Facing the Music Part 2 …Living Mindfully

He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but
that he did not know where he ended and she began.
—Leo Tolstoy

I lost a great deal of memory in an auto accident six months ago and have been struggling ever since to regain parts of my life.

I’m hampered in my recovery by being chauffeured around town by Helen Moore, my private nurse who keeps me on a short leash, and impedes my artistic freedom.

I intend to remedy this by using public transportation rather than relying on my dictatorial guide.

So the next day, I keep my resolution much to Helen’s chagrin and end up outdoors wandering through Queen’s Park free as a cloud and enjoying the October colors.

But I’m reminded also of another day, the day Elle and I gathered leaves—she, ironically, has no memory of that day—her memory lapses not attributable to brain injury, but springing more commonly from broken places of neglect.

Yet I resolve not to dwell on her, in order ‘to live in the moment’, as Helen would say, practicing mindfulness, or in my case, mindlessness, and sipping water bottled from the stream of Lethe.

O, sweet Oblivion.

And then it happens—the first grumble of distant thunder.

I groan, pack up my sketchpad and head in the vague direction of the bus station. I say, ‘vague direction’ because I’m making it up as I go—aiming myself generally north and hoping to recognize a familiar street sign that will prompt me to transportation and shelter.

Rain, the size of black cherries, splatters the pavement and I’m wandering past Victorian houses in search of the main street.

Then, the clouds open forcing me to take shelter on the huge porch of a brick house that doubles as The Institute for the Blind. The downpour’s escapable—but the irony is not.

A beautiful girl seeks shelter with me—her white blouse soaked and pink from her skin. I gallantly offer my jacket, which she desperately accepts—if only for modesty’s sake, and I’m thinking I’d rather be with her on the widow’s walk at the top of the house, alone with the clouds and wind.

“Thank you—you’re a gentleman,” she smiles.

“I get that a lot,” I say ruefully, as she buttons up my coat, and I try vainly to recall lost glimpses of her.

She holds out a hand in stiff formality—as if that ship hasn’t sailed. “I’m Letha Kessem.”

“Jase Stevens,” I smile, aware I know her intimately in the most biblical sense of the word.

She wraps my coat about her for warmth, gazing up at the brooding sky. “How long do you think it will last?”

I gaze up as one familiar with the sky, figuring another hour, although inwardly, I’m hoping for forty days and nights.

“I think it’ll ease up in about ten minutes,” I lie, “—long enough to find shelter in a coffee shop and drink something warm.”

“Th-that…would be wonderful,” she stammers through chattering teeth. I notice her lips are slightly blue and she’s shivering.

At that moment I spot a cab coming up the splashing street, and wave him over.

“C’mon,” I tell her, “no sense in shivering out here any longer—let me treat you to that warm drink.”

She nods gratefully, much to my relief, but it’s the light in her eyes that touches me and warms me like a sudden burst of sunshine.

I feel as if a coin has dropped inside me releasing me to be free—but free to do what? That is the question.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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