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February 5, 2003 - (no title)
Winter is closing in on me, and Sickness with it. Bitter slime in the pit of my throat, waves of heat and cold crawling across my skin, the uncontestable knowledge that the worst is yet to come. Ê Asha is crying. And most of the time it's alright that she's crying. She cries when she's hungry, or dirty, or tired, or lonely, or bored. So we feed her, clean her, tuck her gently into her beautiful crib, hold her close, show her the world a little at a time. And sometimes she cries just because she needs to cry. That's alright, too, and when it happens I tell her so. She is a baby and this is what babies do. But her crying is different tonight. I can't say I know a "hunger" cry from a "tired" cry or anything like that. I only know that her crying tonight seemed to come from deep within a sad heart, and nothing that I did could reach her. There's a difference between crying because she has needs that need to be addressed and crying out of sorrow. I felt that difference tonight and it is weighing heavily on me. I went to rehearsal, Toby held her and patted her. She's been fed now and put to sleep with our promise that tomorrow will be better. Her skin is rough and flaky, her nails are small and sharp and impossible to trim (yes, even when she sleeps), and she uses these nails to rake her small round face. Unless you put gloves on her, which makes her miserable because sucking on her fingers gives her comfort. Though I know her hard time will pass, I feel such pity for her now. I'll learn how best to comfort her in time, but I wish, I wish I had that knowledge tonight. Ê Ruby is my rock in all of this. I've just returned from Jerk Town and so need to reconnect with Toby after almost a full week of separation. It is the longest we've been apart in four months. So it's Ruby I feel closest to, Ruby whose wise dark eyes and simple love and trust remind me that I can provide care and comfort and love and security for someone helpless and small. Ê The Mozart Requiem. I'm getting acquainted with it now because I'll be singing it soon. It is dreadful, it is awful, in the old sense of these words. Death hides just behind the tenors and the violins and makes a poor job of staying out of sight. Where is the comfort? the place where Wolfgang rolls out Christ and all the angels, spins out cadences and phrases into beautiful everlasting Heaven of endless redemption and bliss? He died himself, I think, before he got to that part. Instead: Lacrimosa. Dies irae. Tears, and the wrath of God.
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