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I finished watching Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage. T had left the DVD for me when she went up North and had highly recommended I watch it. It was fantastic. I watched the first half on Saturday and found myself longing to get back to it on Sunday. It was originally a miniseries and Bergman had released it when his popularity was at an all time low, but apparently after the second episode was aired, they said nobody was in the streets because everyone was glued to their television sets.

There are few movies much less television shows that can hold you in their grip like this one. More importantly, it made me melancholy for the art of longevity. My aunt and uncle were in the other day to see my mom and they’ve been together 43 years. They were telling me how being together that long you ride the waves up and down and that in the end you become the people you are and you learn a lot. I told them I almost had that in my marriage to Steve. We were on the precipice of overcoming when as Barbra Streisand sings, “We let the bough break, I let the stranger in, Who’s sorry now.”

But watching Scenes, you realize more than feet of clay, there is also the inevitability of action vs. nonaction. Could Marianne have grown in such large dimensions without Johan’s actions? Most probably not. And therein lies the crux of choices, the school of hard knocks is sometimes your best teacher despite the regret you learn to live with as you make your way towards enlightenment.

I’ve often written about the gloaming, that special time of the evening when the light has a magical quality to it. There is no other place in the world than the bayou to watch the dying light. Last night, we hurried to get out on the porch as the sun was casting its long shadows on the houses across the water from us – dusky pink, rustic gold, faded red – it’s a light that is so unique and rich and warm that it makes every day living here worthwhile.

Neighbors are showing up after being away or in hibernation for the summer. I’m starting to see them back to their routines of walking dogs, running, biking, headed to the grocery for milk and eggs. The Cabrini girls in their uniforms are vying for parking all along the bayou in the early morning.

But despite all evidence to the contrary, this week it will be about 95 degrees every day. Someone forgot to tell the weatherman that fall is in the air.

When I left for Portugal I turned off a lot of my updates – the Wall Street Journal, my neighborhood email list, the MS bike ride that I wont be participating in this year, and many others. When I came back, I decided to not to turn them on again. I get between 300 and 650 emails a day. It’s really ridiculous. So in an effort to try to narrow my focus and accomplish one thing at a time, I’m becoming the gatekeeper of access to me.

We were wanting one of those old fashion silver candelabras – the ornate kind – but when I went on Ebay, I saw that they were horribly expensive. So I began searching for a silverplate one – again couldn’t find what we were looking for. We went to the French Quarter today to walk around and have a noon beer. I was feeling slightly peaked and T was shaking off her week away up north.

As we walked we talked about different things – maybe getting a dragon tattoo instead of rings, looking for the right candelabra, and about mom. The mom talk was so heavy that we kept going back to the tattoo conversation and trying to figure out where each of us would place it.

Then we happened upon a Judaica store on Royal Street. I had just been telling T that the best sites online for silver were the Judaica ones. There were beautiful menorahs in the window made of sterling silver, one meter high one, one made out of filigree, and so we went in. Behind the counter we spied an ivory menorah, antique, from Morocco with dragon/horse like figures carved into the base.

In one moment we tied together the themes of the day in one large bow and sitting at our table this afternoon, eating our red beans and rice (after all it is Monday in New Orleans and you must be eating red beans), we lit our candelabra and were content.

You’re supposed to quit wearing white after Labor Day. We went for a walk this morning and ran into a friend of ours wearing all white and he looked quite handsome – we stopped to speak to him while he read the paper outside of CC’s on Esplanade Avenue.

I was reading the New York Times Book Review this morning and one review starts off about a mother dying of cancer and about how the loss of a parent can unhinge the fissures that keep a family together. My family was patriarchal and so the hinge unhinged in 1985 when my father passed suddenly at 62 years of age. The fissures that are coming unhinged right now are just rusty vestiges of a family gone by.

It’s interesting to hear the next generation speak about these fissures. I’ve heard in other families, one member say, “I’m not sure what the falling out was about, but I know they never spoke afterwards.” And for someone like T, who grew up as an only child, she finds this so sad. But for someone like me that grew up in a large family, I find it common.

Woke this morning and felt so happy it was Sunday. And like all Sundays instead of feeling like I needed more sleep, I woke with boundless energy. First I took Wolfie out since she doesn’t get the kind of walks Loca does. Her back legs are getting better but we foolishly took her off the meds fearing liver issues and her back legs deteriorated so bad that she is now back on them for good.

Here’s a photo of her by T’s fishing pole:

Loca and I then went for a long walk in City Park. We ran into a woman with a new little boxer puppy and she asked if Loca could play, so they ran in circles and bounded and jumped in the lagoon and basically did dog stuff. Then I came home and made breakfast and tea and read the front page of the New York Times – children living in now homeless families trying to keep their grades up in school.

The day was starting off overcast, but the sun came out in full force by the time I got saddled up on my bike. I had my Ipod and tuned to my God on Sunday playlist for the ride – a little over 30 songs that all mention God at some point in the lyrics (however, I’ve also got Busload of Faith so there are exceptions). Then I rode out to the lakefront and headed first down towards UNO and then all the way back around to the point. There was a race going on but I was happy to be riding solo, lost in my tunes and my thoughts.

When I got home, I changed quickly and headed to the hospital. The quiet of the hospital on Sunday is becoming eerily familiar. Mom was awake but her eyes are so distant it’s hard to read her. I stroked her legs, her shoulders, held her hand, and got real close to her face and told her I love her. She mouthed I love you back, but I’m wondering if that is now automatic pilot. She was in and out of sleep and constantly mouthing words. When I left the room with my heavy heart, the usual welling of tears, I noticed the nurses at the nursing station just averted their eyes.

And so it is.

When I got back from Nantucket, T took off for Boston then New York to work on her two book projects. So I came home to an empty house, which was a change from the past months of revolving doors of people. At first, it was so quiet it was disquieting but then I caught up on work, put some additional touches on the adoption book, ran errands, and revamped my exercise program. I’ve also been having a heavily steeped cup of detox tea every evening and nearing the last half of my Theroux book.

Today my tea bag read, “Nothing is more precious than the self.”

The night blooming jasmine has gone insane in the backyard and I’m wondering what to do. If I trim it back, I cut off the delicate blossoms that impregnate the warm, moist air with a dewey honey scent.

Nah, best to leave them alone.

I was standing in line at Rouse’s today waiting to check out and I noticed a young woman bagging groceries in the next aisle. She had black pigtails and freckles on her nose, and a black bow in her hair and her name tag said Royale. I was wondering if it is indeed a fact that you can’t overcome your given name.