Skip to main content

El tiempo y la vida

Where did the time go?
Where did the time between my last blog posting and this one?
It does not "feel" like more than a month. The time was full,
full of holidays, friends, family, snow. And yet, even knowing
what filled these weeks, I still ask:
Where does the time go?

We are the space time travels into.
Where are we going?

These questions are on my mind with a greater presence than usual today. On January 2, we celebrated our aunt's birthday. On January 8, she left us. Now we return to her home town to celebrate her life from beginning to end, all 90 years of it. Years that were vibrant, creative, meaningful; years in which she cared for, loved, and taught others. She was an adventurous English teacher, as much at home with Ebonics as Shakespeare. She was an inveterate encourager. Many of her students stayed in touch with her throughout their adult lives. She was one of "those" people: those whom you meet, even just once, and cannot forget; and as beautiful as she was original, her blue eyes lit with a fire from within.

Don't be smug. Are you thinking: "90 years, what a good, long life! Do not sorrow." But a good long life does not make us miss someone any less. In some ways, it makes us miss them more. They were part of us longer, woven into the fabric of our lives longer, more deeply rooted into our own Life / Time.

It is the juxtaposition of events that is teaching me at this hour.
Here now. Here not. It takes so little time to come into this world--
and so little time to leave it. Where does the time go?

It travels into us, and then . . .
We are responsible for it and to it,
this Time.

Text and image, copyright Ysabel de la Rosa.


My gosh, Ysabel. I've been thinking of you and wondering where the time went. You've been on my mind all day today. I will send an e-mail.

I'm so sorry to hear about the passing of this very special aunt.

Catherine xxoo
BarbeeAnne said…
I'm sorry to hear about your aunt. Yes, time goes so fast, and when you have less sand in the hour glass, it seems to go even faster.
A beautiful post about a beautiful woman.
Yes, she really was--my father's sister. So, this is the last of his "generation." Thanks for the comment!
Ysabel preciosa,
no sabía nada...lo siento muchísimo.
Que bella mujer era tu tía y cuantas cosas hermosas os ha dejado para que la recordéis con tanto cariño.
Un beso muy, muy fuerte.

Popular posts from this blog

Life without Television, Part 2

I began life without television with relief, which was consistent Monday through Friday. The first few weekends, though, felt awkward, anxious, lonely. When PBS has good programming on Saturday nights, it is extraordinarily good. Father Brown, Phryne Fisher, New Tricks... Extraordinary acting, high production values, and I fantasize about the pudgy, brilliant priest just perhaps having an innocent crush on one of his special parishioners, which would be moi. 

I called a friend one Sunday. "Maybe television helped with my anxiety more than I realized," I said. She told me about her aunt who, after her husband's death, kept the television on in his "man cave" 24/7. He has been gone years now. The television goes on, everlasting, in his absence. I don't blame her. Much of my frequent and prolonged television viewing began with grief.

After my sister died, I would watch almost anything, especially late at night when sleep eluded me. I even watched Convoy with …

Whose day?

Years ago, I made some collages using pages from a desk calendar from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The image that leads this post is one. Inside the hearts and flowers is a picture from the MMA collection of  a Japanese screen made in the 16th century. It is titled Tagasode, which means Whose sleeves?  The title comes from a 10th-century poem:

The fragrance seems even more alluring than the hue, Whose sleeves have brushed past? Or would it be this plum tree blossoming here at home?
Iro yori mo ka koso awaredo omohoyure tagasode fureshi ado no ume zo mo
The word haunts: tagasode. Whose sleeves? The question floats in my mind like a cloud on a still day. The sleeves materialize in my mind's eye. I hear them move through hushed air. I can imagine, though not name, the scent of the person to whom those sleeves belong. It's not unlike smelling the scent of your infant's clothes, or holding the perfume bottle that belonged to your don't need to open it... you know tha…

Glad to Hear It

This past week, Larry Wilmore and company mentioned Rachel Dolezol again on The Nightly Show. I don't remember who made the comment, but either Wilmore or one of the panelists said, "Did Rachel Dolezol do anything bad? No, she really didn't. Why did we get so uptight about that?" I was glad to hear it. Three cheers for being human.

I looked briefly at what's on Google currently about her and the now much-discussed Shaun White. I intend not to enter any of that fray mentally or verbally. I still maintain that humanity trumps color. We have a long way to go until we can leave our "paint by numbers" mentality behind, but we've made progress. Good changes can come, even in the midst of chaos and controversy. Maybe White and Dolezal will help us see that eventually.

As long as I'm here and continuing on the subject of color, I think I'm not alone in the fact that I don't like being called "white." As for my background, it includes …