Thursday, November 11, 2010

Relativity

People who have known me a long time know that I have a tattoo on my left hip of an Einsteinium atom. I got the tattoo at that moment in my life when I decided that it was time to stop thinking about when I was going to become a physicist and recognize that I already was and had been for a long time a writer.

When you are a writer, no matter what you do in your day job, you are always going to be a writer. You cannot escape the stories that form in your head on a regular basis, the mad dreams, the people watching, the self-reflection and the constant recognition of analogy/pattern that comes with the writer's disposition.

I am drifting from the point of this article, not intentionally, but because I promised myself I would submit a blog once a week, and tonight is the night to finish the task. I am so tired from the life that is around me, I decided to allow myself to be less intense in my writing - to let it all flow in the day that it has been.

The title of this week's post comes from watching my daughter today in the Noe Valley Recreational Park. There is a spinner there that is in the shape of a large cone, and she spent the longest of times running in the opposite direction that the spinner was turning, laughing with amazement that she seemed to be in the same spot, right next to mama, even though she was running away-- her first (almost instinctual) recognition of relativity.

This morning Amelia woke up at 5:20 AM. I brought her into bed-- we snuggled, while she chuckled away to herself for a long while about Eoghan the cat whom we met last night in Aardvark's bookstore. She dozed off sometime around 6:30. The alarm went off at 7 - I had an early morning meeting with Dublin. So I got up, got coffee, got through my emails, only to find out that the meeting was canceled. My husband asked if I would quickly swap the morning run with the evening, and there I was with Amelia, watching her eating her oatmeal while practicing 'up' and 'down'.

My mom rang - 8 AM. No one who isn't in Dublin rings me at 8 AM. Last night my very close friend, more of a brother than a friend, was hospitalized, ICU. My mom is a hospice nurse and she was the one to make sure he got there safely. My friend's family are in New Jersey and they flew over this morning - my mom wanted me to talk to me about them coming to stay with us in the city, and not just for a couple of nights. This friend, this brother, cared for me deeply in the tougher times in my life - it isn't a question of helping him - it is the cyclical nature of life. He gave to me in my time of need; I will do the same for him in his.

Just after Amelia finished her breakfast, 8:15 AM (I just checked my email account), I got an email from another friend's husband - her father past away last night. I knew that it be that way because I called her for the first time in a few days and left her a message so she could hear my voice whatever time she got a chance to check her calls.

So I needed to get Amelia dressed, me dressed, and we started brushing our teeth together. It was the first time as a mom that I realized how that existence keeps me the most grounded I have ever been in times of crisis. I got through the day, focused mostly on work and Amelia's routine. It was only after she went to bed and I had a long talk with my mom about what is happening next (friend/brother is in hospital up north, ICU, and they haven't found the right spot for him down here in the city), that I remembered Amelia spinning in the park, and it sunk in, the relativity of life.

And in this moment, writing this blog, I see the 'revolution of grey', from a slightly different perspective. That most of our lives, we aren't consciously having to make difficult decisions. Most of the time we are barely processing the 'big picture'. Somewhere down the line, those ordinary moments that flow in a time-continuum are the ones that will bring us the clarity 'big decisions' often lack. And I am comforted as always by Albert, his crazy hair, and his perfect theory of relativity.

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