Poppies

Lieber Herr Goethe,

Before I come to visit you again I would like to acquaint you with the thoughts that precede this journey. I will, before I travel to Weimar, take a river cruise on the Saône and Rhône. Red poppies should be in full bloom as I stop to explore Avignon and Arles, the Camargue, Marseilles, the Ardèche region, and Lyon. Just as I realized my need for the touch and taste and feel of snow in 2010, I understand that, right now, red poppies are important in my life. So, here is a short memoir about them.

Poppies
You'd think an imaginary shrink would be invisible. The head doctor is supposed to stay in my head. Not my Dr. Steinfeld. He pops in and out of my life in a variety of disguises.
"You look like Carl Gustav Jung today," I say to him.
"Is that good or bad," he wants to know.
"Neither. It's just that, last time you were here, you had higher cheek bones and more hair."
"Well, your head was bald and your right boob was in a sling. I believe you had issues coping with breast cancer?
He is sitting in my chair, at the kitchen table, touching, one by one, books, binders, folders, crafting supplies, note paper, iPad, drawing and writing utensils, the stump of a candle, with the tip of his left index finger.
"I am amazed at the variety of projects I see."
"Those are just the active ones. I have a few more on back burners. Will you help me sort things out?"
He doesn't answer right away; it makes me think that I am whining. Maybe I should be able to handle things on my own. Or, maybe, if I feed him, he'll come around. I open a cupboard door, then I look into the fruit and veggie laden refrigerator, shaking my head in frustration because I can't find any sweets. He starts to tap-dance his fingers on the table. Taram taram taram tatam. Taram taram taram tatam .......
"Item number one: you don't have to feed the old man cookies every time I come to see you."
The motion of shutting the refrigerator door seems dream-like. I am performing a part in a child's play in which my mother makes me eat everything on my plate, because not doing so would be a waste, depriving Chinese children on the other side of the earth. And, not feeding a visitor is a major sin. With great satisfaction I disobey my mother.
Taram taram taram tatam, taram taram taram tatam.....silence.... and then: "Time is a child at play, gambling; a child's is the kingship."
"Explain yourself. Please."
"It is a fragment attributed to Heraclitus. Something Jung inscribed on the stone cube he had placed by the lakeshore at Bollingen tower. He was 75 at the time. And he was, from childhood on, very much a believer in ceremonial acts. They brought him peace."
My mind, slipping into the role of the accused in a courtroom drama about unfulfilled promises, strings together dots in unsolicited selfdefense. Dots that represent a number of unrelated events and circumstances in my recent life, like maneuvering without much enthusiasm through strength training and aerobics class, my reaction to the finality of a friend's medical diagnosis, the pressure of financial decisions, an impatient surge of images during meditation, sleepless hours because of a family member's nightmare, the unread book from the library, pages upon pages of paperwork to be filled out for a doctor's appointment. My marionette awaiting direction; the new puppet begging for a voice. Harsh remarks made by a friend. Careless words by another, delivered to my inbox by mistake. The cookies missing from my afternoon routine.
Herr Steinfeld interrupts: "What image were you trying to evoke when you meditated?"
"Poppies. A field of red poppies. Their heads swaying in the breeze."
"I see. The field behind your grandmother's house. You were five then, right? Happily braiding daisy chains, climbing trees, licking rock salt?"
"Today, the wind blew so hard, it uprooted some of the poppies. They flew through the air, dusting me with soil. I tried to edit the film in my head, slow it down, but, instead, I became angry with the instructor. She forced me to make decisions. Even during this important down-time. "Think of a place you love," she said. "Indoors or outside. Maybe a fine hotel. A warm vacation spot. A cool mountain retreat. A favorite chair in your backyard."
I wanted her to take responsibility. I wanted her to say something like, "think of the most beautiful spot in your childhood."
Dr. Steinfeld gets up. He closes the Weight Loss Challenge binder and the food log. Stacks the library copy of Living Your Best with Early Stage Alzheimer's on top of Dear Life by Alice Monro. Pushes aside sewing utensils, notebook, magnifier, candle, the glitter-sprinkled potted evergreen left-over from Christmas. He takes a pen and writes Red Poppies on a piece of note paper. Briefly he holds up a postcard depicting Herr Goethe and, surrounding him, the twelve most important women in his life. He looks at me and grins. "You can come back to your hero and his dalliances later. For now I want you to concentrate on your well-being."
In a slow-motion sweep of observation I notice that Dr. Steinfeld opens the refrigerator, reaches for a non-fat yogurt, pulls a small spoon from the drawer, and sits down again. A while later I focus on the bottom of the dessert cup. Steinfeld has drawn a criss-cross pattern into the remains of his yogurt. I want to ask him why, but he escapes into the image of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe on the postcard.
After I push aside the snack I pull the short piece of vanilla-scented candle toward me and light it. Now my hands rest, palms up, on the kitchen table. Dancing, swirling, wind-ruffled poppies gather around me. I hum, releasing sounds of patterned grace into the afternoon. Shivering red petals respond to my promise of renewal. Broken stems rise tall. I open my notebook and replant the poppies into the fertile ground of my early childhood memories.