I would like to think that I live in the present. Buddhism calls it mindfulness: being completely engrossed in the present, neither bemoaning the past, wishing away the present, nor borrowing from the future. You are eating an orange. Slow down. Notice the minute droplets of spray when you peel the orange or peel away sections. Notice the colors, the smell, the juice on your tongue. . . yadda, yadda, yadda.
But the present is so entirely bittersweet. Here we are, living together, like we have for sixteen years. Soon, we will go to bed. For once the TV is off. We are both sitting in the dark, both online. The room is dark except for our computer screens and the green and red lights on our 21st century gadgets, our own personal stars (or are they planets because they are not twinkling?). Eddy complains that the cat won't eat mosquitos, so what good is it? (Did our last cat eat mosquitos?) Playing "bounce-out
" (for the last two hours), now
he is rather quiet except for an occasional cough or hum. An hour or two ago (until tonight he was a "bounce-out" virgin), he frequently muttered mild expletives, as if this game were of utmost importance. (He is passionate about everything
.) The steady tick-tock of our cuckoo clock contrasts with the random squeaking and bouncing and honking of his game. I realize that usually, Eddy is the one to pull the chain to make the pinecone weights rise to the top to give us a few more hours of ticking. I realize that I like that he does this. I think that he must have something on his mind to be distracting himself with his mindless game. The air-conditioning kicks on. I feel the air on my neck and shoulders. My eyelids are heavy. I should really go to bed. Unexciting, I know, but peaceful, comfortable. I love him.
When I am mindful, notice these things, notice him, notice us, at times I am unbearably wistful because the truth is that the more gay that he feels he is allowed to be, the happier he seems to be
. He says this is my imagination, but it is not.
Living with Eddy reminds me of the movie Ghost.
Demi Moore's husband, (Patrick Swayze, I think) is dead. He comes back as a ghost. She sees him and struggles to feel him. The sexy pottery scene. She feels him, his arms around her, her hands on hers holding the clay. She knows that she has to let go, but desperately wants not to.
But Eddy is
here, so maybe a better description is that I know that our marriage is terminally ill. The odds are not good. Right now we are living in remission, hoping, fantasizing, that we are the lucky ones who will beat the odds. We have some things in our favor. But like the grim reaper, the divorce fairy (no pun intended), will eventually come to collect. Our very own terms of endearment.
I think of another Buddhist teaching -- that the the cause of all suffering is desire and attachment. But what is life
without desire? I can't imagine life without feelings. I would take the package containing both suffering and joy over detachment any day.Bea
Labels: the gay thing