grub skipping from one blade of grass to anotherPosted: February 11, 2010
At heart, I am an old woman. I’ve been casted at least three times as an old lady in theatrical productions. I didn’t try out for any of those roles; the directors just saw it in me. I have a knack for spurting folklore-ish wisdom with a rattling voice, and my frail pointyness adds nicely to the illusion. I also dream of being 83 years old. I can much more clearly imagine myself as a grandmother than I can a mother. I think it will be lovely to one day just pretend I am senile… could anyone really do anything more than laugh if an adorable little old lady decided to bathe in the city fountain?? There is a liberty in old age that I do not possess now.
In the past weeks I have developed a nightly ritual to sooth myself to sleep. I curl up in my afghan, don my night cap, and crochet as I listen to a book on tape. I complete this by 10pm every night. I imagine I will do the same thing when I am 83. But, really, it is this book on tape that I wanted to tell you about: Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I just made my way through the infamous chapter on the battle at Waterloo. “Made my way through” is the best I could muster with this chapter, but I rewound to listen to the concluding lines at least three times:
This is what Waterloo was.
But what matters it to the Infinite? all that tempest, all that cloud, that war, then that peace? All that darkness did not trouble for a moment the light of that immense Eye before which a grub skipping from one blade of grass to another equals the eagle soaring from belfry to belfry on the towers of Notre Dame.
These words give me hope.