I used to be good with detail(s), and I’m still not bad, but now my associations are fluid, my memory free-ranging, the history I lived blended.
I can think RFK and write or say JFK. And that is what I did in commenting on a thoughtful blog post regarding the 50thanniversary of RFK’s death.
The blogger is a kind woman who emailed me to ask if I wanted her to edit my JFK to RFK. As I say, she is thoughtful, mindful even. And I expressed my gratitude yet such slips busy the mind, and mine lost no time.
Perhaps medications, perhaps aging. Perhaps, Zen….
There was a time such a mistake would have mortified me, taking on a life it never had. Under the unforgiving spotlight of such scrutiny, a mistake narrows brightly but mindfulness is a lens wide open, not without shadow but with context.
Perhaps I never thought of RFK without JFK–I don’t know–now, I add to those years. Not the mistake but the opportunity to return to the night I shook RFK’s hand over 50 years ago.
Locking onto his eyes, I extend my arm from my fake fur coat, hand outstretched, a sense of my father next to me–all a blur–except for blue eyes, the shade of which I have yet to see again, shimmering like ice in sun. RFK.
My memory (and proofreading skills) are unreliable with indisputable details, once so readily at my fingertips and always sorted properly. No more. It’s fascinating what this melding of detail reveals, free of boundaries, shadows revealed, all new associations.
Consider the trees which allow the birds to perch
and fly away without either inviting them to stay
or desiring them never to depart.
If your heart can be like this,
you will be near to the way.