October 12
I recently discovered a story by the writer Denis Johnson (1949-2017) called The Largesse of the Sea Maiden that brims with unexpected poetry, dark humor, and honesty. The following sentence, for example, succinctly describes a certain frame of mind that I immediately recognized:
“This morning I was assailed by such sadness at the velocity of life—the distance I’ve travelled from my own youth, the persistence of the old regrets, the new regrets, the ability of failure to freshen itself in novel forms—that I almost crashed the car.”
Johnson packs it all in with brilliant, efficient prose: the velocity of life, the distance travelled from youth, the persistence of old regrets. He conveys a familiar sense of sadness and futility, and it’s painful, but somehow funny too.
And I’m trying not to be sad, but let’s face it: things feel strange lately. There’s a palpable sense of loss, both past and pending.
Early this morning, I drove to the Ranch, my stomping ground of thirty years, to meet some friends for a walk. There were subtle changes already in the short time since I left: a resurfaced road, a row of chubby ducks like tugboats on the pond, the slant of hazy autumn light. A train passed on the trestle, some animal bones were arrayed on the ground, and the place seemed oddly vacant. I sat at the redwood picnic table and looked out to the sea. I was young here once: a wife, mom, and teacher, and a robust bike rider too. I was busy, but I did my best. The days were full and the frameworks firm.
Everything changes. The trick is to change along with it, or learn somehow to navigate, and to discern the real from the mirage, which is getting harder to do. I’ve been thinking about my country lately, that brave and flawed experiment, and how much I liked its tendency to continually self-correct. Wasn’t that the moral arc of the universe: long, but tending towards justice? Wasn’t that a salient characteristic of our history? Aspirational, idealistic, acknowledging shameful things but gradually making amends, and losing ground sometimes, but getting back on track. We’re stalled now, and it’s a hard hole to climb out of, but as traumatized and heartbroken as we may be in this moment, the longer view leads us back to our best selves.
I think of another passage from Johnson’s story:
“Once in a while I lie there, as the television runs, and I read something wild and ancient from one of several collections of folktales I own. Apples that summon sea maidens, eggs that fulfill any wish, pears that make people grow long noses that fall off again. Then sometimes I get up and don my robe and go out into our quiet neighborhood looking for a magic thread, a magic sword, a magic horse.”
And it occurs to me that this is what I am doing in this mutable world beneath that shifting sky: searching always for that magic, and the mysteries that beckon, and the truth. There’s a reason those old fairy tales and folk tales have resonated through the ages.
On this day, forty-seven years ago, my beloved father died, and now it all comes back to me. The news was delivered to me by phone in an upstairs room with a view of maple trees whose leaves were garish yellow with fall. It was an obscenely glorious morning, and I seemed to fall backwards into a void, and my heart ripped open and has never quite healed. But even this anniversary does not fully explain my current sense of befuddlement and fragility.
“I feel like I’ve gone through a blender,” I confide to my friend Ellen.
“It’s not a blender,” she replies. “It’s a dryer. You’re getting tumbled, but the component pieces are still intact, and a lot of junk is getting caught in the lint screen, and you’ll be purged of it.”
I decided this is a much better metaphor. Things are swirling about and getting rearranged, and a lot of debris is being culled.
Last night, “the kids” came over, our former neighbors and their two little girls, and we walked through the quiet streets to an area that overlooks a golf course. Street lights and window lamps glowed, a rafter of wild turkeys strutted about, a bright broken moon hung in the branches of an oak on the hillside. We collected golf balls that were scattered on the ground all along the way, stuffed our pockets with them, then tossed them out onto the fairway. We watched as the little white balls rolled and bounced along the bright green grass, and it was ridiculously silly and delightful. My long gone childhood was briefly back, and I wasn’t anxious about everything.
I remember now that if I am assailed with sadness at the velocity of life, I can also hit pause by stepping into wonderment.
Another thought from Denis Johnson’s story:
“I wonder if you’re like me. if you collect and squirrel away in your soul certain odd moments when the Mystery winks at you…”
Yes! Exactly that. The mystery winks at me, it greets me impishly, it recruits me into its domain.
And if my heart is aching for the loss of loved ones, there is some comfort in what my friend Kappy told me: “What we see is only a fraction of what is.” She said it with such certainty, I believe her.
Forty-seven years ago, I lost my father, and somehow I am older now than he was then, and I am here.
“Nothing you can do can stop time’s unfolding,” wrote William Stafford. “You don’t ever let go of the thread.”
And I guess that’s the key. Hold onto the thread. The thread of integrity and kindness, of truth and what is right. That does not change.
A special note from Cynthia:
Please join the No Kings protests that will be happening all across the country on Saturday, October 18th — to defend the freedoms that this authoritarian president is trying to dismantle. Even if it’s a bit outside your comfort zone and not your usual way of dealing with things, this is the time to step out, stand up, make a statement, and help restore democracy and decency. History suggests that sustained, nonviolent campaigns that actively engage 3.5% of the population have never failed to bring about change. This event will be epic and global, and your presence can make a difference. I am going to be in England, but my fellow travelers and I intend to demonstrate in Oxford, and I suspect that we will find other Americans and concerned folks from all over doing the same. With love and strength.