Love Well What Thou Must Leave Ere Long

It is autumn in Oxford, a day of cinematic skies: bright light and shadow, voluptuous clouds. I am sitting in a quiet little coffee shop that has free wifi and good enough espresso, trying to type out scribbled thoughts from my sojourn in Turkey. This will take a long time, and I'll do it in installments, but I will tell you at the start: things did not turn out the way I had imagined.

I believe I went with the right heart and spirit. I had been feeling a great susceptibility to the beauty and wonder and poignancy of the world, and I was determined, as Shakespeare put it, to love that well which thou must leave ere long.

I was open to the experience, nervous but excited.

And indeed great marvels awaited: I have stood in wonderment in Hagia Sophia, drunk tea in a curved clear glass along the Bosphorus, wandered through bazaars, bustling streets, ancient temples, watched an orange moon rise above the Sea of Marmara, saw a Sufi whirling dervish in dance trance, and heard the call to prayer coming from everywhere...among other things. When I get home, I will have images to sort and notes to make sense of and a thousand sights and memories to revisit. I am sure that many such bits will turn up on this blog.

But there was also the journey within. I thought I would be brave and autonomous, the intrepid solo traveler, but I discovered that I was lonely. I missed Monte in particular, but even just the company of a friend would have been wonderful. Most of the time I was with Ceylan, our Turkish guide -- a knowledgable young woman with a lot of personality, a wardrobe of silly t-shirts, and a serious cigarette addiction -- along with five fellow tourist-hikers, all of them from England. Three were ladies in their 70s, all widowed, who traveled together since having lost their husbands. The other two were a married couple who had apparently visited places all over the globe via tours of this nature.

The woman of the couple, Anne, was bewildered by my habit of writing: "Whatever will you DO with all those words?" I tried to explain that writing is part of the experience for me, the way I try to process and discover things, the way I live them again. She shrugged, and I was thinking how in my real life, among my friends, there isn't anyone who would have trouble understanding that or even need to ask the question. She was also the one who started calling me Celia, and pretty soon others were, and I stopped correcting them. I thought how strange it was to be in a faraway place with people who don't know who you really are, not even your true name, and then I tried to tell myself that this was liberating, because Celia could be anyone, and I might invent a whole new persona entirely.

But you know what? I really couldn't, and that was one of the things I learned. Wherever I go, there I am. Celia, Cynthia, all the same. Not a free spirit at all. A sharer and a needer. Attached.

Anyway, I was touring -- in perhaps its most prosaic and perfunctory sense -- and I was often amazed, but also often restless, and definitely lonesome. Don't get me wrong; Istanbul is a sumptuous feast, but at day's end there is a desire to check in with someone not a stranger. I tried to fit in with the group; I chatted with the three English widows, who were lovely, spirited ladies, and I tried to focus on Turkey, which was, after all, the point. But the tour felt at times like a school field trip, not enough room for meandering, and the walks were not as rigorous and satisfying as I would have liked.I can be a braver explorer with a companion, but having none, I went off on my own for a few hours now and then, despite my trepidations about getting lost.

On these little forays I experienced things in my own way without guided interpretation and structure, and that was better, but early on I had to admit that this grand adventure was not everything I'd hoped. After just a day or two I was already making lists of what I'd do differently, what I had learned (much of it about myself), and what really mattered to me. Funny I had to be in Turkey to see the latter so clearly.

And I guess maybe I was feeling a little sorry for myself, which seems a bit outrageous, considering what I was doing. Poor Celia, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed in a hotel room in Istanbul feeling separate from the world.Oh, I imagine I would have gotten it sorted out, made the best of things, figured out a way to have more fun.

But then came shocking news from home: Monte's brother John was dying. While I was traipsing around Turkey with strangers, the family had gathered to say goodbye and keep vigil at the hospital. He was 55, a beloved and devoted dad (wife long-ago gone), teacher, and coach. Here is a link so you can get a sense of John.

When I left home all I knew was that he had been having disturbing symptoms that looked like colon cancer; this was later confirmed, but no one had any idea how advanced and aggressive it was. He wanted to fight it of course, and a long, unpleasant ordeal seemed inevitable, but everyone was hopeful and determined. After the first chemo treatment, though, a clearer picture emerged of how far it had spread, particularly into the liver. He left with courage, dignity, and grace, about twelve days after the initial diagnosis.

Suddenly sightseeing in Turkey seemed appallingly frivolous. Monte said there was nothing I could do; I should enjoy the rest of the trip, send him distracting and interesting emails and pictures, and there will be plenty to do when I return. But of course everything felt different. If it was already a bit stilted and strange, now it was sad and surreal.

At Thanksgiving dinner last year I remember John mentioning matter-of-factly that he hadn't been on an airplane since 1983. Imagine? For all those years he'd stood right where he was, tending to duty, coaching kids, skipping vacations, clipping coupons, frugal with everything but love and bad puns. But his life was rich, and it seems to me that through the extraordinary reach of his teaching and mentoring, many hearts shall carry him far and wide, through place and time -- a thousand little boats with lanterns, sailing into the future, laughter in their wake. John didn't board an airplane, but he travelled.

And me, I've boarded airplanes, bored myself, sailed to the holy city of Byzantium, and come back knowing even more fully how precious and fleeting life is. I have seen the gold mosaic of a wall and ancient monuments of magnificence, but take it from me: nothing is more wondrous than the ordinary moments, the light through your own window, the nearness of someone you love.

I'll resume the blog when I get back to California...