from "The Dead" by James Joyce, Dubliners, 1914 "A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." I taught this story in my British Literature course this past spring, and I was drawn to this passage (as most critics are). These final lines remind me of the the simultaneous strength and fragility of life. I took some creative liberty with the following stories, but they are both true, just filtered through my "sanctified imagination" as the fabulous Otis Moss III calls it. She struggled to push the cart of mulch toward the roses. After, of course, she had loaded each bag into her trunk at the store, and onto the cart once she returned home. Her family would probably arrive in a few hours - her brother, nieces and nephews, and great nieces and nephews. The tamales cooked inside; she would check on them once the mulching was finished. But for now, she must tend to the roses. The garden she cared for so carefully, feeding and nurturing each bloom, kept her fingers busy and her mind clear. Yes, tend the garden, then tend the family. Even though she did not have kids of her own, she had her garden - and she had family that she loved and nurtured. She cocked a slight smile, thinking of how her family would get to see her flowers soon.
But the mulch was too heavy. She pushed the cart, and her heart stopped. The doctors say it was quick and painless. For her, maybe, but not for the family - or the roses. So many questions lingered over the scene. Wasn't she feeling better? Why didn't she ask for help to move these bags? The cliche pleasantries followed. "Well, she lived a great life." "At least she didn't suffer." "She was doing what she loved." All true - but none served to ease the hurt or fill the void that she left behind. She seemed to have so much life left to live, but the mulch was too heavy. _____________________________________________________________________ The walk to the tower wasn't too bad. The four friends just needed to get away from campus for an hour; exam studying loomed heavy. A quick hike might help - looking down on the city and mountains from up high would give them some perspective. The college is a tiny speck from up there - the classroom, the teacher, and the test all seemed minor as they enjoyed the view. Still, the smog lingered, reminding them of the work still unfinished. So, they decided to work their way back down the ramp, through the woods, to the car, and back to their books. He was still feeling restless. This ramp, which made the view accessible to everyone, weaved back and forth. The long stretches of declining pavement added too much time to the journey. What's the shortest distance between two points? A straight line. So as his three friends continued down the safe concrete path that was laid out before them, he jumped. The first jump was both easy and hard; adrenaline pumped as he ran toward the ledge to jump over the three foot gap to the level below. He was ready the second time; he knew he could make the distance. But in the air, he realized that his angle was all wrong. For the first jump, the two legs of the ramp sat uncovered - exposed to the open air. But as he jumped further down, the concrete bottom of that top ramp loomed over. He missed, falling 50 feet to the ground below, hitting his head on the concrete ledge along the way. His companions called for help; it was ages before the ambulance came. They came from those tiny specks of building that the group had just pointed out from up high. It took him a month to walk again. And a year to speak. He had to re-learn everything. The almost sophomore was back in second grade. Three years later, as his friends graduated, he returned to that campus - that speck of building from before was now more daunting than ever. That walk to the tower was easy then; no walk is easy now. Still, he survived; he fought his way back to the classroom, the teacher and the test. ___________________________________________________________________ This paradox haunts me when I stop long enough to think. What a paper thin wall exists between life and death. One minor change in plans, one inch right or left, one second looking away - It's the difference between our loved ones planning dinner and planning a funeral. Forty pounds of mulch. Is this the difference between life and death? Yet, he survives a fall that should kill him. The body is both so weak and so strong - fragile and resilient. The worst is that I don't know if I should be afraid or encouraged. What I do know for sure is that the difference between those of us who live to see the sun another day and those who don't might as well be random. So, when I can remember to notice how lucky I am every night when my head hits the pillow, I try to give thanks for today's safety, pray for the same tomorrow, and soak in the mystery of this world.
1 Comment
Erin
6/23/2015 01:21:15 pm
This was so profound. Love you, friend.
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Diana CurtisWife, mom, stepmom, writing instructor, handbell ringer, choir singer, calligrapher, and expert napper. Archives
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