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a whistle



used to be i could create a whistle out of most anything...an empty cardboard candy box, a blade of grass, my two thumbs pressed together.  i hadn’t thought about that in a very long time.  i gave it a go when i saw a small empty dot box on the desk at work.  i failed to make any sound at all and i couldn’t seem to get my thumbs in the right position either.  surely there is no practical adult reason to blow through my two thumbs and whistle...yet as a kid i loved the sound i could make...from just about anything.  today i wondered if it was just childish nonsense. 

used to be i held hands...with my parents, with my siblings and with my girlfriends as we skipped down the street.  there was a lot of handholding in my family.  we held hands with every family prayer and always finished with a hand squeeze that travelled around the circle.  it was an “i love you” sort of ritual.  in the fall just after school my mom and i would hold hands and walk barefoot through the leaves on our front yard.  but at some point as i grew older that all didn’t seem as socially acceptable and so i stopped holding hands...except in private.  and i’ve wondered at how far we’ve migrated from touching in our world. and then i wonder why i should worry about what others think at all.

used to be i was brave and strong and beautiful.  i was afraid to try nothing, bravado carrying me forward...whether it was clutching a ball barreling thru a line of defenders on a rugby pitch or risking a new opportunity.  it did not matter if i was tackled or if i failed because i would stand right up and try it again.  i ignored pain.  i did not factor in the punishments i caused my body to suffer...broken bones snapped tendons...torn joints.  they did not bother me.  mostly they still don’t.  but i find myself being more cautious less brave doubting my strength sometimes doubting my beauty.  i find i am less willing to throw myself into the sea of life...and wondering if i have lost my nerve.

used to be i was filled with a nervous anticipation as the weather turned and leaves fell.  my mom created magic in celebrating what for us was a season of song and love and tradition uniquely ours.  even as an adult this enchantment did not wane.  when she died we huddled and clung to each precious ritual and memory.  but the last one occurred in the few remaining days of my dads life.  it was 3 seasons ago and i have not been home since.  perhaps it is cowardice...an unwillingness to sting and grieve this last bit.  not just for the loss of them both but the loss of what was so magic...a final bit of childhood to let go.  

used to be i could create a whistle out of most anything...today i pressed my two thumbs together.  i tried over and over again.  today i whistled and i wondered no more.

re-post november 29, 2009
scribere© 
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