slow and low, that is the tempo

Maybe you're like me, but it takes slowing way down, doing just one thing at a time, for me to realize how much I am constantly rushing. Constantly.

But maybe you're not doing that. Maybe you're not holding your breath most of the time, blasting from one thing to the next, Chief Getting Shit Done Officer of your own life.  Maybe you're in this great state all the time, this state of calm inside a quiet moment.

Well, good for you.

Me, I have a serious problem with rushing.

This morning I came home from a good hike with Burnsy and started putting together an apricot tart to take to a friend's house this afternoon. I don't know why I'm in the super-slow-mo frame of mind, but it probably helps that I had yesterday off, so I don't have the usual oh-shit-the-weekend-is-only-two-days feeling. 

First, though, I needed more coffee.  I don't like to use just any coffee cup.  Somehow, I consider my choices every morning, and select the one that seems most suitable.  Today I pulled down from the shelf one of the many mugs my sister Carla made, years ago when she was well, when she was a practicing ceramicist, when she was still alive, spinning perfectly symmetrical objects out of clay.  I'd been avoiding that particular mug for months, actually.  

Once I held it my hands, I couldn't stop the rush of grief, the ravage of it, the way this simple lovely object crafted by my sister's strong hands contains so much of her, the who she really was.

Grief kicks your ass, kicks my ass, over and over again in the strangest ways.  

And it reminds you, reminds me.  Carla was so many things, was so good at so many things.

She would have rocked this tart I made today, the Crostata di Albicocche that I make every year when we have apricots. Hers would have been perfection.

Maybe if I slowed it down, I could do it almost as well. I thought of her, all those years in her kitchen on Hugo Street when she was in production on Christmas cookies, an endless marathon of The Little Mermaid playing in the background.  Those cookies were perfect.

I did nothing else this morning but think of Carla, sip coffee from that perfect cup, move from one task to the next in order without distraction, without extra thoughts. With just my sister's memory for company.

It's so awful, so unbearable that she's gone. And yet she is.

I bake my way through grief, knowing if she came to lunch, I'd be almost embarassed to serve her this highly-imperfect rendition of what she would have produced flawlessly.  

When I slow down, then I can't help but feel it all, what the busy keeps away from my heart, this hole that remains where once Carlita was.  

In my own imperfect way, I keep going, imagining that she would appreciate this effort, the care and time lavished on a simple thing like an apricot tart, the work to make art with my hands, to feed others, to enjoy.

When we slice into later, I'll still be thinking of Carla, missing her as I've missed her for the many years she was missing from my life, now with that terrible finality of knowing there is nothing more I can do. I will never see her ever again.

But I hold on to what I can.  I make the tart. I eat with friends. I celebrate her memory in every moment and wish her peace.  In the sweetness of every bite, I send her love.

XX