Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The Bamboo Flute Burning
perhaps 30 years old. They were broken, and unplayable, and really,
unfixable. That is, not worth fixing in a material kind of way. I used
to think they were worth fixing in a non-material way and that is why
I hung onto them. I thought every flute is sacred and important and
that I had a responsibility for each one in my care. But I never did
get around to fixing them.
I kept them, even broken, because they remind me that somewhere in my
fiction I want to play bamboo flutes, meditatively, quietly, perhaps
on a Bengali village roof top, or perhaps in a Zen like Japanese
setting, and some such mundane nostalgic thought place. They remind me
I had ideas about this other life. And as I live this life, and not
that life, they serve as little ghosts, hanging around, reminding me
of *that*, and when I am reminded, then I am not *this* and I am a
little torn, every day. When I walk through the house, turn around,
and look at those flutes out of the corner of my eye, look at myself,
with some firmness and some clarity, I know that they are in the flute
bin, collecting dust and not really being helpful. I have kept one.
That is enough. It works, it was fixed by a kind friend. There are
thousands of bamboo flutes in the world, perhaps millions. If I live
that other life they will be there for me.
I loved our past connections and always thought we would have more (maybe in that flute playing lifetime or ....)
Good to read your words.
Love Bunny
PS my sister still lives in Nanoose but they moved - I know you probably know that. And both my parents passed away in the last few years.
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