The Mortal Moment: Essays on a Trek through the Hills of Great Britain

The Mortal Moment

Essays on a Trek through the Hills of Great Britain

By Natalie Cherie Campbell

Brigham Young University Press Provo, Utah

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Copyright Š 2013

By Natalie Cherie Campbell k All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

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Dedicated to my husband, Spencer who has always told me to “do great things� leading me to take my trek in the first place. h

And Dedicated to my Family, who taught me the beauty of thinking.

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Contents Poetry ��������������������������������������������������������������6 The Honeysuckle Bush ����������������������������������������������������������������������������

7 When Now Unstiches Then ��������������������������������������������������������������������7 Fy Cymru, Gwlad y Gân ��������������������������������������������������������������������������8 Silhouette of the Living ��������������������������������������������������������������������������10

Short Stories ���������������������������������������������������12 Chasing a Sunset ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������13

Writing Exercises �����������������������������������������15 What Lies Beyond These Walls? ������������������������������������������������������������16 The Sky as a Shelter ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������17 Stumbling with Sheep ����������������������������������������������������������������������������18 The Center of Time ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������20

Personal Essays ������������������������������������������23 Clothes-Pinning the American Culture ��������������������������������������������������24 The Other Side of Open-Mindedness ��������������������������������������������������25 My Adventure, Someone’s Home ����������������������������������������������������������27 The Mortal Moment ������������������������������������������������������������������������������31 An Attempt by Living Happily ��������������������������������������������������������������40 Somewhere in the Leftovers ������������������������������������������������������������������44

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Poetry

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The Honeysuckle Bush

I

remember we’d hide among the honeysuckles, Licking the sugar–coated dew.

It was our magical escape.

It was always warm when we’d go there, In a few more ways than one.

But that is no matter.

For our honeysuckle bush was our magical land, where leaves became teacups.

My sister had a good imagination.

But I could never quite forget the crying, Of my mom and daddy inside.

I wish they had a honeysuckle bush too.

When Now Unstiches Then

W

hen Now Unstitches Then and is in Turn Undone When Now un–stiches Then, This harpoon from the past– Sharp, pointed, barbed– Carries with it a reminder that everything we do Is transient, mutable; that memory’s sarcophagi

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Are buried in the sands of change; That the moments which we colonize now, Our perceptions, our fragile present, Are already marked with obliteration.

[But,] I know– with a certainty That outweighs the most cherished particularities of memory– That I should welcome anything that helps Attune the ear to time’s complex harmonies.

Google may have made once stable images Come crashing down, But in the sound of their falling I can her More acutely than in any monotone of static preservation The Elusive voices of the moments we inhabit. *Words written by Chris Arthur in “On the Shoreline of Knowledge”

Fy Cymru, Gwlad y Gân

T

he fairy land, thy place lies amongst purple flowers, Which hover as wings along the mossy hills.

I tread lightly. My boots which carried me through Britain Now contrast their dark and supple leather against the picturesque dell.

The mists which coast the Brecon Beacons And lay among enchanted tangled trees,

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All create this calm array of color Which glisten as the rain drops quietly cling To the petals of each tiny fairy flower, Or the pebbles which sink beneath my boots, As I glide along the pathway of the fairies And drink from the beauty of the view.

The scene which looks just like a picture, Oil–painted, in yellow, purple, green, Or the smoke as it rises from a chimney Hidden beneath the tree tops of these woods.

The forest standing tall in strict formation, As I gaze out for miles and miles ahead Seem to sing out a long forgotten love song In remembrance of their resting sacred dead.

What moves me in these tiny purple flowers, Which float above the grasses and the dew?

Or the flocks which dot the lingering hillsides And graze upon the fairy land in Cymru?

Oh move amongst thy sheep oh gentle Shepherd And tell me were you once my distant kin?

And did you sing the strains of a sad Welsh love song, With the fairies as your only accompaniment?

May it be that a home which never having seen, Pulls the ties of my heart from this place?

Will the sweet songs of small purple flowers, Keep my soul in their immortal, fairy’ed space?

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Though I go I will ever wish to wander, Ore the hills that I tread and nurtured long.

From this land to a love that’s even dearer, Unto the West I will take with me this song.

May I float among the tops of the forest, Oh Cymru.

May I glide with the mist and the rain, Gwlad y Gân.

And find rest in the fairy’ed, purple flowers, Fy Cymru.

Home to me, Gwlad y Gân, Fy Cymru.

Welsh Pronunciations and Translations Fy Cymru: V–ee Come–ree Gwlad y Gân: goo–thlad uh gahn Fy Cymru, Gwlad y Gân: My Wales, the land of song

Silhouette of the Living

I

wish I could freeze it.

And place it in a drawer-On sad days of loneliness and difficulty, I could pull it out and gaze once Again on his peaceful features, so untouched by the worry of a waking reality.

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I am digging a trough against falling walls, Blindly scratching at the sands of my own time.

A Silhouette of the Living.

Perhaps if I dig deep enough someone will notice, Long after my digging has ceased.

But if not I’ll bury my tools, In the top right corner of the base of my trough.

And as the walls fall in I’ll wait to be found, all the while dreaming of a small sleepy smile.

The silhouettes of the living will stumble into timelessness, Found only in themselves; The contours of a memory and the potential of eternity.

“Sometimes I feel like if you just watch things, Just sit still and let the world exist in front of youSometimes I swear that just for a second time freezes And the world pauses in its tilt.

Just for a second.

And if you somehow found a way to live in that second, Then you would live forever.”

Lauren Oliver said that.

And no matter the falling walls, I believe her.

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Short Stories

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Chasing a Sunset

T

he sunset was more revealing than either of them thought. As it is with most paintings which tell a story none can seem to remember.

Marie often came looking for such paintings when she could escape the never ending bore and sterility of her little French school. Marie lived in a little house, in a little town, where not even little dreams could grow. And inside that little house, in her little town she lived with her “too–big” family, with “too–big” of worries to pay attention to what her mother called, her “too–big” of dreams. So every Saturday afternoon Marie would pedal away to Paris, taking her “too–big” of dreams with her. She kept her “too–little” bike hidden in the bushes by the school’s front gate, which once white was now yellowed with age. There it sat poised and ready for the weekly adventure to the Louvre after the afternoon bell had rung, releasing her from her little school house.

After a particularly boring day at school (they had studied 5’s and 6’s in multiplication) Marie ran to the little clump of bushes and pulled out her bike, discovering a new scratch amongst all the others. The little bike once a bright periwinkle, was now chipped and faded, having been used by each of Marie’s six older sisters. Vague outlines of long–faded pink flowers were scattered amongst the chips of paint and a little bell rested by Marie’s hand, like a little lost bird, trilling its tune amongst the nest of stubby handlebars and shredded streamers.

According to Marie’s calculations, Paris and more importantly, the Louvre was a mere 6 ½ miles (or 20 minutes ride) away from her little house. So she clambered on her “too–little” bike and pedaled her “too–big” of dreams to Paris, and more importantly, the Louvre.

Today, Marie decided to explore the north–west wing and soon found herself snugly nestled amongst hundreds of scenic paintings with a thousand different colors. One painting in particular caught her eye. Walking over to the far corner she stared at the painting, the plaque underneath read, “Seaport at Sunset” Claude Lorrain, 1639. At first glance it seemed like nothing special, just men standing at the dock waiting as the ships came in, looking for refuge from the night. But the sunset was more revealing than either of them thought, for Marie found herself angry that these men simply stood, not taking advantage, or even any notice of the enticing color, light, and symbolic opportunity of the sunset. All they could do was stand and wait for their stock, or merchandise, or any other number of profits the ships bore as cargo.

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“Doesn’t anyone in this world care for anything but money and facts and figures?” Marie snapped out loud. Embarrassed, she quickly glanced around in hopes that no one had heard her outburst. Finding herself alone she decided to move on, grumbling that even if it were their last sunset they still just stand there waiting for their profit. Marie found no solace in the painting, but rather irritation, the itching in her soul she couldn’t seem to scratch.

Week after week Marie came to the Louvre and every week she would find the little painting and leave a little irritated. “Why must they just stand there?” She would wonder aloud. “If I were at a seaport at sunset I would find a boat and I would chase it.” With this decided she would pedal her “too–little” bike home wondering if she would return to find them gone away from their never ending waiting, and secretly hoping that if they could escape to the sunset then perhaps, just perhaps, she could find a way there too.

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Writing Exercises

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What Lies Beyond These Walls?

A Write and Respond for Two People

N

atalie Harman: The cove is a moment nearing paradise. All around, the craggy cliffs reach towards the sea and frame the water that rolls with

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tide. The blueness of the sky reflects off the crystal water to create a sea foam blue approaching green which carries in the white bubbles that stir near my toes. All the shore is lined with pebbles and white–washed rocks some covered with green seaweed tendrils yet most clean, shining from their place. Out in the cove the yachts and fishing boats rest, occasionally bobbing when a wave pulls in with power. Above the seagulls draw patterns in the sky not thinking of their landing place, but rather glorifying in their flight. The sun which glows across the landscape casts reflecting rays on every surface. In sunshine the water glistens like a thousand flickering lights and the rocks shine as marble. All around the world is alive and one can only wonder what lies beyond these walls?

Paige Whitney: Yet, this question seems too broad to even answer, for there will always be walls, whether you are standing within city gates or laying on a blanket in a lawn surrounded by a picket fence. When surrounded by these barriers we always seen to ask, “What lies beyond these walls?” Well, everything does. Beyond a fence lies a neighborhood, then a city with people, then a country and it continues until the universe is reached. We never seem to ask, “What lies within these walls?” Yet, we can never hope to answer the first question if we cannot answer the latter.

The Sky as a Shelter

A Write and Respond for Two People

P

aige Whitney: The walk turned from three miles to six which on a normal day would have been an annoyance. However, the soft green meadows surrounded by thick forest was a worthwhile setting. We reached the cobblestone town, winding past window shops and flower baskets.

After rounding a corner I could see the poet’s abbey, the stone worn like the others I had seen. The outer view was grand but walking through the archways brought a greater sense of awe. The green, earthy floor scattered with daisies provided a striking contrast to the grayish–brown

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structure. The abbey seemed more massive at this angle. From the outside the abbey seemed to have a roof. From the inside the sky was the shelter.

Natalie Harman: It seems strange that a set of ruins or a green meadow can embody a change of perspective, yet that’s exactly what had happened.

What is it that moves us when a long hike becomes a pleasant trek or an old ruin a liberating edifice? I think it comes down to where we stand. A mathematician finds beauty in angles, a painter in contrasting perceptions.

But as a writer it all comes down to perspective. What are words but the representation of perspective, the mirror which reveals from where we stand? When we stand in contemplation an arduous hike becomes a worthwhile interaction with nature. When we stand in amazement the sky becomes the limitless bounds to the aged walls that seem to have forever stood. Much like a roofless abbey our inspiration will always be dependent on our perspective.

Stumbling with Sheep

An Imitation Essay (Going Out For a Walk by Max Beerbohm)

I

had never seen a sheep before coming to England. But now I have seen too many.

Whilst walking the public footpaths one cannot help but wonder how one of the most ironically lovable babies in the animal kingdom, the lamb, can grow into one of the least attractive animals in, no longer the animal kingdom, but the meat and clothes industries as mutton and wool.

Before they are thus used each sheep looks much the same, their woolen coats wispy but shaggy, only those which are half–shaven standing out amongst the rest. These half–shaven sheep are of the group which seem

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to have contracted a strange form of woolen leprosy. The live illusion of deterioration is fixed by the fragmented patches of wrinkled pink skin and limp strips of dirty wool, twisting in the breeze as each sheep hobbles to its new grazing mound. As they hobble along one cannot help but notice the splotches of sprayed green, pink, or red on its coat which marks out its value and inevitable home on a plate of Haggis, Neeps, and Tatties. And, if one continually walks the countryside and its public footpaths this, besides the innumerable poop droppings, is all one will see in England’s never– ending mass of sheep, pastures, and hedgerows.

Upon coming to England I was instructed to find inspiration in the landscape. But, as I quickly grew tired of sheep I also found the landscape to grow lackluster in inspiration. I suppose one could argue that there is much more to inspire than just sheep. And I suppose them to be right. But the point is not how much there is to inspire but whether or not it does.

And frankly, it does not. For though the landscape is lovely, to be sure, it varies about as much as one sheep to another.

Though this assertion is quite contrary to the “Wordsworthian” ideal, I find that instead of waxing poetic or profound in a “spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion” I rather become as methodically concerned with where I step as a sheep does with nipping the next tuft of grass. With their black and white, oblong faces turned downward a sheep may spend its whole day in no other pursuit than to feed and bleat at those of us which come to near. And though loathe to compare myself to a sheep, I too find that nature serves to numb the creative brain as one’s eyes become the primary instrument, continually peering and hoping to avoid the droppings, puddles, marshy patches, and muddy holes that plague the common English footpath.

In this way nature, indeed, is entirely unsuitable in providing inspiration.

In one fatal moment my argument could be entirely under–minded by the voice that says, with what I’m sure is great validity, “I have been inspired by nature, and in fact it suits very well.” Therefore, in an effort to avoid such a feeble folly in my own writing I will assert that Truth never was my opinions but rather the simple observations of my own meandering mind. And in such observations I have discovered that nature is entirely unsuitable in providing inspiration. Nature may instead serve as a calm and sublime numbing for the pressing thoughts that have not yet received enough reflection, which I find requisite, to adopt words necessary for the expression of profound application. Whereas inspiration is best catered in the places that let thoughts race while the body is still, the nurturing of these thoughts is best attended to while the mind is quite and the body invigorated.

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Places of inspiration found on park benches, outdoor cafes, or one’s fireplace allow the brain full capacity and free will. In such moments when one’s energy is entirely dedicated to the mind it is little wonder that thoughts begin to wander, musings meander, and ideas stumbled upon.

Places of reflection such as English footpaths or pastures of grazing sheep give repose, allowing the mind time to move about in the world. And while thoughts lie dormant, connections between the outside world and our internal realities may be re–formed and re–discovered, this being rendered possible no matter how invariable or methodical the landscape may be.

When searching for inspiration I have found that nature and sheep, whether sublime or ugly, do very little for creativity. For no matter how one looks at their surroundings inspiration must stem from the internal workings of a comfortable mind. Nature may grant experience for some future musing or provide the mind–numbing stillness that incubates ideas, but it simply cannot provide original thought when its only tools are shaggy sheep and mossy stone walls.

It is true that this essay was derived from my disdain for sheep, which some may title Inspiration, but I would assert that it is rather reflection, because though both are important they are not one in the same. And sheep do very little to inspire.

The Center of Time Reflections and Musings

T

oday I woke up fifteen minutes early. 7:00 am instead of 7:15. It was my first day being trained, I had only been hired two days earlier. Two months ago I might have treasured and fought for those extra fifteen minutes of sleep, especially considering my current rising time of 11:00am, but not anymore. You see I got married. I think it was while I was travelling in England that my fiance, Spencer, first mentioned this idea of waking up a little early. At the time he had said he was practicing making time to hold me. Later in a letter he closed by assuring me he’d always have fifteen minutes to give. Well it’s habit now and this morning as I slowly opened my eyes at 7 am, I automatically began to shift towards Spencer, lightly kissed his cheek, and watched his lips form a small sleepy smile. This is my favorite part of being married.

Shortly after getting married I was re-reading a letter Spencer had written to me the night before we got married. Usually I noticed the end, which promised me 15 minutes, but I noticed the opening this time. It said,

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“Ma cherie, It is weird to think of this moment as the center of time. But it felt like it took forever to get here. And it feels like we have forever ahead of us (which has some pretty awesome potential).”

For some reason I kept having to re-read it, trying again and again to comprehend the phrase, “the center of time.” I mean, was that possible? I don’t think I would have cared so much if I hadn’t found some possibility in them. Albert Einstein said, “Time is an illusion.” and the Doctor from “Doctor Who” always explained time as, “people assum[ing] that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpointit’s more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly...time-y wimey...stuff.” So I began to suppose that reaching the “center of time,” keeping in mind my limited understand, was perhaps possible.

November 13th, 2013

S

o I’ve decided that “The Center of Time” isn’t meant to be an essay. At least not yet. Right now it’s a poem. Months ago I was talking to Spencer and said “I’m digging a trough against falling walls.” At the time I was struggling with isolation and fighting against the onset of depressive symptoms. Needless to say I wasn’t referring to the Center of Time in relation to my wedding day or any other happy moment with the phrase.

But, I think I’ve come to a conclusion. I think time is medium that I do not yet understand. No amount of Dr. Who quotes or Einstein relative theory will ever truly express the difference between the movement of time and the comprehensible parameters we place around it. But this summation doesn’t stem from a defeatist attitude. I’ve simply realized that for now I can’t really claim that a center of time and eternity exists.

But I do still wonder. Maybe it’s like the center of a tornado. The winds swirl around and in the middle everything is perfectly still. But if that were so, is it possible to make it to the middle? Are we forever stuck on the

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outskirts in turbulent winds, attempting to swim to the middle while dodging each passing day in fear of our time catching up to us as we’re laid in the grave? Or are we already in the middle, mindless of our place in eternity, each striving determining our happiness or otherwise?

If we are already in the center of time then my Center of Time felt like my Wedding Day because it was the moment my current decision influenced the rest of my eternity. But if I’m on outskirts, forever fighting for an eternal perspective, then the moments of pure peace, between sleeping and waking, or in mediation and writing, these feel like frozen points of time, the instant I found my way to the center, if only to be pulled back into the winds in the next instant. In these moments I could live forever. And that’s where I’ll strive to stay whether by memories, writing, or digging troughs against falling walls. Because learning to live in eternal time is our goal when searching for the center.

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Personal Essays

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Clothes-Pinning the American Culture

T

oday the sun is shining and the breeze is gently blowing. I find myself sitting on a stand dressed down in my guarding gear, essentially a swim suit, shorts and a whistle. Across my lap sits my guard tube and I have on my BYU sunglasses and stars and stripes flip flops. I’m perfectly relaxed finding peace being in my element. The heat of the sun rays feel wonderful on my shoulders and across the fence I hear the sounds of a baseball tournament.

Kids are cheering and coaches are barking tips every moment. A bat connects with the ball and dust kicks up as the boys run around the plates.

As I continue my scan I hear the men below talking about their war days as they do their water aerobics. The radio sings loud and I sing along under my breath, I’ve clothes–pinned the American Culture.

I’ve always been skeptical about American Culture. In the 40’s with the coming of World War II and the end of the Great Depression our culture was at its height with family, baseball, the crooners, patriotism, and penny candy and soda at the local drug store. And somewhere it disappeared, like dandelion seeds on a lights breeze. But the seeds are still there and today I realized that. Our culture is not gone it’s simply slipped off of the clothes line. What should be wholesome culture has become shrouded by the filth of the world. We are known for MTV, Jersey Shore, and awards for various mediums of media. A good time on a Friday or Saturday night has become Hookah Bars and clubs, one night stands and getting as smashed as possible.

It’s not safe to run the streets as playing children and entitlement and laziness is rampant, respect and civility slowly dying. It doesn’t feel right to call this “culture” yet if we do not safeguard our time and become better than we are we will soon lose the remnants of a happier day to the sleaze of the passing moment.

But this isn’t how it must be. We can slow down and become the yesterday we long for. While life–guarding, it’s my job to sit and simply watch, alert, and waiting. But we shouldn’t need it penciled into a planner or forced upon us to find the importance of simply sitting and experiencing life. We make who we are by taking time for who we want to be. By taking time we each pick up the scattered pieces of America and pin them to the line to wave for all to see. Kids shouting at a baseball game. Old men talking about their glory days while making eyes at a 65 year old woman they still think is lovely. Summer time swimming and 4th of July barbecues. Civility and extra– mile kindness, just because. Bell ringing at Christmas time, and American ingenuity being born in children who discover answers as fast as they come

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up with more questions. A drive to improve and protect. Liberty, honor, hard work, fun, and wholesome American Culture. Who knew one could find all that while sitting on a life guard stand?

The Other Side of Open-Mindedness

I

remember it was in a conversation, where I first encountered the perspective that being open–minded could be detrimental. The state of mind, as I recall, was likened to a drinking glass. I was told that each part of the glass symbolized a part of our mind. The sides of the glass represented the lens by which “we” (the glass) perceived. The sides were very rarely removed and only occasionally altered. The bottom of the glass was also considered immovable, serving as the glass’ foundation, its reference point and compass by which the results of its perceptions were determined.

By this model, a close–minded person was one who had a full glass no longer containing space to integrate new ideas. An open–minded person was one with an empty glass, still allowing space for new ways of thought to fill their “mind.” Of course there were varying levels of fullness, but overall the concept was quite simple, until someone, maybe society, a group, or perhaps an intellectual thought to remove the base. Thus, our current perception of being open–minded, what many feel is the “ideal” state of mind, became skewed from its original form.

This shift in thought may seem small but it has created monumental changes in how people communicate with each other. Consistent accusations and misunderstandings occur, especially within social issues based on the simple difference in definition. One is not open–minded enough, the other has no principles. One cannot understand why being willing to examine new ideas is not enough, while the other is frustrated by the occasional unwillingness to integrate most and all new ideas. This conflict, over simple denotation, has led me to wonder if the new and “baseless” approach to open–mindedness is not, after all, detrimental.

If we were to consider what many people might use as their own base then we’d most likely find the words religious belief, political opinion, welfare of loved ones, ethical code, etc. Are these things that we can honestly fault people for having and safe guarding? Having a core to which we hold is much like having an oar or tiller with which to steer a ship. Without a tiller or a drinking glass bottom a ship would go nowhere and a glass could not hold water. Though the pretense of never having to leave the seas of knowledge or being constantly exposed to the flow of intelligence is comforting, it ceases to be so when our state of mind stops progressing.

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We may see the waves around us and not be a part of the current, we may have water flowing through us and never retain any. By denying the mind a purpose, it does not matter the situation or pathway an attempt at progression and intelligent integration is futile. Thus, a foundation–less approach to open–mindedness, however good one’s intentions, is sure to lead to the progression of many causes, little enemies, and a thorough neglect of one’s own welfare. With this in mind it seems as though, whether purposeful or not, the new requirements of open–mindedness are rather manipulative. By expecting a person to rid themselves of their foundation and beliefs so that anything becomes acceptable and one cannot disagree those who hold such an expectation seek to make a number on a petition of a mind, an unthinking ally at a rally, or simply render them incapable of becoming a force of opposition.

For some this open–minded–mode may be just the ticket to avoid such un–pleasantries as disagreement, offense, or worst of all appearing close–minded. Being truly open–minded is much more difficult than this, for, it requires effort to maintain one’s base while exerting a willingness to seek understanding from other points of view. Those who attempt such an approach risk offending many, but will undoubtedly gain further understanding as to other perspectives and how different ways of thinking shape the minds of the masses as well as decide how those ways of thinking will shape their own mind. Maintaining this type of grounded open– mindedness creates a proactive force for progression, not to be used for every purpose but rather to define and pursue their own purpose.

Perhaps this individualized purpose has created its own path to atrophy.

Much like the frustration of accomplishing nothing, attempting to accomplish anything while each foundation caters to a different purpose can be as equally hindering. It may be that amidst this frustration of differing agendas the term “acceptance” was applied as a cure–all, a mediator between the differences that composed individual bases. But, it is in this misapplied word that the first crack in the glass was triggered. Thus, our attention has been forced to fixing the cracking glass instead of the examining the different paths one may take in the process of filling or emptying it.

Our discourse would be ideal if we could use such essays to address the question as to which state of mind, open or close–mindedness is better.

But unfortunately we cannot. Because we have, for so long, attempted to solve each problem by turning to the catch phrase of acceptance we have deteriorated the very structure of our means of perception and relative integration. Our very words have become skewed to mean different things, leaving comprehension impossible unless one is lucky enough

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to stumble across someone who understands the connotation as we do.

Open–mindedness is not the only one, and for each word on society’s list of variable application we must re–establish the meaning so as to rescue its contextual application. Such it is with the “open–minded” who can no longer claim such a widely differentiated characteristic as their own.

The framework of our minds may remain as structured or unfettered as one chooses. Yet, a framework must remain. It is true, an empty glass holds the most potential of any model we’ve examined, but most importantly is not that it’s necessarily empty, but rather that it can hold water. Many a great cause has been influenced by those willing to understand and fit it new ideas, these we may call open–minded. Many masses of people have been herded and used in their inability to sort through good and bad ideas and their respective consequences. These we may call open–minded. The open–minded have been known for both intellect and blind hope, progress and wishful speeches. Both groups we may call open–minded but they are fundamentally different. We must notice the difference and realize that it begins in the mind, and the mind begins with sides and a base.

My Adventure, Someone’s Home

S

ometimes while I wander thoughts begin to form. Like dew drops on flowers or whispers on the wind, the task becomes a race to catch them so they may take hold in the soil of self–reflection before they slide away.

Of late, my thoughts have been of home. Perhaps it is when one crosses the vast expanse of an ocean that a susceptibility to yearning for those left behind becomes more prominent. Perhaps not. But as I sit here in England I am filled with awe at that which I see and that which I do not. In such moments of contrast one may begin to see clearly. John Ruskin once said, “Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion— all in one.” For me in this moment, to see clearly was to understand the nature of home and belonging. To see clearly is the birth place of thought as well as the first moments of true appreciation.

My moment began many years ago with a lack of feeling. Often having little regard for the tugging of home, I’ve always felt that my path laid further distant, exploring the recesses of the globe and the dormant thoughts that laid untouched in such places. This, I thought, obviously excluded my home as a destination. And for many years I have had little reason to think otherwise, until I took a particular walk on a particular day in a particular mood. You see, I was in the habit of “missing.” Some may

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refer to this as homesickness, which is true. But, as I was not sick and I yearned for more than just my home I shall broaden my term from merely being homesick. Because for me what was missing was everything I did not have which related to my home and sense of belonging somewhere.

Well, I was thoroughly entrenched in the “habit of missing” when four days ago I decided to go walking down the cobblestone streets of Keswick.

All around a solitary busy–ness prevailed as I waited for the first drops of an inevitable rain to fall and further dampen the already overcast scene.

All forms of life seemed to move in a quick–paced plodding as shops were visited, dogs walked, and jackets pulled tighter in a continual bustle. I felt fairly apart of my surrounding, except my lacking a dog, yet in truth I was as mentally distant and those that I longed for. Until, a little girl passed by.

No more than eight or nine, she rode a little purple scooter, in a little school uniform, with a little hole at the knee in her stockings. She was humming. As she passed by I realized, for perhaps the first time that these streets which constituted my adventure were her home. As school let out more children filled the streets, rag–tag in there peeled off uniform pieces, each headed to their own home. Even in that moment I felt a significance to my discovery and for the first time I felt as though I saw clearly.

Now I sit in a comfortable chair in front of a flower and sea shell filled fire place in John Ruskin’s home. It is called Brantwood. Every piece sits in beautiful preservation creating an ornate jigsaw puzzle of the ever–flowing thoughts of Ruskin’s immense mind. To sit in such company seemed to qualify as a quiet sort of adventure, once again, far from home. And then I heard the piano. My thoughts quickly slid home as the melody of the keys and the familiarity of its sound touched my heart and mind. As I was thinking of my home it quietly dawned on me that this too was someone else’s home. These piano keys, now awoken, were once played by those who moved, breathed, and lived in this place, their home. It was yet again another home which I had constituted my adventure.

It makes me think of my first tea party in England. While sitting with my little friends Sarah and Dani and speaking in our attempt of a British accent I began conversation by asking them if they’d had an adventure that day. To their sadness they told me that they had done nothing that day, therefore having no adventures. In a whisper I quietly told them that “everyday has an adventure in it, no matter where you are or what you are doing. Even if it is just your thoughts, anything can be an adventure.” As their little eyes widened at this sudden revelation they began to review their day to find their own adventures that they had only just missed. And now as I sit here I wonder how many times we, lost in the sea of our own expectations, miss

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the moments that are happening all around us. I wonder as I walk the streets of York, Edinburgh, or Keswick if the people that swirl around me, who live maybe five or ten minutes’ walk away this daily swirl their everyday life, realize that what they consider their home I consider to be my adventure.

And I wonder further, how many times I’ve walked the paths and roads I know too well assuming that my home is only that. How many shoulders have I bumped or people seen that are on their own adventure in a place I’ve reduced to “just a home.”

In every place that is “just someone’s home” history can be found. Lives have been lived and everyday people still walk the streets carrying on. The traces of their beings leave a remarkable adventure as I sit contemplating

and hoping to understand them. In every place that is “just someone’s home” immense amounts of beauty is etched into age–old landscape, imprinted by the elements of existence. Ruins and monuments, gardens and caverns, mountains and lakes, footpaths and trails. In every place that is “just someone’s home” unique talent created by unique people can be found.

Street performers, shop owners, dog walkers, strangers or friends, those going to work, those going on a walk. Young men carrying guitars, old men playing bagpipes. Each person has a story and the story they’ve created is the finely designed webbing that connects the elements of their home. And when I step in hoping to find an adventure I simply catch a snapshot of a life, a history, a home.

In every adventure I experience I find flowers worth pressing or rocks

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worth collecting. There will always be a plaque worth reading or a site worth seeing. I fully expect that the human race will still create people worth talking to, watching, hearing, and sitting with. Each of these elements when examined in its whole reflects the nature of home and belonging. Yet it is these same elements when captured in a snapshot form the makings of an adventure. They are one in the same, not to be separated but rather appreciated when seen clearly. They stand side by side yet also shed further beauty when juxtaposed in contrast to each other.

As I’ve come to understand this concept through my everyday experiences I’ve found that while my missing has not necessarily ebbed, it has become a pleasant reminder of the home I have and the homes I’m discovering here.

It reminds me to be grateful for the adventures I’m having while allowing me to look forward to the adventures I will have upon my return home. It has given me a powerful sense of belonging because no matter where I am I may recognize the objects that fuse together to create my sense of home.

Like listening to piano keys, or watching children play, certain books, or plants, or even a treasured letter and email.

In coming to England, it no longer surprises me to hear the innumerable songs dedicated to going home and the beauty found there. Under– appreciating one’s home is not a problem for only a few and many never find fulfillment in the simple lives and those happenings that create their sense of belonging. Even so, I also sympathize with those who feel the yearning to search the corners of the earth and trace the steps of those who’ve existed there. There is inherent beauty in new sights, new sounds, and new tastes which can never be underestimated. But that is why the contrast is so lovely.

To be home and to thoroughly enjoy your time there can be a wonderful adventure. To travel and to thoroughly enjoy your opportunity can be a wonderful adventure. Much like the way we bring our travels home with us through souvenirs, trinkets, postcards, and photographs we can, when found in the “habit of missing” bring home to our travels by recognizing and noticing the threads and remembrances that form our sense of belonging. In this way every stage of a journey can be fulfilling: being home, being abroad, and returning again. Maybe most fulfilling, is the realization that no matter what adventure lies in store or where it may be there will always be a new and exciting world to explore. And, if lucky enough to explore it one can realize and appreciate the home they have worth returning to, worth missing, and the people left behind who are worth thinking of and seeing again.

And that is what I found while listening to a piano in John Ruskin’s home, having a little tea party in Earby, or seeing a little girl with a little hole in her stocking riding home on her little scooter through the streets of Keswick;

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I found the moment in which I first saw clearly. Finding that this world is composed of not just adventures, but homes. And no matter where I walk, no matter where I go I will be experiencing the beauty of someone’s home.

The history, the people, the landscape. Each part of the journey may be enjoyed and sometimes finding one’s own nature of belonging first requires the “habit of missing,” being the prerequisite to the balm of appreciation.

As I sit here in England, moving from town to town as a traveling dot on a map, I now wonder who is exploring my own home. I wonder if they could be from here, as though we had just switched spots. I wonder what we would say if we could sit down and share first impressions and long time stories. My adventure, someone’s home. My home, someone’s adventure.

Maybe someday I could tell that person of this instance in which I traveled, hiking across the United Kingdom. Tell them my love for England, Scotland, and Wales or maybe even the town they grew up in. Maybe someday I could ask them how they felt towards my home, the home I once thought so insignificant. Do the green and golden fields of wheat, alfalfa, and corn move them during the harvest days of autumn? Do the mists from the Falls dampen their eyelashes as they have mine? Or did they lose their breath while looking over the edge of the Perrine Bridge over the Canyon? For now I can only wonder and enjoy their home as they enjoy mine. But I hope they love it as I have and that my home is proving an adventure. Because now that I think about it, my home has given me the adventure of a lifetime, literally.

The Mortal Moment

Trekking Through the Pilgrimage of Existence Recognizing My Own Mortality

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phelia was lying dead on the stage. Man, she was so dead.

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Somewhere in my mind I’d created a strange division between those who were simply no longer moving and those who could never rise again.

Though seemingly the same, as dead is dead, one seemed passively fading away, while the other symbolized the struggle to live and the stark contrast of being forbidden from life. Ophelia, still dressed in her wet wedding dress was bone white with a blank, startled stare, slender in her now ebbing beauty, and frightening as her energetic spirit was now stilled to silent dust.

As I stared at her I grew more and more uncomfortable, willing her to move, wishing her to move. She never again did move. For the first moment in the 20 years of my existence I understood the state of my own mortality and the finality of death was stunning.

I have long been aware of the passage of time. It has been a concern of mine ever since I was five years old when I asked my mom where time went as we spent it. I remember wondering if I could save it. Maybe if I were really frugal it would last longer. I remember asking how it was that time moved so quickly only when I was having fun. I thought it was quite unfair.

Somewhere along the lapse of 15 years I have learned that I cannot save up time and perceiving time as slow is not worth sacrificing the joy that makes time move quickly. It was always rather obvious that someday time would run out, someday the clock would stop ticking its endless rounds around the clock face, and through the glass the sands would run thin. But in the invincibility of youth I never thought I’d face that day. In 43 days I’ll be getting married, in two years I’ll be graduating with my BA in English and a minor in Editing, in a short time after that I will probably become a mother, in ten years I will be thirty, and the list goes on. For now, I have the time with which to live but one day I will be given the time with which to die.

And in that moment I will die and lie still like Ophelia. In that moment I will return to nature.

This moment of recognized mortality occurred in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet in Stratford upon Avon, since I am currently residing in England for two months gaining experience in my English field of study. Much of my experiences have been centered around our constant movement through the cities and towns of England, Scotland, and Wales and more especially the hikes and walks that serve as our mode of transportation through the countryside. As I have been consistently surrounded by this countryside I have found myself deeply disappointed in how uninspired I have felt in reference to the nature, which I perhaps have overly romanticized. I have even, in certain moments of particular frustration, gone so far as to assert that nature cannot serve as a source of inspiration but rather only as a source for repose. I still believe this

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alternate role of nature to have validity, but upon receiving the opposite opinion in an email from my fiancé I realized that I had ignored a very important side of what had become my one–sided coin. Though I believe the period of reflection granted by excursions into nature to be very important, it simply does not stand to claim that nature is unable to inspire.

For somewhere, along a lengthy line of thought, I had realized that nature and flowers gave voice to Ophelia’s sorrow, served as her executioner, and housed her remains. Ophelia’s mortality, which now confronted me as my own eventual end, was inextricably linked to nature. And I have since become inspired to discover the source of such a connection. Therefore to some degree I have been mistaken in assuming that nature cannot inspire.

Trekking through the Rings of Saturn

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hortly before coming to Stratford upon Avon we traced the footsteps of the author W.G. Sebald and the twenty miles that inspired his book, The Rings of Saturn. W.G. Sebald understood well the reality of mortality,

loneliness, the passage of time, and the connecting thread we may find in nature. Growing up in Germany, Sebald was acquainted with accounts, photos, and thoughts of the Holocaust from an early age, leaving him undeniably altered. For some time his father was also absent, being a

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prisoner of war in World War II, during which time Sebald’s closest male figure was his Grandfather. These occurrences teaching him of the fragility of men, the loss and absence of loved ones, and the age of those closest to him color much of his work, perhaps serving as his moment when he first faced his own mortality.

The night before The Rings of Saturn hike we watched a film called Patience, gaining greater access to the mind of W.G. Sebald and his turn towards nature, in preparation for our own turn towards nature. Now more than ever I wanted to find the inspiration within nature that the melancholy voices on the screen seemed to find so prominently no matter where they looked.

I thought that if I could walk an “inspiring” enough place, or somewhere that particularly spoke to me then I would be able to tap into the message, then nature would show me its ability to inspire. I think I got it wrong.

I’ve totally misunderstood the meaning of turning towards nature. As I walked the shoreline of the Germanic Sea, walking the twelve miles towards Suffolk had great capacity to be either monotonous or inspiring. I never thought to decide which. I simply assumed that each piece of nature had been designated one or the other, and I waited to discover which this spot would prove to be. The moment I changed my mind was subtle. It came to me while I was writing a letter to my fiancé. I was listening to Patience and thinking of the words he’d written to me in an email. I had asked him to give me his opinion on the essays I had been writing, including my essay that claimed the inability of nature to inspire as I mentioned earlier. This is what he said: “I really liked your essays. Especially the one about seeking non– inspiration from sheep. I appreciate the opinion that nature does not inspire, but I do disagree :) I think that nature inspires by being majestic.

Our attempts to define and describe natural wonders is one way that nature proves its muse. I agree that nature can provide a place for the natural greatness within a person to be realized and that is another way nature inspires. I think nature can inspire by being an example or being evidence of something, just as sheep as evidence of how boring nature can be. Nature can also show great power or peace. Artists then take these and create new ideas and expressions. I think you took nature as a muse for just words, but I would contend that nature inspires other styles of art as well: paint, photograph, film, architecture. And I think that nature’s best inspiration is being a type for truth. Because what else is mankind seeking to illuminate? Few people are actually seeking darkness or evil or falsehood. We seek truth and nature gives us a means by which to realize it. We call truth given by the Holy Ghost inspiration.

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Why not call nature’s truths the same?

But that is just how I feel. And think. :) I love you darling. I have to hurry to work. Be safe. Do great things.”

As I thought about these words this phrase stood out to me in particular, “And I think that nature’s best inspiration is being a type for truth. Because what else is mankind seeking to illuminate? We seek truth and nature gives us a means by which to realize it...

Do great things.”

Do great things? What could I do? A type for truth? What truth? Each of these questions coursed through my mind as I stared down at a fresh page in what would become a letter to Spencer. I was incredibly focused on my calligraphy, hoping that some response to these questions would suddenly manifest itself to me as I pressed harder and harder on the tip of my pen.

Before me haunting voices emanated from the screen, praising nature and Sebald’s ability to tap into nature...wait! Sebald’s ability...Sebald’s ability, not nature’s ability. And suddenly I understood. It was not for me to receive but rather to discover. It was me.

I’d been waiting for something in the Landscape to prove its worth to me. I seemed to have been waiting for some hidden cache of coded thoughts to make themselves known to me, and further to impress upon my mind, which perceived a vast expanse of loaded nothingness, the form of words. This, would have placed me as some heroic idealist who had dug out the existential secrets of the abstract formations we term nature, yet continually rely on as a concrete connection between our individual reality and communal identity. But this was not my role, to reap success off of the endurance of nature, forever waiting for the landscape to adapt its wild language to the simplistic notation of the words in my mind. I needed to instead mold my mind to the procession of signals which emitted in a wild and unknown time table. It is not Nature’s innate responsibility to inspire but rather to exist. It is the setting not the interpreter, and it is for me to graft myself in and take part of a mode of existing in which the perfection of the cycle is found. What is Truth but the pilgrimage of existence? The way in which we triumph or endure the catastrophe of eroding time while enjoying the desolation and eventual re–growth of sweet tranquility.

This is what may be found in Nature, the renewal which inspires in ways other than words.

And that is what I wrote to Spencer. In one moment I learned that a twelve mile hike along the Germanic Coast could be whatever I made it and anything I chose to find.

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The Stamp of Immortality

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remember this concept re–invoking my attention after a short conversation I’d had whilst walking a stormy beach. To my companion I had expressed that the ocean and the waves never grew old, their awe– inspiring effect always stunning as I looked out upon them. But she had heard something quite different. (It has always interested me how people can perceive two different experiences or meanings from one original source.

Perhaps I will look into that concept later.) Anyway, though I had merely expressed awe at the stunning effect of the ocean my friend had heard only two words, “never ages.” At that moment our conversation took quite a different turn as we began to analyze the endurance of nature, its means of existence, and what I will later define as the stamp of immortality.

Perhaps nature’s most stunning quality is its agelessness. No matter the time that passes, the lives the play out, or the generations that pass, nature never seems to yield. As an ever–constant companion this omnipresent existence has paralleled itself in our minds to God, resulting in the prevalent idea that nature is a consistent connection to the divine. This connection whether founded on the shared qualities of consistency, beauty, power, or endurance has served as a balm to those who have sought its repose.

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But what is it that people find when escaping to the isolation of the wilderness? The capacity to endure and the agelessness of dormant energy buzzing through the life–blood of every plant is certainly to be found when entering the woods or walking along a beach. If one is religious, feeling a closeness to God is made vivid upon entering the hills. But these findings, though important as they symbolize the endurance of nature, simply answer the “what”? Perhaps more important is answering the “how.” How is it done? How is endurance, like slow plodding, achieved in such intricate beauty and sheer magnitude?

The “how” is what we titled as Nature’s means of existence. We began by dividing its contents into two categories. A plant expert or even just flower gardener, might call the categories the annual and the seasonal. I, as a writer, have learned to recognize the elements of landscape as the pillars and cycles. To be categorized as a pillar an element of nature must serve as a foundation immovable. Those the effects of time may erode or deface the efforts of such pillars their sheer attempts to remain attain them the timelessness upon which the fresh beauty of nature is built. Among this category stands the rocks, the cliffs, even the pebbles of the beach.

Mountains, valleys, the oceans and the sky. For a time even the castles of medieval men may serve as a monument to the pillars. The waves which keep time by their which coordinate with the pull of the moon, or the sun which rises and sets along our horizons all become the pillars of immortal nature.

Perhaps an easier to recognize those which the requirements are to simply remember the four elements of earth, air, water, and fire. It reminds me of meditation. Almost a year before I came to England I was taught to meditate by the elements. My fiancé served as the storyteller, weaving smooth lines of prose that embodied the elemental imagination behind my closed eyes.

Each breath was modified depending on which element we were emulating.

Water was smooth and relaxed, earth steady and firm, fire was energized and powerful, and air was light and ethereal. Each was fulfilling in and of itself but when juxtaposed in contrast to each other became foundational, or the pillars, by which internal peace was achieved. This to me was when I first discovered the “how,” the means by which nature exists.

In the seconds category, that which cycles, one will find the plants that bloom and leaves that fall off of the trees, the rains and snows which fall only to dry or melt, and even the animals which are born, live, and die, soon returning to the land. The cycles, like the pillars, are fundamental to Nature’s means of existence but instead of adding the timeless effect of endurance they add the agelessness of constant rejuvenation. This rejuvenation or as I first heard in The Lion King’s “The Circle of Life” is what grants peace

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when simply submitting to the way of things. All are born, each has the opportunity to live, and all must die. The new will rise up; the old will pass away. Built upon the aged footprints of one, are the tried and tested footpaths of the other. When coming to such peace in life, and indeed death, we too like Nature discover the way to exist meaningfully.

Though the how is perhaps most important for implementation, and the what for comprehension, it is when the two come together that self– discovery is found. Self–discovery may be considered the “why” of nature.

But with no other reason than self–discovery being a less–than–evocative title I decided that “The Stamp of Immortality” was a better explanation for the possible reason behind an individual’s turn towards nature.

It seems to be a trend that many individual’s turn to nature for isolation, inspiration, or repose. Even I seem to fit the mold, having laden myself with thousands of dollars’ worth of debt and flown thousands of miles, leaving behind my loved ones to find something more hardly knowing what it was I was searching for. But what is it that we all have in common, why the exodus, why the need for a pilgrimage to nature? W.G. Sebald made famous by his writings which detail lonely wanderings, isolated melancholy, and forlorn musing once said, “Like our bodies and like our desires, the machines we have devised are possessed of a heart which is slowly reduced

to embers.” Ophelia, while singing of flowers and mourning their wilting leaves says, “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts...There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end.”

And even my friend and I, amidst small talk, found significance in the two words, “never ages.” Lying in common with each is the hope of life, the

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inevitability of death, and the stamp of immortality. For Sebald, nature may have served as the means by which to express his “estrangement...with their (memory) mounting weight.” In The Rings of Saturn his English wanderings became the path of his repose, his own means of existence, his way to endure the bleakness, the grayness of life. Perhaps unlike many, Sebald wasn’t seeking personal immortality in reaction to a fear of death or a love of life, but rather reconciling himself to the immortal struggle of lonely minds. Such isolation and reconciliation with grief may be found in nature.

It surprises me how similar Shakespeare’s Ophelia is to an author like Sebald. Such words describing estrangement, loss, struggle, and isolation previously used for Sebald, all make an accurate characterization for Ophelia’s turn to nature as well. But their remains one fundamental difference. Unlike W.G. Sebald, Ophelia not only finds in nature expression for inexpressible sorrow but also relief and escape from burden through death. In the play it is a matter of little dispute as to whether or not Ophelia’s death is suicide. Because she did not attempt to save herself, maybe due to her insanity, she was accounted responsible for her own death.

Yet, while looking at her peaceful body I wondered if she was rendered unaware of her own distress through her perfect acceptance of the course of life and the way of death. Can this be immortality? Can accepting our eventual end implant our beings into the fabric of nature as our bodies will when embracing the dirt? Is this immortality?

When coming face to face with the dead Ophelia I experienced my own moment of mortality. My hands seemed to grow cold prematurely as I stared at her face and I found myself frightened. But now I am not afraid.

The dispelling of my fear occurred after my own turn towards nature. By engaging in the tradition of humanity I tapped into the exodus to nature and the pilgrimage of existence. For me mortality and nature seem to unite while standing before the sublime. To stand on the edge of a precipice and recognize the possibility, this is the sublime. To stand in awe at the pillars and cycles, to be stunned by the endurance of nature, and to glimpse the stamp of immortality, this is the sublime. While in England I have found such places while climbing the steep slopes of Tintagel or hiking on the craggy cliff edge of the Jurassic Coast. In these moments I stand in peace not wondering whether I will ever live up to the legacy I hope to leave. In these moments I stand in relief, feeling satisfaction in the life I currently lead. In these moments I stand in amazement wondering how I might unite myself to the earth created by the hand of my God. In these moments I begin to write. And the trek continues as I search for the words of what it means to live and how to live. As I search for the words of how to die

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and what it means to remain as a voice upon the wind calling lonely souls to nature, I enter the pilgrimage of existence and perhaps for a moment suspend or rather embrace my own mortal moment.

An Attempt by Living Happily

“Do you miss him?”

I

n some variation or another this is the question most frequently asked of me here on my study abroad. And my answer is always the same: “yes.” And true to form the same thought will surely follow: “Oh you can tell...great.”

* I’ve often felt myself consciously attempting to hide my visible “neediness” in hopes that it would just go away and I would prove stronger than I felt. I remember saying good bye and hardly shedding a tear. I couldn’t because I knew if I started that my heart was liable to break. This denial of emotion, of which I will later explain the origins, continued for weeks until I was sitting alone; the moment in which my pretense utterly shattered.

I was sitting in a room, my own room, which felt nothing like my own

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on the campus of East Anglia University in Norwich, England. And I was crying, a lot. I felt dumb for being so emotional over such a silly issue but even so I was grateful that I had my own room so I could “let it out” this one time. I doubt anyone would have thought the less of me for missing my loved ones, more especially my fiancé, but for some reason I felt almost guilty...selfish even for lacking the gusto to cope with our relatively short separation. For heaven’s sake, I was sitting in England and still I was mourning. I felt ridiculous. But looking back now, perhaps it more disturbing than feeling ridiculous in my sorrow, was that in my sorrow I felt guilt.

* My acquaintance with mourning is not exactly traditional, but in reality very common. The only person I’ve ever been close to who has passed away was my adopted Grandma down the street. In the moment I was told that she had finally succumbed to the cancer mourning felt appropriate, necessary even. But I have rarely felt the comfort of “excused mourning” again.

I suppose comfort and sadness are not words commonly used together, so perhaps I should simply learn not to hope for both. But in lieu of cathartic comfort, often found in expressed sorrow, one does not necessarily expect the pangs of guilt either. I suppose my reoccurring guilt began when I was quite young. Our family was just starting, my parent’s marriage was strained from financial pressures too weighty for any. There were times, as I grew up, that I dreamed I could fix all of our “problems”...but I hardly knew where to start. But one day I became disillusioned. I don’t remember why, the day, or the instant, but it was in that moment that I stopped crying. Looking back now I can decipher a strange fissure between the time when I could cry and the time I could not. I imagine that somewhere between those states I realized that if I could not fix our problems then at least I wouldn’t add to them. I wouldn’t cry or mourn, I wouldn’t be “weak,” and I would never be a problem. Instead I would stand strong as a haven of calm and support for those who struggled, who might never understand how I truly empathized.

I am still this way though I have since attempted emotional balance. But even now I find no comfort or catharsis from tears and expressed sorrow but rather guilt for having let myself slip and appear weak.

I suppose this isn’t entirely healthy.

* Well as I sat in Norwich, attempting to be “healthy” and to feel comfortable crying a couple poems came to mind. The first was “Rabbi

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Ben Ezra” by Robert Browning. The first lines in the poem are permanently etched into my mind since it is with them that Spencer proposed to me.

They say, “Grow old along with me! /The best is yet to be, /The last of life, for which the first was made:/Our times are in His Hand/.”

Oh good I had succeeded in making myself cry more...like expected I still felt no better.

It actually wasn’t until much later that I thought to read “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” by John Donne. But when I did I found even the title to be fairly ironic as it seemed to defy the widely–accepted premise (though I am not sure who created such a trend of thought or if it was ever formally agreed upon) that it is human nature to seek validation in one’s present state. Therefore shouldn’t I have been seeking some poorly written “heart– wrenching” song that explained to me in juvenile lyrics that it was okay to cry or some such comforting nonsense? Yet, regardless of what should have been my human instinct or mourning protocol I decided to read John Donne who explicitly forbade my mourning state.

I wonder if perhaps, mine was an issue of sexist affectation. It seems possible, if not probable, that men feel pressured to by “strong” and in turn find it difficult to cry while women, on the other hand, are nearly expected to be more emotional to the point of making up for man’s lack of emotion in her overbearing capacity.

Maybe in this way I sought to defy my perceived role and pre–determined reactions. Maybe not. Perhaps instead mine was an issue of independent nature and I simply did not care to feel the neediness which irrevocable followed my tears. Or maybe it really did relate to the emotional and psychological repercussions of a saddened remembrance of what may have been a typical past, and the hopeless outlook that follows a repeated and consistent lack of solutions.

But these “perhaps” and “maybes” were not my concern. At that moment I very little cared for the reasons why I was mourning, nor did I hardly care for the possible reasons I felt guilty while expressing sorrow. I just wanted relief. And I figured if John Donne felt that he could forbid mourning as a whole, then I wanted to know how he thought it could be done.

As I read I found a series of three perspectives or rather paradigm shifts that served to nearly eradicate one’s desire to mourn, and replaced the tendency with an “innocent mildness” that accepted it’s state of being. The first was what I would call the Profanation of Spiritual Love, the second: The Expansion of the Soul, and third: The Anchor of Two Separate Souls Intertwined.

If I were to break down the phrase “Profanation of Spiritual Love”

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basically I would say that John Donne is convincing his wife or love to “make no noise” because “tear–floods, [and] sigh–tempests move” none but rather serve as a “profanation of our joys.” In other words tears and sighing degrades their continual happiness. In the following two stanzas a contrasting correlation is created between two types of couples, the first being “Dull sublunary lovers.../ (whose souls is sense) cannot admit/ Absence, because it doth remove/Those things which elemented it.” The second couple (Donne and his wife) are immediately elevated as he describes them as, “But we by a love so much refined,/That ourselves know not what it is,/Inter–assured of the mind,/Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.”

The apparent contrast is immensely effective as any lover desires to be of “a love so much refined.” But Donne’s true point was made when he explains their actions. The first couple who, “Moving of th’ earth” with their mourning brought “harms and fears.” Whereas the second with “trepidation of the spheres, /Though greater far” remained “innocent.”

As I thought through this first paradigm shift it seemed to me that I could rid my sorrow on the basis of wanting to be in possession of the most refined and true love. I suppose Donne had a good point in proving this perspective to be a potential avenue but it simply remained un–compelling to me because honestly I didn’t care if I proved my love, I just missed Spencer. So I moved onto the second perspective.

The second paradigm shift is embodied in just one stanza but is perhaps my favorite of the poem. It reads, “Our two souls therefore, which are one, /Though I must go, endure not yet/A breach, but an expansion, / Like gold to airy thinness beat. /” This concept of expansion was first told to me by Spencer. This was not the first summer we had been apart.

The previous summer he had gone on a four month study abroad to the Jerusalem Center. It was during that time that he first expressed not feeling so far distant or separate but expanded. These were my first thoughts when I read John Donne’s similar assertion. It is actually this perspective which kept me from crying in the moments where I felt the need to. So lovely was the image of airy–thin sheets of gold I felt as though I could not cry but rather be grateful that Spencer’s and my love for each other was capable of withstanding the beating process of expansion. Yet, in one word I did differ, dramatically. Because I did feel a breach. Spencer’s existence and influence in my mind and even on my actions had expanded past the Atlantic Ocean but I still felt the viable absence of his physical presence. And so though I found partial comfort in Donne’s beautiful articulation I still felt the need to mourn and the guilt for the times I had.

Thus, I turned to the final perspective which was the Anchor of Two

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Separate Souls Intertwined. Here Donne uses a beautiful metaphor of two souls being the feet of a compass. One foot remains fixed and connected, not by location but longing, and as the other foot moves and wanders they lean in tandem and follow with a loyalty unparalleled. In a closing word Donne says, “Thy firmness makes my circle just, /And makes me end where I begun.” And I felt calm.

I suppose in the end the question was never whether or not I should feel guilt for mourning the absence of half my heart. In the end it was simple, though our love would expand across the ocean of insurmountable separation I could not help but lean after and long for our reuniting. Thus I would always desire to come home. But I did not have to mourn. I did not need to wonder whether or not people knew or felt sorry for me. I did not need to cry behind a closed door for fear of feeling weak. And if I did decide to mourn for a moment I did not need to feel guilt for doing so.

I suppose “being emotionally healthy” is a how–to question I may never answer, but at least for the time being I was able to find solace in the words of a poet who knew what it meant to miss and the way in which to continue living. How? In essence, happily.

Somewhere in the Leftovers Theories on Self-Definition

T

he influence of perception upon one’s self–definition has not long been an intriguing idea to me. That is, until today. My crisis, which led to my curiosity, began by looking into a mirror. It is surely a singular experience to look into a mirror and not recognize the visage staring back, to question who I am because of what I see or perhaps what I do not, led me to wonder at the foundation by which I perceive and define myself. This wonderment began because today, in fact, is the day I cut off nearly all of my beautiful red hair. I suppose it truly isn’t so drastic, dramatic, or devastating as I seem to feel, whilst sporting a “short–haired” pixie cut (perhaps more commonly known as the boy–cut). But, even so I felt as though I had suffered a double blow, losing my femininity and self–definition in one swift cut.

But why? A close friend had accompanied me to the session and left me with nothing but validating comments. My husband also loved my hair, reassuring me for hours of his love and “still–alive–and–well” attraction. But in the quiet moments I still had doubts and felt near sorrow at my self–inflicted fate. Why? After less than thorough consideration I have formulated some theories

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on the workings of self–perception. It seems as though self–perception is a condition not only felt by everyone, but felt both in the imagined expectations of an on looking crowd and the internal solidarity of a pondering self–consciousness. These influences, external and internal, are the opinions that formulate our definitions of who we are. Yet, our perceptions of each and the importance we lay in them, reflect the one which we choose to more wholly cling to and our resulting dependence upon a consistent good opinion.

Then I was led to question whether an emphasis on one was better for a person’s self–esteem and by extension their self–definition versus an emphasis on the other. No one can deny that as human beings we are affected by both public opinion and personal opinion. But as it is highly unlikely that either could deliver a truly consistent flow of good opinions it seems that self–esteem and self–definition are less reliant on validation and more on sorting truth and error. This is not to depreciate any and all forms of validation. Validation is, after all, the balm by which each human soul is buoyed up and healed. But much like the inability to remain unaffected by either internal or external influence, regardless of one’s emphasis, it is as equally impossible to be affected when any form of validation is internally disregarded as either untrue or inconsequential. This disregarding is due to the fact that each person, to one extent or another, has in already formed internal perception which usually reflects not necessarily who we are, but who we believe ourselves to be. Thus, the importance on sifting inside and outside opinion into categories of truth and error. This process is inexpressibly important as only that which we believe to be true can forward to inhibit the progression of our self–perception.

Before I delve into lengthy and personal examples, I’m sure you’ve noticed my frequent references to different functions of the self, mainly self–perception, self–esteem, and self–definition. These three functions are inextricably linked, forming the bridge by which our imagined being coalesces with the external presentation of who we want to be. And somewhere between who we think we are, who we wish to be, and who other see we find the emergence of a cycle: the cycle of the self.

Though each element of the self is able to stand alone, they also simultaneously interact, compressing and eroding from outside influence while also shaping our perceived self. If we were to begin with self– perception we would each enter our own minds to ask: 1. Who do I think I am?

2. Is it based on my personal set of opinions?

3. Or was I told and convinced by others?

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This line of questioning will quickly tell you whether you put emphasis on internal or external opinion. But now you must ask, whose opinion do you most often believe? Your own or other’s? Though difficult to answer this question will reveal the malleability of your perception which can become more malleable the more one more readily believes outside opinion. After all, a thousand different opinions is a bit more unstable than just one.

Now we turn to self–esteem. In short, self–esteem is the external display of internal belief. If your self–perception is easily influenced by external influences you esteem may fluctuate rapidly. If you are more internally influenced it is quite possible that your esteem will seldom change, depending of course on your own changeability. Either way, this link must be mediated with accurate judgment of the truth so as to sure up strengths, recognize weakness, and obtain true self–awareness, remaining unhindered by one’s self or otherwise.

And finally we turn to self–definition. For me this is where my self– awareness began. Not realizing my lopsided view on truth, being that the harshest was most likely the most truthful, I rarely believed outside validation and too quickly relied on internal depreciation. In turn my self– opinion was very nearly marred by a simple haircut. Why, you may ask. It seems that self–definition is often expressed by picking an external feature that reflects an internal quality. For example, femininity might be expressed by chic clothes for one, a knack for homemaking skills for another, kindness, giggling, make–up, or even long hair. For me it was the long hair. Without even realizing it I had bestowed my entire feminine identity within the length of my hair. Ridiculous? Yes. Common? Unfortunately.

Now for some back story. I have always perceived myself as rather tom– boyish. No one could persuade me otherwise. I liked being a tom–boy and I was fine with that. I have also always been told that long hair is a sign of femininity and short hair is a boyish or lesbian style. Though I didn’t really believe either claim I obviously, upon retrospection, tucked both gently away as possible truth. But regardless of the truth, I eventually wanted to become more feminine and ever since I’ve felt that I could use as much feminine help as I could get. Well, about a year ago I decided I wanted to get a pixie cut. And after a year of careful consideration and patient waiting I did it, all the while claiming that I really wasn’t that attached to my hair so it wouldn’t be a big deal. I might have been fine. Though it was a shocking change to witness, my femininity still felt intact and any previous external opinion had been ignored and abandoned. But then as I got up to leave the salon my hair dresser reminded me to always style my hair or I’d look like a boy or a lesbian...and we wouldn’t want that, would we?

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In one swift moment the possible became true, my femininity vanished, and my self–esteem tanked. For a few days, despite my husband’s best efforts, I was determined to think I looked like my thirteen year–old brother.

And I was miserable. And even though that’s probably still true, I sat down and started writing and soon my perspective changed. As I reflected I found myself in an unnecessary rut. Everyone I’d talked to, even my family, had loved my hair. My husband guaranteed that I still looked like a girl with or without long hair. All I had to do was decide to believe them. So I did.

It’s true my husband’s hair is officially longer than mine. But it doesn’t matter. I love my hair. But it no longer means femininity to me. Finding a balance between my opinion and other’s opinions is hard; believing good opinion from either is harder. But balance is the only way to maintain a positive and forward progressing self–esteem. And that’s who I want to be: always progressing. I am not my hair, but my hair can be me. And perhaps it is only after experiences of self–dissolution that carefully erode at our self– definitions that we can be truly self–aware. Perhaps it is only after we strip away our layers of perception that we are left with the sediments of truth.

And maybe it is there that we can find ourselves. Because somewhere in the leftovers of every soul laid bare is the center of who we actually are.

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