or a humoculus, whatever he was....

For if five-year-old body shedding seems a bit premature, eventually this thing does happen.  

Marlou's appetite for food is slowly evaporating.  Friends want to bring food, and they do, but their offerings disappear very slowly.  The coffeecake that arrived this week, all fresh and yeasty, apples and cinnamon, boosted our spirits.  It had less effect on our blood sugar, for Marlou could only eat small amounts, and I did my best to avoid large ones.  Long week's journey into coffeecake.  

Marlou is sleeping more and more.  Does her fatigue stem from radiation or pain medication or the cancer itself?  Does it matter?  We live, both of us, in a shrinking world.  Energy, once abundant, is like the petrochemical kind, increasingly hard to extract.  Neither of us knows what we are facing.  But it is possible to know our fears.  And in a sense, maybe there's nothing more to know right now.  I sometimes think that if we could have a daily Fear Briefing, getting everything expressed, stated and manifest, the way would be clear.  

The way to what?  The way to the next moment, whatever it holds.  The way without the obstacle of anxiety.  The way to maybe seeing things as they are, or coming closer.  Our world has shrunk, our objectives simplified, and yes, as the little boy said, we are not our bodies.  And whatever we are coming closer to, let us pray, could be each other.