BEFORE CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Being a critic, a judgemental, fault-finder is a hindrance to awakening. It keeps us from reaching even the first plateau of the transcendent which is equanimity.
Equanimity is a calm, composed inner state of mind. Mrs. Geesky struggles with her mind states when it comes to her contact with others. Do you?
The Heart Sutra is clear on what helps us drop this censoring mind state.
With Nothing to Attain… a mind that is not filled with any thoughts of self… a mind that depends on wisdom.
Briefly…wisdom begins with listening to teachings. To study the teachings in order to know wisdom for yourself.
To listen to the Dharma requires a commitment. We need to dedicate ourselves and engage in the teachings of liberation.
Does Mrs. Geesky seem open to ‘listening’ to anyone or any teaching?
Do you listen and pay attention to stop signs in your daily life?
Or do you do as YOU wish?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE STOP SIGN!
“I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!” Mrs. Geesky screams as she presses down on the gas pedal. Her words ricochet against her wounds. “I’ll take her to court!” She fist-bangs on the steering wheel in a reckless wild opposition against the old woman just barely missing a stranger about to cross the street in front of her. She guns the car.
“Get out of my way!” she screams with such force the pedestrian stumbles backward on the curb.
The fleshy, tubby man manages to right himself against the curb as he raises his fist in a defensive punch in the air at Mrs. Geesky.
“I want you to know what it is like!” Her hands grip the steering wheel. She clenches her jaw and sucks the saliva through the space between her teeth.
“Someone killed Oslo. Someone’s gonna pay!” Mrs. Geesky burns full flame as she continues her rant. “I have the right of way. What is the matter with people? WHAT? Don’t they get it? Does anyone get it?”
She stops her screams.
It is her devotion to an editing caret symbol. A red, civilized but brutish flaying STOP commissioned to point out and correct the mistakes of others. It is Mrs. Geesky’s nature; a nature she does not know but learned in the school. She knows what is right. In a godlike, mythic way she witnesses the inconsiderate, all those ignorant of her rules.
“Chance after chance.” She boasts about how fair she is. “I’ve given them. Each one. Chance after chance.”
In this offended moment she feels justified. A warrant to proclaim she grew up as an only child from the age of 4 ½. “I was right. The school told me it made them happier.” It whitewashed her baby sister’s name. A name she never spoke out loud. The school taught her to leave out the death of her baby sister. No one at the school ever mentioned it.
She forgets the story. She learned to forget it. Don’t mention it. One picture, like a color plate in a child’s book remains. Mother sits on the edge of a sofa. Father stands behind Mother rubbing mother’s shoulders. Everything is grimy and smudged, except for mother’s dark red shoes. Father looks tired.
Rada Geesky was sent away to school before the burial of her baby sister; making all her memories into silent shadows. The school was her home. She grew up and became ok. The school told her she was OK.
‘They all say I am crazy. I know what they say. Let them.’ Her caret approach piles up in her head as she puts together comforting labels, words that lessen the inner soreness….simpleton, racist, dowager hump busybody…a farded doll. She loads her head with a verbal attack as a skilled killer.
“Get out of my way!” she screams with more protest as she presses against the gas pedal. “How dare that old woman ask me to move my car! That old wreck interfered. I swear she did.” She speaks to herself as though there is someone listening; a face buried in the back of her head.
“It’s time to do something about people like that…they better take better care. Treat me better. Nicer. Better be nicer. They think it is ok to try to find out. There’s a place and a time for everything. I must teach them the proper ways. NoNo. NoNo.”
The revised review and repetition of words build up the muscling-in fear as she notices a neighbor standing idly along the parkway with her dog. It is Julie Berker and her hound Otis. Julie is looking down at her phone, Otis is sniffing the bark of a tree.
With the force of a bullet Mrs. Geesky powers down her window as she rams the front tire of her car against the curb. Otis jumps back and begins to growl. Julie Berker gathers his leash in hand trying to get him under control.
“When are you going to finish putting in the gravel?” Without letting the neighbor answer, she bleats on. “It’s been over 6 months. I’ve counted. Don’t tell me it’s not.” The rapid round of words takes Julie by surprise. She looks up…. speechless. Mrs. Geesky’s accusation buckshot out the window into the neighbor’s immediate world certain not to miss.
Sprayed. Pinged. Choked. Julie constricts. The wad of words stuns. When she mutters almost helpless, “We are waiting until the lawn is finished.” She shrieks as Otis continues to leap up in the air. Mrs. Geesky leans her head out with her arm dangling along the side of her car. “We are not happy about this! We’ve been held up long enough. And you’ve been stalling all along. You said 6 months. We are past your promise date. What are you going to do about it?” The pump action scatters Mrs. Geesky’s demands impairing Julie Berker who manages to reel in her dog.
“Mark my words!” Mrs. Geesky spits blame at the unarmed neighbor lifting her dangled arm to wag her finger.
Julie, nameless and unknown nods in a stupor, dazed by the harshness.
“You better.” Mrs. Geesky yammers. “The City will hear about this. And…. train your dog!”
Unable to recall the warnings by the other neighbors concerning Mrs. Geesky, Julie feels shot through. The chance of injury increases the longer you are in contact with her. Held liable, Julie stands buttressed, not by any inner resolve or strength but by the sheer state of shock. She’s been struck but doesn’t know the reason. All she knows is she’s been hit by a neighbor who lives close by.
Mrs. Geesky in rampage fashion continues through the streets until she reaches her house. In a sudden, angled move she turns and slams the tires of her car to a screech. In this recklessness she clips the side mirror of a car parked along the street. With the force of a gale wind, she jumps out and runs back to check the damage. Seeing no evidence of even a scratch she marches down towards the side entrance to a nearby house, pulls the storm door open and fist bangs on the interior door. When the neighbor, peers out another window to see who it is, he decides not to open the door. Two handed she fist-bangs the door. Steely and drawn back he opens the door a crack.
“I hit your car. There’s no damage. I wanted you to know. There’s no damage to my car. There’s no damage. Period!” When she flings her instant notification to her luckless neighbor, she lets the storm door swing close, turns and strides back to her parked car where she has left the door open. With no concern she leans, turns the car off, removes her keys and gathers up her purse.
“Poor naked wretches wherever you are, come out, come out wherever you are.” She calls out several times.
“Don’t worry!” she commends one of the strays that runs out from under her front bushes. She bends down and cups the old cat’s jaw in her palm. “Poor naked wretch.” she says with sweet sympathy.
“You are in good hands. Don’t you worry!” she vows. The cat swoons to the ground. Despite her acrid mischief among her own kind she is the mistress of the houseless and unfed. “I’ll make you happier, too.” She assures the cat. At the sound of her voice the cat rolls over onto her feet. He offers his paw as a tender acceptance of her promise and purrs. Without measure she sets her purse down and on one knee rubs the boy’s soft comfortable belly.
“Sweetie, sweetie.” She gets down on both knees, smiles with grace at this one; this old tom, whom she knows as her savior. “I’m home. I’m home.”
Mrs. Geesky with only one thing on her mind enters her house. She walks through to the back, to the kitchen where she hooks her keys on a wall hanger and places her purse underneath a white portable table. The old tom, along with a short row of others, follows close behind. Like a familiar tune the cat meows and rubs against her legs, his song and dance. He is jealous and pushes past the tortoise-colored drifter that is next in line. Two others stir and yowl. Mrs. Geesky finds them appealing. There is a kindred affection for their wits for survival. The cat fussing stops when she speaks with maternal affection.
“Oh, you poor wretch.” The orange tabby runs under her from behind. “Oh. You, too.” She crouches toward him to run her hand through the silkier hair of his head. “I know…. I know…. You must be hungry.” The words are sure and certain. She stands up and looks down at them.
“I haven’t seen you for days and days.” She whimpers a sugary scolding at her old tom. Her voice marshals a few others hidden in the house as the line gets longer. She stands straight as if on the crest of something very important.
“My sweet, bad little ones. My unfed brood.” Her reproaches are those of a loving mother as she reminds them, “You know…. you must come more often. It’s not good to stray away so long.”
These are her sweethearts, these mewling vagrants.
Everything falls into place when she is with them, unlike the world of human beings where nothing seems to fit. The cats listen. Humans are unruly. In their presence there is a sense of discord and rancor ends. All doubt and fear disappears with feral cats. The misery is on pause.
In the kitchen she feeds their unfed bellies sustaining their houseless hides. In this intermission she breathes easily, walks with ease, and forgets the Great Matter of Oswin. In this place with them she feels she is home.
“Stand there.” In obedience they lined up behind the old tom; queued by her voice and the food. She instructs them with voice and hand. Opens a narrow, shallow cupboard along the side of the sink where she keeps a well-filled array of cat food.
“Shush, Shush.” She quiets the old tom with kindness. Spirited by the opening of the closet door she subdues with words. “It’s coming.” She offers. “Yes. Yes.” She talks more to him than the others. “Come more often.” She scolds him once more. Her care is faithful despite his truancy as she spoons out food into small, pretty round plates lined along the countertop. “Hold on.” She shares her patience with them as she sets the food on the floor.
On padded feet they hurry to the plates placed in a straight line below the butcher block counter. Things are right. Settled. She forgets her earlier run in with the old woman, with the stall of her neighbor. In the presence of this graceful, grateful crew she calms down. She watches their painstaking gestures of licking the pretty plates clean; the proper form on haunches, eyeing her from time to time as they lick their paws and stretch out legs. ‘They are still strays,’ she reminds herself, but somehow this ritual feeding leaves her full of purpose diminishing any helplessness that might slip through to consciousness.
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