Memo: To Sister

Re:         Sunday Afternoon

Dear Ruth,

When we were together in Jerusalem you urged me to take more time off.

You know better than anyone what a problem that is for me. From a very young age I did did did. The prospect of leisure scared me to death. I mean, if I didn’t do do do, I was letting the world down.

This didn’t happen before my late teens. Nothing was better than a long Sunday afternoon listening to music and dancing around the room, or else getting into a book and paying no attention to the clock. Or walking down to the beach and wondering what happens under the boardwalk after sundown. I mean, what does bored even mean when you can play Rocky Raccoon 200 times to find the deeper meaning of life?

I wrote some poetry but never thought of it as work. Homework was work; cramming for tests was work; trudging off to synagogue was work. Poetry came out of thin air, like snowflakes. Suddenly got the impulse, picked up pen and paper, and went to it. The lines were given to you, like a birthday gift.

But then I got attacked by D for Discipline, and the disease never left me. For at least 50 years I have served as the main mannequin in the D for Discipline Store. One window has me scouring the kitchen sink, another shows me smiling cheerfully as I empty the basement dehumidifier, another shows me cleaning the car, another sewing the lining of my third-hand Calvin Klein winter jacket, and the two most famous windows of all: D for Discipline sitting, and D for Discipline in front of the computer. Big grin on her face.

When I joined the Zen Community, people warned me that I would be working harder than ever in my life. I loved it so much I married the taskmaster. Then he got to my current age, pre-stroke, and disappointed me because he stopped working hard, read all of Jo Nesbo‘s Harry Hole detective novels, and found reasons to go out for a drive three times a day while smoking his cigar and poisoning Stanley the dog in the back seat.

They were urgent reasons, manifesting great compassion: pizza for lunch, go to the carwash at least three times a week, fill up the car with gas when it was only three-quarters full, and, when nothing else came up, there was always getting a Boston Cream from Dunkin’ Donuts for the sake of all beings.

As you no doubt know, after his stroke, D for Discipline was at her finest. The Store didn’t have enough windows for that particular showcase.

But it’s now several years later, and in between sirens going off in Jerusalem because the Houthis have mailed off more rockets, you suggested I take half a day off—and we agreed on Sunday from 2 pm on. No food shopping, you said, no catching up on yard work or cleanup of basement or washing the car or doing laundry or studying Shobogenzo or starting a new novel or a new sangha or a new order. Just relax, you said. And you added: “Don’t get anxious or neurotic about it.”

So yesterday I stopped working at 2 pm on the dot. Took a nap for 30 minutes exactly, then talked on the phone to a dear friend for 12 minutes. Called dear friend back to apologize for short conversation, explaining I had to relax so don’t take it personally. Got a cup of coffee and made sure not to wipe down the coffee-maker or the kitchen counter.

Finished the best—and funniest—memoir ever written, Dirtbag Queen by Andy Corren, and didn’t go on the computer to look up what else he’s written. Read it while sitting on the front stairs outside because I was NOT—repeat, NOT—going to drag out one of our outdoors chairs from the shed.

Accidentally opened up emails but shut my eyes so I wouldn’t look at them. Picked up a ball to throw for Henry and stopped after five. Balls, that it. With great intentionality did not make bed, put away clothes, or cut forsythia branches for the living room. Fed Aussie only after she glared for two hours. Started streaming The Brutalist but it was too brutal for a leisurely Sunday evening. Left my sneakers outdoors and did not bring them in even when it started raining.

In short, you’ll be glad to know that I had a wonderful half-day off. Looking forward to the hard work of doing nothing next Sunday.

Love you (but not on Sunday from 2 pm on). Eve