In my crazy, overly busy life, working full-time, trying to give back to the community while raising my children, I have these small pockets of time where I fit in short conversations with people I love. Actually, that was in my old life before Covid. For instance, I would drop my children off at school and have a little pocket of time to call my brother who lives on the East Coast. Or, I’d be schlepping myself or my kids from one place to the other and would talk to this friend or that friend.
It was also a kind of unspoken agreement that if I’m going to pick a kid up from an activity or at the store or here or there and I’m on the phone, no matter where we are in the conversation, the pocket is over when my kid comes out. I hang up. No mercy, hang up.
“Gotta go.” Such are the conversations in the pockets.
I am always multitasking while in those pockets. I’m at the grocery store, I’m fillingup gas or some other essential task. It’s really horrible for the person on the other end of the line. “More later” is my sign off. Oy, there is always more for later.
It was awesome when I had a gig in San Diego or was at my beloved camp in Ojai.
I’d finally have this long pocket of time and would be able to have an uninterrupted conversation which I could gave my full attention. I used to love that. Covid took most of my pockets away.
Zoom meetings are one after the other. There is no time in between.
The farthest I go is up the block to my office, down the hall to the bathroom or into my kitchen. It is as if I’m wearing some type of outfit that is glued to my body with no pockets of moments in between where I can steal a conversation here or there. I understand now why I have been so exhausted and incredibly out of touch with everyone in my life. I am pocket-less.
My daughter’s dance studio opened for small socially distant groups of girls to dance together. Suddenly, I was quasi in my old routine, driving to take her there and pick her up. There it was, a little pocket of time to call one of my friends. It has been a while since I spoke to her. That pocket was like that tiny extra pocket on the 501 Levi’s jeans. You can barely fit a quarter in it and it is really kind of useless, but, still, it’s there.
“Where have you been?” she asked. I responded, laughing, “Outside of my pockets.” Sometimes my classes, too, are like a pocket of time. Little pockets in space.
A detached safe haven for my students to share with one another and with me, to learn, to exhale, a safe pocket to explore, a place where we all can grow. One of my students shared that he used to keep a knife, a gun, a razor, some kind of weapon in his pockets. “You see, Ms., I used to use my pocket to give me power. I used to think that the power was in the tool I hid in my pocket. It would make my heart race. I’d feel strong. When I got out of jail, I decided to challenge myself and see how I felt with my pockets empty. I felt afraid. I felt weak, but then I used my pockets to protect me. When I’d get angry, instead of using my hands, I’d put my hands in my pockets to keep me out of trouble.”
I smiled.
“Pockets are very important, Ms. You know in jail, no pockets in your pants. You can’t hold nothing.” I wonder if I am in a kind of jail with no pockets of time, and I laugh to myself when I remember this story. But I know better. I have been inside jail where I have held classes. I am far from being there. I am just busy and actually very focused with work.
“You know what’s funny, Ms.?” he continues.
“Some storytelling dude told a story about a man who had gold in his pockets and he ended up drowning, but it was the man whose pockets were empty who was able to swim to shore. Sometimes empty pockets leave you lighter, ya know. Nothing pulling you down.”
I am awestruck. I search endlessly for the story my student was referring to, to no avail. I think of the power of storytelling. My student heard a story by an artist who came into his jail to share art. The story stuck with him. Can anyone still tell me that art does not heal, affect, move and empower???
In a small pocket of time, some man came and told a story to a group of inmates.
Years later that story is being told by one of the former inmates to teach a lesson.
Ripples, my friends, ripples.
Someone in the class responded and said that he’d like to have the gold even if it
killed him. “Better to die with a rich ass, than live a poor shit.”
“You are missing the point,” the former inmate said.
“Don’t fill your pockets with shit that weighs you down, Dude.”
“And,” he adds, “know how to see the difference.”
As I sit at my computer writing this, I think about what and who weighs me down.
Who are the people I need in my pockets and, seriously, who I don’t?
I think of the storyteller who probably pulled that story out of his pocket to tell to the
inmates, never expecting it to live as long as it did.
What has Covid taken out of your pockets?
What is weighing you down?
What can you put inside your pocket to keep you safe?
Do you dare keep your pockets empty?
Think about it.
I know I am.
