"While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
[...]
I cast my heart into my rhymes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.
While searching for a quote about birthdays--as an introduction to my birthday post--I discovered this particular gem. At the time, I did not share it. Instead, that day, I settled on Franz Kafka and Mark Twain, because they were lighter and simpler, though no less deeper. I saved William Butler Yeats' more somber and complex verses for today's confession.
(I just love her gaze. Plus, I am stuck on all things Russian right now. Maybe I'll even learn the language someday...)
Feeling a bit cynical and self-absorbed that day, my eyes snagged on those two delectable phrases I quoted above: one, an observation concerning our mortality; the other, a revelation of a poet's motives. Although the decipherment of the entire poem is beyond my amateurish abilities and limited knowledge, that the poet is speaking of life, love, and posterity is clear enough to me. I decided to pilfer these verses, and serve them up for selfish ends. William Butler Yeats' beautiful and lyrical words dovetailed nicely with my mood that day. Well, except that he was a great poet speaking intent on future generations knowing of his love for his countrymen. I am an ordinary middle-aged man ruminating on dreams and regrets, sharing it all with a group far fewer in number than the nation of Ireland. More than three, but less than a dozen number my dear audience. And not for the ages, but just long enough to span whatever is left of their lifetimes.
So, many apologies, William Butler Yeats (and, I guess, by extension, the Irish people).
Why then did my gaze settle on these two separate verses of a final stanza found in a work by one of Ireland's greatest poets? Somewhere buried deep in my birthday post, was a short, five-sentence paragraph. Twisting through those independent clauses was a subtle, but otherwise important, confession. For the past forty-two years, my birthdays have never inspired much introspection. Coming from someone who can squeeze too much meaning out of a wink and smile from a vendor at a theme park, an afternoon stroll through an art museum, or an hour solving puzzles with screaming teenagers, that is saying a lot about how insignificant my birthdays have been for me. Even my twenty-first and fortieth failed to garner any moments of deep contentment, inspiring epiphanies, existential anxieties, or creeping self-doubts.
That is until now.
Three forces converged in my life, all at once, on the Sunday before my last birthday. Strong enough to reshape the import of future birthdays. Sudden enough to shake me into watchfulness. Significant enough to ignite a call to action. And those specific verses encapsulated clearly and succinctly a want and fear buried deep within me and rooted extensively inside of me.
The first was a series of migraines. Two weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon, I experienced a mild migraine, followed by another one, that Sunday. During the course of that week, I would endure two more. All four carried the telltale warning signs in the form of blurred vision (apparently it is called an "aura"). And all four times I forced myself to sit still, in a darkened room, free of distraction, both mental and physical. After twenty minutes, the aura passed, and a throbbing headache arose. Not too severe as to be debilitating, but still uncomfortable. Under no circumstance did any of the migraines result in nausea or vomiting. For that I was grateful, and slightly hopeful. However, I was still a bit disturbed. It had been nearly twenty-five years since I last experienced one (complete with blurry vision, piercing pain over my eye, and the dreaded vomiting--God I hate vomiting). Migraines were not chronic for me, but they still managed to pop up irregularly over a twelve year period, until they disappeared by the time I graduated college. (Never could figure out what caused them, although they always played out the same way.) So, to suddenly have one, followed by three more, all within one week, well, that had me thinking, and my family and close friends worrying. When the fourth one occurred, I heeded their advice, and made an appointment to see my doctor. Another week would pass before I saw her, and, surprise, I did not have another one since making the phone call. My doctor was not overly concerned, given the each migraines mildness, and a lack of other symptoms. So, for the moment it is about recording and observing any future events.
The second influence were my subsequent daydreams. Once again, faced with something I did not understand, I retreated into my mind, and over analyzed things. Although it was only two weeks of uncertainty, anxiously waiting for a doctor's opinion, my brain had more than enough time to ruminate and speculate. The migraines had me considering the possibility of a tumor. The thought of suddenly dying from it played out a few times in my head. Was there time enough to write those end of life letters, filled with advice, encouragements, and revelations, to the people I love and admire? How would they be delivered? Should I just put them into video form? What if someone discovers them before I die? And all those journal entries. Should I reveal the password that would allow someone to gain access to the past year's most intimate thoughts? I mean, I would be dead, so it would not affect me. And some people would probably gain a better understanding of my behavior. Then again, maybe not. (Trust me, I played out both possibilities extensively.)
But surviving the tumor scared me, too. Especially if the treatment left me unable to express myself in any meaningful way. What if I was not be able to speak, to draw, or to write ever again? What if my only way of communicating to a loved one or a friend, was awkward smiles and convulsive nods. I could handle a lack of mobility, being indebted to someone moving me around. But to sit there, shattered so much by my treatment as to be unable to convey in any way a "Thank you", "That was funny", or an "I love you"? Not to be able to reassure someone that I was listening to them carefully, like so many times before? To make them believe that I heard them clearly? Unable to wink or to smirk knowingly? It breaks my heart.
Both scenarios frightened me thoroughly, because both would deny me the opportunity to share a part of myself with those closest to me.
The final force that made me confront my motives and mortality, was the poem. It is beautiful. It is thought provoking. Inspiring. And haunting. I am envious (not jealous) of William Butler Yeats' ability and passion to speak lyrically about himself and the world around him. His fame, while not something I would turn away from if it ever knocked on my door, is not what I seek. Instead, I want to be able to capture my imagination, thoughts, and stories, and convey them in colorful drawings, informative essays, and beautiful prose to those around me.
In the end, it is on me to get started, and time is running out, with our without a tumor. If I want to acquire the skills I need to design birthday and Christmas cards for family and friends, portraits of those people who mean a lot to me, or simply to release those wild and crazy images swirling in my mind, I need to sit down and draw daily. In addition, if I want to free myself from the pent up analysis and wisdom banging against the walls of my skull, collect the feedback I need to test and change my conclusions, and inform those around me of what I have discovered and wish to learn more about, I have to start presenting my research on my blog. Finally, if I desire to have even a handful of letters, vignettes, short stories, and novels that have been wallowing in the recesses of my unconscious for decades published, I need to find time each day and just write. At this point in my life, I do not care so much of their quality, or their ability to become a bestseller. I just want to expel them from my daydreams for a dozen or so people to enjoy.
Those migraines, the resulting daydreams, and a few verses in a poem have frightened me. I am going to die one day, and I have yet to reveal the stories I desperately want to share, to the people whom I desire most to hear what I have to say. My blog has been a starting point, and I am proud of what I have accomplished in a year. However, I need to spread out of my comfort zone, again, and focus on those three areas I mentioned.
As William Butler Yeats wrote so beautifully, and I butchered so savagely:
"While still I may, I write for you...
I cast my heart into my rhymes...
that you...
may know...
my heart..."
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