Saturday, October 23, 2010

The Book of Tears and Remembering


It's a Saturday, and I'm surprised to find myself doing what I used to do on Saturdays for years back in New York City, before I was a mother, before I had fully accepted my reversion back to the Catholic faith (and even then for a long time after), before I moved to the Bronx, a move about which a friend of mine said, "I thought people went there willingly only to die." I am sitting at the enormous sixties-era oak desk that I got for fifty bucks at the apartment sale of a divorcing Argentine woman in my old neighborhood, editing text while I listen to Jonathan Schwartz's weekly radio program on WNYC, on which I know he will play at least one song that will make me want to take to my bed in a paroxysm of tears -- probably something sung by Audra McDonald or Nancy LaMott -- and sleep until my heart is healed, a moment which, of course, will never really come.  In those days, however, most of the text I was editing was my own, and I was often longing for love, love either past or ambiguously present, and working against the feeling of shikata ga nai, the sense that everything I was doing was just to fortify my own very small world against the encroachment of despair, so I had better keep working.  And then, as now, I was constantly nagged by the feeling that I had to get up from the desk and go over to my little piano and start practicing already, because I probably had a gig or a university recital requirement right around the corner.

Back then, when I would hit the wall and not be able to read another word, I would push up from my mammoth desk and flee the apartment, letting the steel door slam behind me.  I would go out the side entrance of my pre-war apartment building and walk to Fort Tryon Park.  Now, I slink out the back door of my house and walk through my silent neighborhood, often meeting no one on the street except a young man with Down syndrome, like me an inveterate walker no matter what the weather.  Days like this, I miss everything about New York.  I miss the colors and the smells.  I miss seeing people on the street, even if I didn't want to talk to them, even if I hoped and prayed, as I did on many a day, that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew.

I know there must be a reason for my coming here, besides accompanying my husband to the place where he got a job.  When he got the job offer, he told me that if I wanted to stay in New York, he would turn it down.  But even I, with my more-than-occasionally faulty grasp of the theory of mind, knew that I couldn't hold him back from what was a step up.  Even I had a shred of humility large and sincere enough to swallow hard and accept that we would be leaving everything we knew and many of the things we loved, but that it would be willful and cruel of me to put my foot down and keep it in the city I love.

That was two years ago.  It's been a hard, lonely two years.  There have been many struggles, and few bright spots.  Sometimes it feels as if things are just getting more and more difficult, and as if none of my prayers are being answered in the way I want, not even what seemed like the inocuous-enough one for a friend.  I feel like my life is contracting, getting smaller and narrower, rather than expanding, which is of course what everyone wants to happen in their lives.

It is so hard for my prima-donna self to accept this smallness, this forced humility.  My heart aches when I think of what might be happening in my old neighborhood.  The plane trees are turning yellow and dropping their leaves to the sidewalks.  My friend N., the opera singer who lives on the other side of the building, is writing some software code for a design client.  My great friend F., who was my recital accompanist before he moved to England, is swinging his book bag full of bottles of Italian wine from Astor Wines and Spirits as he trudges with his idiosyncratic gait up the hill from the subway to his apartment, which is around the corner from mine, and from which he can see a sliver of the river and the bridge out of one window.  My beloved downstairs neighbor, Mrs. M., an Austrian refugee from World War II who died last year a month before her ninety-ninth birthday, is walking back from the hair salon, looking natty in a tweed jacket.

But all of this is long ago.  My friends are dispersed, and some are dead.  And if I remember hard enough, I will see M. on the street outside, waving to me over his shoulder as I stand in the window of our apartment, on his way downtown to work a night shift in a building that was destroyed in 9/11.  And then I will remember the day he stopped waving.

And then where will I be? At my desk in Appalachia, my heart aching, asking God that, if He's going to allow me to remember all of this, to let it be for a reason that will be helpful to someone else, even if I never know it.  As Pablo Neruda wrote, "Es tan corto el amor, y tan largo el olvido" -- love is so short, and forgetting is so long.  And now I really do have to go and practice.

Here's some music about tears and remembering on this lonely Saturday.

19 comments:

marie therese 1 said...

You never know when it could make the difference between life and death for one man in the audience."
.. I retooled my career so that my performing was of a more scaled-back, intimate nature, away from the opera stage.. it continues to be necessary in other ways, to seek to make myself smaller and more hidden..
Book V, The Shadow of Thy Wings, pp.117-119
…We suddenly realize that we are confronted with the infinitely rich source of all Being and all Love…this meeting takes place in the dark night of faith, yet there is something in the deepest center of our being, something at the very spiritual apex of our life, that leaps with elation at this contact with the Being of Him Who is almighty. The spark that is struck within us by this touch of the finger of God kindles a sheet of flame that goes forth to proclaim His Presence in every fibre of our being and to praise Him from the marrow of our bones. …[The Road to Emmaus..] The first of these recognitions suggests to us the common experience of what is called “living faith.”
….But it also happens---and this is rarer---that under the pressure of a very great love, or in the darkness of a conflict that exacts a heroic renunciation of our whole self,…the soul will be raised out of itself. It will come face to face with the Christ of the Psalms. In an experience that may be likened to a flash of dark lightning, a thunderclap on the surface of the abyss, “its eyes will be opened and it will know Him and He will vanish from its sight.”[102] This momentary blaze of recognition is not produced by a created species or image in the soul. It is the flash of a flame that is touched off by an immediate contact of the substance of the soul with God Himself. In one terrific second that belongs not to time but to eternity the whole soul is transfixed and illumined by the tremendous darkness which is the light of God….and we ‘know’ that He is the Son of God, the King of Glory and that “He is in the Father and we are in Him and He in us.”[103]
…sometimes we are confronted by His Countenance…We have entered into a Baptism of darkness…but to die with Him is to rise with Him…our life hidden with Him in God.[107] …This Night of Mystery…the spiritual Red Sea of which the Psalms have sung to us all along. Now we have entered into it in truth and have passed through it to be nourished by God with His Body in the wilderness….We now know that this darkness,….is …the darkness of life…
Then we begin to discover that the Night in which we seem to be lost is the protection of the Shadow of God’s Wings.[109] If God has brought us into this darkness it is because He wishes to guard us with extreme care and tenderness, or, in the words of the Psalm, “like the apple of His eye.” [110] The new life of the soul united to Christ in His Mystery is something too delicate and tender to be let loose in a crowd that may contain hidden enemies, and therefore God has isolated the soul in a soundless and vast interior solitude, the solitude of His own Heart where there is no human spectator and where the soul can no longer even see itself. True, the depths of that solitude open and close in a flash: but the soul remains enveloped and penetrated with divine emptiness, saturated with the vastness of God, charged with the living voice of silence in which His Word is eternally uttered.
The protection of darkness and silence is extremely necessary for the soul…
Dark Lightning
This the time when every line of the Psalms bursts forth with lights that we no longer need, spurious and tremendous inspirations that exhaust the soul and contribute nothing to its peace. And the soul seems to find no refuge where it may flee from them….The only safety is in this darkness, the protection that can only be extended over us by the outstretched Hand of God. We need that protection…
That is why He has hidden you…in His Heart…My mother used to say, “little by little”, step by step…
Peace, Mary

marie therese 1 said...

…We suddenly realize that we are confronted with the infinitely rich source of all Being and all Love…this meeting takes place in the dark night of faith, yet there is something in the deepest center of our being, something at the very spiritual apex of our life, that leaps with elation at this contact with the Being of Him Who is almighty. The spark that is struck within us by this touch of the finger of God kindles a sheet of flame that goes forth to proclaim His Presence in every fibre of our being and to praise Him from the marrow of our bones. …[The Road to Emmaus..] The first of these recognitions suggests to us the common experience of what is called “living faith.”
….But it also happens---and this is rarer---that under the pressure of a very great love, or in the darkness of a conflict that exacts a heroic renunciation of our whole self,…the soul will be raised out of itself. It will come face to face with the Christ of the Psalms. In an experience that may be likened to a flash of dark lightning, a thunderclap on the surface of the abyss, “its eyes will be opened and it will know Him and He will vanish from its sight.”[102] This momentary blaze of recognition is not produced by a created species or image in the soul. It is the flash of a flame that is touched off by an immediate contact of the substance of the soul with God Himself. In one terrific second that belongs not to time but to eternity the whole soul is transfixed and illumined by the tremendous darkness which is the light of God….and we ‘know’ that He is the Son of God, the King of Glory and that “He is in the Father and we are in Him and He in us.”[103]
…sometimes we are confronted by His Countenance…We have entered into a Baptism of darkness…but to die with Him is to rise with Him…our life hidden with Him in God.[107] …This Night of Mystery…the spiritual Red Sea of which the Psalms have sung to us all along. Now we have entered into it in truth and have passed through it to be nourished by God with His Body in the wilderness….We now know that this darkness,….is …the darkness of life…
Then we begin to discover that the Night in which we seem to be lost is the protection of the Shadow of God’s Wings.[109] If God has brought us into this darkness it is because He wishes to guard us with extreme care and tenderness, or, in the words of the Psalm, “like the apple of His eye.” [110] The new life of the soul united to Christ in His Mystery is something too delicate and tender to be let loose in a crowd that may contain hidden enemies, and therefore God has isolated the soul in a soundless and vast interior solitude, the solitude of His own Heart where there is no human spectator and where the soul can no longer even see itself. True, the depths of that solitude open and close in a flash: but the soul remains enveloped and penetrated with divine emptiness, saturated with the vastness of God, charged with the living voice of silence in which His Word is eternally uttered.
The protection of darkness and silence is extremely necessary for the soul…
Dark Lightning
This the time when every line of the Psalms bursts forth with lights that we no longer need, spurious and tremendous inspirations that exhaust the soul and contribute nothing to its peace. And the soul seems to find no refuge where it may flee from them….The only safety is in this darkness, the protection that can only be extended over us by the outstretched Hand of God. We (desperately) need that protection…
That is why He has hidden you…in His Heart…but even that will change sooner that you might think…My mother used to say, “little by little”, step by step…
Peace, Mary

marie therese 1 said...

Then we begin to discover that the Night in which we seem to be lost is the protection of the Shadow of God’s Wings.[109] If God has brought us into this darkness it is because He wishes to guard us with extreme care and tenderness, or, in the words of the Psalm, “like the apple of His eye.” [110] The new life of the soul united to Christ in His Mystery is something too delicate and tender to be let loose in a crowd that may contain hidden enemies, and therefore God has isolated the soul in a soundless and vast interior solitude, the solitude of His own Heart where there is no human spectator and where the soul can no longer even see itself. True, the depths of that solitude open and close in a flash: but the soul remains enveloped and penetrated with divine emptiness, saturated with the vastness of God, charged with the living voice of silence in which His Word is eternally uttered.
The protection of darkness and silence is extremely necessary for the soul…
Peace, Mary

Pentimento said...

Thank you, Mary. There is a lot to think about and meditate on here. God bless you.

Anonymous said...

I am reminded of the recent excerpts from St. Augustine's letter to Proba that I've been reading in the liturgy of the hours. I've prayed and prayed about worries which are out of my hands, and his words, written so long ago, had a huge impact on me.
Reflecting on St. Paul's repeated prayer to have his afflictions taken from him, St. Augustine said:

"Three times he asked the Lord to take it away from him, which showed that he did not know what he should ask for in prayer. At last, he heard the Lord's answer, explaining why the prayer of so great a man was not granted, and why it was not expedient for it to be granted: My grace is sufficient for you, for power shines forth more perfectly in weakness.
In the kind of affliction, then, which can bring either good or ill, we do not know what i t is right to pray for; yet, because it is difficult, troublesome and against the grain for us, weak as we are, we do what every human would do, we pray that it may be taken away from us. We owe, however, at least this much in our duty to God: if he does not take it away, we must not imagine that we are being forgotten by him, but, because of our loving endurance of evil, must await greater blessings in its place. In this way, power shines forth more perfectly in weakness..."


Remembering you in prayer today at Mass. And maybe, just maybe...(in the abject acknowledgment that this thought is coming from a complete stranger) it's time to move back home?

Pentimento said...

Thank you, Anonymous. I'm very happy to read this.

As for moving back, it's not an option in the foreseeable future. But who knows what the future holds . . .

Rodak said...

Ah, Pentimento, I've been hunched over my Appalachian desk for nearly twenty years now, and few days go by when I don't think about my good times in the Bronx (with Brooklyn and Manhattan serving as bookends.) The fact that I've recently been sharing examples of the poetry that I wrote in those years, has revived those memories, almost painfully, making this beautiful post of your all the more poignant for me.

If today most of my friends are virtual friends--voices in comment boxes and on blogs--so be it. At least they are very good friends to have.

GretchenJoanna said...

Someone told me that the reason we humble ourselves is to empty ourselves of all that pride could cling to, because God is infinitely large, and we want our souls to be as empty as possible so as to hold as much of Him as possible. When you said your life is being contracted, I thought *focused,* but maybe this emptying metaphor is also good for such a time.

tubbs said...

Good to see someone else remembers Nancy LaMott.

Pentimento said...

Thanks for your comments, friends. @Rodak: oh, I know.
@Joanna: thank you for the metaphor. I wonder if it still works if the self-emptier is as unwilling as I am?
@Tubbs: She was great. R.I.P.

Rodak said...

I neglected to thank you for the Billie Holiday clip: thank you.

Pentimento said...

You're welcome, of course. :)

lissla lissar said...

Our homily was about the soul's journey from pride to humility, which the homilist said is the point of life- all but the greatest saints start out in the position of the Pharisee, and ought to end in the position of the publican.

Pentimento, I think many (a lot? Most?) of us are unwilling to be emptied, no matter how great the rewards.

Pentimento said...

Lissla, I've never thought about even the saints starting out as the Pharisee did. That is a great insight.

GretchenJoanna said...

hmm...well, you did show *some* willingness, as I read, to go with your husband. Now God is making the most of that tiny seed and bringing about the emptying, the contracting, whether you are willing or not, it seems.

But don't put too much stock in the musings of someone who doesn't even know you. :-) The good side of me not knowing you in person is that there is nothing BUT praying that I can really do. God bless my poor prayers for your sake and His.

Pentimento said...

GretchenJoanna, when my first husband, M., wanted to leave New York to move somewhere in the midwest (he was a conceptual artist and thought things would go easier for him in a smaller city), I put my foot down. Likewise, when he used to say we should have children, but that I would have to get a "real job" while he stayed home to care for them, I said no, we would have to wait. I tend to be a vengeful person, and I think I wanted to punish him for urging me to abort our first child.

I had to say yes to the move, because, with my conversion, I agreed to be a different person, in spite of the fact that I'm still also the same deeply flawed, selfish, and foolish person, if you can understand what I mean. And in a certain sense perhaps it is a penance to have left my world of beauty. If it is, I hope and pray that it will be effectual on some level as reparation for my many sins.

Thank you for your prayers -- I mean that more than I can convey.

GretchenJoanna said...

Forgive me for another comment here, but I just read an article that includes what seems like a helpful, if painful, picture of the life we are called to. The idea of being near the bottom of an inverted pyramid is not comfortable.

http://fatherstephen.wordpress.com/2008/05/19/grace-and-the-inverted-pyramid/

Pentimento said...

GretchenJoanna, I once had a dream that Christ had ascended into heaven *while still on the cross.* Of course that's not how it happened, but the post you linked to reminds me of my dream. I'm not done reading yet, but I like it.

Pentimento said...

Fantastic essay, GretchenJoanna. Thank you so much for sharing it. I'm going to post it here.