Being a Human Bean

 

Being a Human Bean

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Yesterday, after an entire week of vertigo, in which my main task was to keep myself and my head as immobilized as possible, was the first day I felt halfway like a human bean. That is not a misprint. I figure a “bean” is a step closer to “being”.  “Being” is not something I felt much during the dizzy week.

Vertigo seems to run in my family, an inner ear malfunction, maybe, so I figure to deal with it best as I can and pretend my head is in a vise. I had one “interesting” moment. I had just stood up and felt like I was easing into nothingness. I had a flash of fear followed by a deep peace. My thoughts were not coherent, not a real thought, but more of a knowing that I’ve had a fantastic run at life.

Amen and onward. I’ve never been one for a bucket list. I can’t think of a thing I need to hurry to get done, including places to go, for me to complete myself. Over the years, and it’s been a high-grade sandpaper struggle, I’ve come to like the woman living in my wrinkled skin. I still keep the sandpaper close. I doubt that scratching work ever gets finished.

I’m fortunate. Growing up, my world was formed by writers such as Robert Lewis Stevenson, who taught me that “the world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings”. I figured out long ago that kings might not be so happy, but I still buy the intent and meaning and spend a bit of each day in awe.

Last night we had a bing-boom-bangdown storm which delivered a good inch of rain in one hour. It was a dizzy doozer, much like my head, as I cheered the storm onward. Consequently, when my pooch Lola and I took our sun-up walk, the world around us was so clean and beautiful it squeaked, along with constant birdsong and the donkey’s bray from across the arroyo.

Eight of us gals who graduated from Harlem High School in ’63, that’s 1963, not 1863, are in an ongoing conversational email group. Yesterday Cheryl reminisced about her family visiting Karen’s house for Sunday dinner, afterward sprawling on the floor reading the GF Tribune funnies together.

All of that’s in the long-gone past. None of us willingly dare sprawl on the floor and does the Trib still put out a paper paper? I learned to read before school, on my own floor, Pogo, Little Lulu, Dagwood, and such. I suppose they contributed to my worldview as much as RLS, just not as poetically.

This is enough foolishness from me this morning. I’m going to drain the whey from my fresh yogurt and use the whey to bake a batch of honey wholewheat bread. I intend to slather a slice of warm fresh bread with real butter from the cremeria in town, sourced from a local farm. A couple of ripe mangos from my own tree and a slice of bread from my oven. Life doesn’t get much richer than that.

It’s true for me. The world is full of a number of things, including vertigo, storms, the funnies, friends and fresh bread. As the youngers said, maybe in the 90s, cool beans.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

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