This is the Work
no. 50
Boredom takes hold of us, its tendrils winding around our bodies, controlling our movements. We pester each other because it’s something to do. We snack and crave and wander about. I feel idle. I watch as Abuelito, at 91 years old, moves about, occupied with watering plants and carrying in firewood. I’m an outsider, living on the fringes. I’m alert, looking for a way to merge into life like a car would on the freeway. I’m tentative, not even sure what the flow is. I see things as they happen, without preexisting knowledge of the plan. I don’t make the decisions. My commitment is to remain here, with Leifer. I watch and observe and absorb. I am the girl in the window, cautious.
I put the clothes in the washer, and once they are finished, I hang them on the clothesline. I place a clothespin on each so the wind doesn’t carry it away. That’s all it takes to hold on; so little is needed for us to hold on. The next day, I pull all the clothes out and stuff our drawers. Each person has one drawer, and they are filled. I sit outside and read. I help with the dishwashing after meals. I ask Leifer if he needs help, but he never does. I sweep the room out, although the boys takeover because they want chores to earn ice cream.
I get spooked one night, going to get the boys from their playdate. It is dark already, Abuelita has me take her cane to keep the dogs next door from launching at me, these being the dogs who knocked back three of her chickens. I walk cautiously and notice something behind me. I turn, and Monserot (Abuelita’s dog) is there, crawling at my heels! She must be scared, too, of these dogs, which I don’t find comforting. Am I to protect her? The neighbor comes out and grabs her dogs. My shoulders release, and I keep walking. The boys are outside playing. They want to stay, but I tell them I don’t want to face the dogs again and that they should come home. The boys run past me, unafraid and giggling.
The boys run ahead as we return from town. My urge is to chase them. I’m concerned, what if they get into difficulty and I’m not there? I practice letting go and trusting them, entrusting Leif and Enzo with each other. I imagine it will be lifelong work, letting go. We have walked this path together. They know the curves and places for their feet. They duck under the branches that reach into the path, their thorns ready to grab hold of the unsuspecting. As I pass through each bend, I look ahead, more of the path unfolding. Little by little, I move forward, staying steady on my feet, balancing on rocks. The hiking is the teacher, I reflect, absorbing. As I make my way, my path unfolds. I only decide my very next step.
One afternoon, I walked out to the orchard with Lucca. We wanted to look at Abuelita’s piglets, whom we nicknamed Leif and Enzo, since they are always together. I saw something in a brown heap on the ground. Perhaps a pile of blankets. But no, it started to move—an animal of some kind. Abuelita’s head popped up. She had found a shady spot and was resting. Napping. Nature bathing. Close to the piglets who were rooting around for morsels, most anything is a morsel when you are a pig. “Chonchos,” they call them, Lucca says as he points. I sit with Abuelita. “Hace color.” I shift into the shade. Leifer told me Abuelita sits up at night in her wicker-woven chair. She knows that once she lies in bed, she will not keep her eyes open. She naps in place during the day, staying upright much of the time. Even when she naps, it still seems like she is moving, like a shark that never stops swimming, the movement keeping her alive and lively. She is the center that holds. I sit with her and absorb her strength, realizing that I, too, must be that center. I occupy that role without Leifer at home, connecting all the fractured pieces of our lives. It’s not idle, it is the work. Bringing the boys to Peru, getting them back for school. To hold us together as we make our way forward. That’s the center.
I write these pieces in between the work of caring for my family and building a life between places.
If you’d like to support that work, you can here:
Venmo: @Abby-Stott (last four digits of my phone number- 4606)
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