Lorraine and I had nine wonderful years together. Sometimes
we would cry in each other's arms out of gratitude that we had
finally found one another.
We knew that time was precious and so we wasted very little
time on any squabbling. We were hardly ever apart.
We had a simple and intimate life together whether in the midst
of great cities or our secluded life in Santa Fe. When Lorraine became
very ill, we often just held hands without speaking. She was truly
prepared and when she passed away it was without any clinging.
I loved Lorraine completely and I have never felt so completely
loved.
And now, my love, my love, I remind myself again and again
that ``this love has not ended... it is like a long river,
only changing lands and changing lips."
From "An Unquiet Mind" by Kay Redfield Jamison.
We all build internal sea walls to keep at bay the sadnesses of
life and the often overwhelming forces within our minds. In
whatever way we do this -- through love, work, family, faith,
friends, denial, alcohol, drugs, or medication -- we build these
walls, stone by stone, over a lifetime. One of the most difficult
problems is to construct these barriers of such a height and
strength that one has a true harbor, a sanctuary away from
crippling turmoil and pain, but yet low enough, and permeable
enough, to let in fresh seawater that will fend off the inevitable
inclination toward brackishness. For someone with my cast of mind
and mood, medication is an integral element of this wall: without
it, I would be constantly beholden to the crushing movements of a
mental sea; I would, unquestionably, be dead or insane.
But love is, to me, the ultimately more extraordinary part of the
breakwater wall: it helps to shut out the terror and awfulness,
while, at the same time, allowing in life and beauty and vitality.
When I first thought of this book, I conceived of it as a book
about moods, and an illness of moods, in the context of an
individual life. As I have written it, however, it has somehow
turned out to be very much a book about love as well: love as
sustainer, as renewer, and as protector. After each seeming death
within my mind or heart, love has returned to recreate hope and to
restore life. It has, at its best, made the inherent sadness of
life bearable, and its beauty manifest. It has, inexplicably and
savingly, provided not only cloak but lantern for the darker
seasons and grimmer weather.
I long ago abandoned the notion of a life without storms, or a
world without dry and killing seasons. Life is too complicated,
too constantly changing, to be anything but what it is. And I am,
by nature, too mercurial to be anything but deeply wary of the
grave unnaturalness involved in any attempt to exert too much
control over essentially uncontrollable forces. There will always
be propelling, disturbing elements, and they will be there until,
as Lowell put it, the watch is taken from the wrist. It is, at
the end of the day, the individual moments of restlessness, of
bleakness, of strong persuasions and maddened enthusiasms, that
inform one's life, change the nature and direction of one's work,
and give final meaning and color to one's loves and friendships."
"Many of us spend our whole lives running from feeling
with the mistaken belief that you cannot bear the pain. But
you have already borne the pain. What you have not done
is feel all you are beyond the pain."
(Attributed by some to Kahil Gibran, and by others to Saint
Bartholomew.)
Saori Worcester,
a store for Saori weaving (classes and textiles), run by Mihoko Wakaybashi
and Nat Needle. Nat has been a great friend since kindergarten. He is also
a Buddhist and a fine pianist.
Stuff about Parkway Village, a housing project for
United Nations personnel, where I grew up:
first article,
second article.
My family gets its own webpage,
here.
(I'm happy when I get to see
them, especially when I visit my daughter Kristin who
lives in Berkeley, with
views like
this
everyday.)
