Meditation on Touch

by Gail Mangham,  April 2013

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

Sometimes I sit really still in that corner over there

Lean into the seam where the walls come together, close my eyes,

Then I become the room.

The room breathes with me, in sync,

I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins.

Wall and floor become soft.

Cocooned in flannel, I sink into warmth.

Above me a face with blue eyes, lips curved in a smile.

A finger touches my nose; a knuckle grazes my cheek; a hand cups my head.

My heart grows still. I stare into the eyes of this stranger

who will not long be a stranger—my mother.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

Sometimes I sit really still in that other corner over there

Lean into the seam where the walls come together, close my eyes,

Then I become the room.

The room breathes with me, in sync,

I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins.

Wall and floor become a bed.

Big, tanned roughhewn hands gently take my feet,

Tickle them 'til my body convulses with giggles.

Pulled into the air against a huge chest

I smell tobacco and Old Spice.

I feel a beating heart not my own, but my father’s.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

Sometimes I sit really still in that third corner over there

Lean into the seam where the walls come together, close my eyes,

Then I become the room.

The room breathes with me, in sync,

I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins.

Floor becomes grass; wall turns to a tree.

Hot tears slip down my face, a forgotten hurt.

Light touch of paw on a leg; cold touch of nose against nose,

Raspy, wet stroke across my cheek, furry warmth under my hands.

Compassion offered.  The gift accepted.

Touch, the touch of my four footed friend.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

Sometimes I sit really still in that last corner over there

Lean into the seam where the walls come together, close my eyes,

Then I become the room.

The room breathes with me, in sync,

I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins.

Floor becomes wet sand; walls his body,

Arms encircle me, legs twine with mine, 

Damp skin against skin, cool lips against neck,

Droplets of water from his hair trace their way

Down waterways between my breasts.

An ocean of touch--the touch of my lover.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

Sometimes I lie really still on the floor, close my eyes

Then I become the room.

The room breathes with me, in sync,

I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins.

Floor becomes hammock swinging in a warm breeze. 

Dandelion fluff  drifts in hidden currents,

Wind dances over my skin, scales the mountain of my swollen womb.

Hands spread across rounded belly; I grow still,

Listening and seeing with fingertips, then it comes.

The somersault of life, the tiny punch of hand and foot,

This, our first, most intimate touch, the touch of my child.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

Sometimes I stand in the center of the room, really still,

Close my eyes and become the room.

The room breathes with me, in sync,

I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins.

Then I wait, wait for touch, any living touch.

Arms spread an invitation; skin shivers with anticipation

Mind calls; Soul summons; Heart beckons

Nothing, Stillness, Silence! Breath taken and held...

Then walls, floor, ceiling tremble and  melt away.

At last, subtle touch of a hand on my head

A sudden feast for the spirit, a grace, a blessing, proof I am not alone.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?

It doesn’t matter--for  when I close my eyes, you touch me.

Coming Full Circle

Two weeks ago some, hmmmm, IDIOT, hacked my computer.  Email contact list ripped off, sent email emptied out, etc.  After 18 hours over 4 sessions with 6 different techs in India, they decided that my operating system is kaput.  Frustrated from dealing with this, I got up this morning and fled the house and Prescott opting to drive over Mingus Mountain for a change of scenery.  At the highest point I got out and took a brisk, brrrrr walk gazing at the Mogollon Rim in the distance, a notch of blue skies, red and sandstone cliffs peeking through the pine forest.  Ah things were beginning to look up.

After winding my way down to Jerome, I stopped to visit one of my favorite structures--a building with a floor to ceiling window about 20 ft wide overlooking the Verde Valley.  The shop is now a wine tasting art gallery.  I’m a cheap drunk and drinking in the middle of the day while driving is never a good idea, but I asked the sales woman if she had a sparkling wine, thinking of Christmas dinner when my family is here from Japan.  She gave me a sip of an almond infused bubbly that was really quite lovely.  So bottle in bag I walked back to the car and continued down the mountain from Jerome into Cottonwood, stopping to stroll through the three blocks of Old Town where I sampled some lime flavored olive oil (buying it of course) and snagged myself a latte as part of the walk was in the shade and it was chill or I was chilled.

From Cottonwood to Sedona I took my favorite detour, the Red Rocks Loop Rd, and stopped where the view is absolutely breathtaking and walked along the side of the road to build up an appetite for lunch at a great Chinese restaurant my husband and I discovered a few years back.  The first decision was To Have a Martini or Not Have a Martini. Strange but they specialize in exotic martinis.I rationalized my way to a Canton Classic-Plymouth Gin and a Ginger something or other with a twist of lime.  It was superb.  Now remember that I had coated my stomach with olive oil samples and sipped the martini as I ate my Kung Pao chicken.  So I actually left the restaurant feeling fairly clear minded rather than my usual befogged gin soaked self.

From Sedona I made my way back to I-17 going south to visit Montezuma Castle National Monument.  My oldest son Matt had visited there several years ago and in the interim had lost a favorite hat acquired from the gift shop.  So…hat in bag along with a plush toy cardinal that sings when his tummy is pushed, I strolled the walkways along Beaver Creek, bordered by leafless sycamores, gazing up at the 700 year old cliff dwellings. I imagined youngsters scrambling up the ladders (now absent) leading to the heights, a couple making love, a woman giving birth, a cook pot over a fire, a father teaching a child to hunt, a mother weaving.  I couldn’t quite figure out where my counterpart would be.  Perhaps very few women made it to 68, but if they did, surely they remained in the few dwellings at the foot of the cliffs until of course the floods came.

Making my way full circle back home via Cherry Road and Hwy 69 I unloaded the car and put things away.  An Indian (India) fellow on my answering machine begged me to call him back so that he could respond to my dissatisfied evaluation of their attempts to cure my computer and make it wonderful again.  I decided instead to eat my leftover Chinese lunch while I watched an episode of Bones.  So not ready to sit at the bedside of  my sick computer.  May it rest in peace for a bit…  

Chasing Alligators

Ah the blank page.  What to do with it.  I’ve promised myself that I would blog every two weeks, once on the Coffee with Gail blog and then on The Artist’s Path.  But inspiration feels in short supply.  I’ve taken time off since pulling Path 2012 together for April—reading, walking, two small road trips, watching videos, doing some research on Path 2013, but leaving the white expanse of space bereft of words.  

 I said to a class mate from my high school days that I’m not a writer, but a wannabe writer.  All the poems, short stories, novels, plays, films from a lifetime leave me in awe of the written word and those who use it as their medium of expression.  I’m grateful to them beyond measure and not just as a source of knowledge, a way to know the self, a source of pleasure and pain, but these words allow me to practice my own way of expressing myself through using my body, my voice, my Self as an instrument to play their words. Yet…yet there is still that yearning to make some part of the world manifest in words.

And so I listen for that tap on the shoulder when my muse, often absent, off inspiring someone else I suppose, whispers in my ear, planting an errant thought that begs birthing.

These last words remind me, and not sure why but willing to just chase this alligator and see where it leads, of a time I was driving cross country west to east  on I 40 and decided to stop off at the University of Oklahoma in Norman where I had attended grad school in theater.  Like most universities in cities, it had grown, bursting the seams bordering the neighborhoods surrounding it.  I scarcely recognized where I was.  My internal map was not working and it’s usually spot on.

  

 University of Oklahoma's Bizzell Library 

 Where My Acting Thesis On Agnes of God Remains for Posterity

Finally I found the Fine Arts complex and wandered through the building where the theater program is housed.  The main change in my 25 year absence was the addition of a  black box theater where I had once directed The House of Bernarda Alba and what I believe is now a full on musical theater program. 

Few people were about, so perhaps I arrived between semesters.  I found the classroom where I had spent many hours in acting courses and where when I was teaching  one semester a couple in their ‘60’s wandered in.  I welcomed them and they told us that they had once been students there, fallen in love, married and eventually gave birth to one our most iconic child actors and gifted directors—Ron Howard. 

     Rance and Ron Howard

We were thrilled and to this day I watch for Rance Howard who is still living, (Appearing  most recently in the film The Dilemma directed by Ron. ) and his wife Jean, also an actor, who died in 2000.

                                                                                    Ron Directs is Mother in Apollo 13

They spent an enchanting hour with us talking about OU in their day, working in Hollywood, Opie (Ron Howard) and the craft of acting.  No specifics remain in my memory, but they seemed so content with one another and so genuinely happy to spend some time with us.

Sometimes inspiration literally walks into your room with no warning, to tap, tap, tap. 

I still don’t know what to write about, but I’ll post this jaunt down memory lane and hope my muse shows up before the Path blog is due.  Who knows …maybe inspiration will literally knock on my door again.  The welcome mat is out!