By chance an envelope of typewritten pages arrived in my hands. It is the journal entries of my mother in her junior year of college, as she fell in love with my father. I am the last of her children, and probably least informed about their courtship. Hence I appreciate the chance to look over her shoulder as she muses about the feelings exploding inside her:
"Sleep is a subtle thing. For a long time you willingly submit to it for one third of each day, rather condescendingly as if you're doing someone a favor. Then suddenly, one day you say look here, I'm frittering away my youth so you cut it down to six, and pay for awhile with yawns and bad moods- but they pass and you cut it down two more hours. It does not show if you do it slowly- no rings under the eyes or weak knees, but inside it begins a slow decay. A numbness overcomes your
enthusiasm, a weariness dampens your vivacity, stupidity replaces appreciation and you don't understand. You wonder why a newly wall papered room does not relax you, why a symphony does not reach your ears. Why when the one you love walks in the room you do not smile. It is because inside you have gone partly to sleep. I have been going through all this and know-- but can't help wondering if it is providential. If all my senses had been properly tuned today, and yesterday and the day
before, I would have died with joy. Could I have stood being fully awake and alone in a room with him at the same time? If my memory had been on its toes when I walked by the spot that I first heard him laugh could I have ever moved on? Could I ever see, feel, realize anything else while he was around if all-- even he-- had not been mellowed at the time?"
I had not known that her nickname for him was Lorenzo. His given name was Lorentz, which is why they named me Loren. He called her Midgee.
"One month! One twelfth of one tiny year and the foundation for my eternal existence was laid. But the wonder of it all is how little it has altered my plans. How slightly I need adjust my philosophy and how simple and Divine it is to share everything about oneself and not lose but gain something as a result. I turn to prayer for it is the only medium adequate to express my hopes at this moment. Help me to be worthy of life itself, give me the understanding that he will need,
maintain the love in me that I already feel, guide us in continuing the careful and constructive thing which we have found and are developing together. Give me patience, clairvoyance, inspiration to become and stay worthy of his love. Make me, someday, all the things that he thinks I am and give me a memory in which to keep these first four weeks together."
I do know how the story played out. There were times that those prayers were not fully answered. Years they were too tired to be patient, to read minds, to laugh in gratitude.
But even as their lofty aspirations slept, something deeper was coming awake. It turns out that our weariness and stupidity finally fall away, and even passing gifts like floral paper and Mozart fill us to overflowing. Something even better than being worthy emerges. Being receptive.
Maybe the miracle is that after death we can live for joy. We can all be fully present. Plus we remember to smile.
