iso a protocol

I wanted to write something beautiful. Something with the flaws subtracted, reduced to invisible fragments of dust that float in the shadows and under the beams of sunlight. Note that I equated "beautiful" with "flawless." Also note that this will be neither beautiful nor flawless; it will simply be. But things are never that simple, are they? We seem to be incapable of untouching that which comes across our frame of existence. We will fuck it up. And if we lack the capabilities to alter its physical existence, we will mangle and distort the idea of its being so that it rests comfortably inside our heads. Over four years ago I wrote that I should "be a faucet. Let the water pour through. I guess this is our purpose on this planet. This rotating mass. Let these things flow, pour. Should I be worried that the water is collecting and the drain is clogged? A faucet isn't concerned with where the water goes or what the water does. But it isn't that easy. No – unless I convince myself otherwise. What if I convince myself that it is easy? Am I lying to myself?"

And now a dilemma: mother is in a hospital 100 miles away, and I feel as though I should be there. To see her. To be with her. Even though she is going to be OK. Even though she will probably be home in two, maybe three days. I need a protocol, some menu of guidelines that can instruct me how to respond to such crises. Years ago when sister began to show cracks, I found myself 100 miles away, pacing floors like a trapped lab rat. I didn't know how to be. I didn't know where to go. All I knew was that my presence or lack thereof wouldn't change anything. Be the faucet. Let the emotions and the reality of the circumstance pump through your body. Let this complication run its course. No control exists. Hands away.

The reason I have stayed away thus far is that my presence cannot alter her situation. Could she, through the haze of Demerol, interpret my absence as a lack of love? Really? In a sea of idealists, the pragmatist is a heretic. So, do I stay 100 miles away and accept the judgment of others, or do I travel two hours northward, hope to penetrate her fog of analgesia and wish her a speedy recovery? In a sea of idealists, the pragmatist is a heretic. I wish there were a protocol for these situations.

xx