I'm not naturally pensive, or I say I'm not. I've been chirping so long I've lost my lower register, maybe never allowed it to develop, and who's to say if my natural song is canary or whale? In any case, I don't inhabit unhappiness comfortably.
It is common for happy people to believe that sadness without diagnosis is pure self-indulgence, and as I've gotten older it isn't enough to be rational. I must feel rationally – no, practically -- and happiness is the most practical emotion I know. In practice this requires a bit of social trickery, public acceptance of despair and private repudiation, a mental contortion of knowing and unknowing. I must be a magician who refuses to levitate, a stubbornly flightless bird, and that hasn't been difficult for me. Outside of a kitchen, I wouldn't expect my own magic to accomplish anything, nor would I trust feathers to keep me aloft when I see so many seagulls plowed into the asphalt on my daily trip across the bridge, downy piles of pale gray and dark purple, and on the trip back there is only a smudge. If flight is not an infallible power, I have no use for it, or any others that have the potential to turn out very badly. Optimism works best when you limit your outcomes.
Given my Panglossian ways, I'm always surprised when the most enchanting time of the year – Christmas – kicks off a good six to eight weeks of emotional turbulence. It starts the minute I get out my Christmas cards and open my address book. Nowhere else is it laid out so flatly: those I've kept and those I've lost. There's my brother's address. I'm not sure I could find my way there anymore. Nannie, the farm's address and that of the nursing home just beneath it. Granny, Aunt Floy, Uncle Billy, Uncle Odie, cousin Ricky, my father-in-law. It's a list of tragedies, alphabetized by surname.
It's also a list of those I've neglected. High school and college buddies, former roommates, neighbors and co-workers, all with dormant addresses after I failed to follow them to their next job or new city. My guilt is proportional to distance and the agreeability of goodbye. Relationships frequently cool without the heat of proximity, and people change. It's okay to let go, move on. But there are those on the list I never lost passion for, and I lost them anyway. Dana is one of those.
We were neighbors on a cul-de-sac of flimsy starter homes. She had two boys the same ages as my son and daughter, and they grew up together like a tumbling litter of puppies and were frequently dumped into the tub as a filthy pack. Old photos of my family gathered around the kitchen table, the backyard grill, a birthday cake or a Christmas tree, are as likely to feature her children as mine.
At that point in my life I was a vague, decorative thing, an impressionist painting that merely suggested a woman, habitually charming – an unscrupulous talent in a young person – and as wise as a pet store finch. Dana was a little older and a lot more substantial, with a wide-open face, a generous smile that pushed her cheeks up to her eyes, and a directness I've always associated with those from Northern climates. (I suspect no one wants to beat around the bush if there's ice on the bush.)
Her husband Don was a burgeoning alcoholic who on the weekends accelerated from funny to foolish in fifteen beers. Accidentally but foreseeably, he set fire to the front lawn, threw a golf club through the windshield of his truck, and one Sunday morning – in jolly horseplay – tossed his oldest son into the air and failed to catch him on the way down. Their son was unharmed, but Don was broken with remorse. Later that day, I was in their kitchen when he sobbed into Dana's neck, and for probably the thousandth time, begged her to forgive him. I watched a dozen hard feelings cross her face before she settled on a soft one, and she said, "You didn't mean to." Until then I had no idea that kindness is a choice.
My family was the first to leave the street, a few miles away, and we kept in touch. Then the Air Force moved them West, then overseas, beyond casual contact, and for years I received sketchy updates via chance encounters with mutual acquaintances. Don was sober. They divorced. Dana was in Virginia.
Two years ago, when I'd almost accepted I'd never hear from Dana again, a Christmas card arrived. I joyfully copied her current address in my book, and put a return card in the mail that very day, anticipating many years of exchanged cards, updates and photos. A week later Don called to say Dana was dead. Simply dead, at forty-nine, when her heart just up and quit. I shake my head when I come to her name. "That's impossible," I say aloud, firmly.
I could get a new address book, start over, but that would be a temporary solution. Before long someone will have moved on or died and soon the new book would be full of messy cross-throughs and vacant names that make me teary even as I'm signing our cards with cheery script. I know sorrow is not a choice, yet mine seems willful, and thin too, when I am capable of soaring happiness the very next minute. Only grief of poor quality would wear so unevenly, and only a loon, a dodo, a cuckoo, one of those diminished birds, would continue to send Dana a Christmas card. Because optimism works best when you limit your outcomes, I provide no return address.
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Brunhilde
Mary Stanik
icyhighs
Midwest Muse
jmac1949
LuminousMuse
Salon.com
Comments
I have a Pensive Reputation.
Folk tell me that I ponder too.
I never am in a despair state.
I admit I feel angst. I brood.
My children tell me that too.
My three children say `I do.
`
When young they'd say` Dad.
It's 10AM. Close the door now.
It's time for milk and cookies.
Brunch
eat and
enjoy a`
another
day! ah!
two-fun!
It 10:59!
One sec!
sip milk!
cookies!
~R~
R♥
Don't feel sad for Dana. My optimistic nature tells me that she was old and wise enough to be finally freed. It's a good thing, see????
Ah, this is piece is too good for on the fly comments.Whole essays could be wrtten about this one.
Brilliant, Bell.
Lezlie
R
And on another note, I love this line "and a directness I've always associated with those from Northern climates. (I suspect no one wants to beat around the bush if there's ice on the bush.)"
I tell people growing up in my house "tact" was a four letter word. :)
Just amazing writing, Bell.r
What do they call it? Taking stock, I guess.
I think this is my favorite line: "At that point in my life I was a vague, decorative thing, an impressionist painting that merely suggested a woman, habitually charming – an unscrupulous talent in a young person – and as wise as a pet store finch," but there are so many wonderful phrases, I can't be sure my favorite won't change.
I am in awe.
in a good way!
Panglossian Lady, this is one of the best lines i wish
i coulda wrote:
"At that point in my life I was a vague, decorative thing, an impressionist painting that merely suggested a woman,
habitually charming –
an unscrupulous talent in a young person –
and as wise as a pet store finch."
buncha wisdom seriously accumlated somehow.
oh i see how.
u like me.
"I know sorrow is not a choice, yet mine seems willful,
and thin too,
when I am capable of soaring happiness the very next minute. "
emotions. argh.
Art -- It's difficult to imagine you in a pensive mood. Your poems are so far from Sylvia Plath, head-in-oven. You are so far from tragic prose, but we all have unplumbed depths, and I sense yours are quite deep.
Boan -- Aww. Thank you.
Lea -- Seeing those names in a list is striking. There is no time of year where I see it laid out.
Joan -- I'll take your "Holy Mother." ;)
Alysa -- For those of us who have "happy" as a default, I often wonder if we are trained seals or seriously happy, and, after training, if we'd know the difference? Or if it matters?
Matt -- Your eyes are sweating!
Christine -- I think we're right to leave the names as they stand. It's history, as much as we'd like to deny it. And one day we'll appreciate this scant evidence of their presence.
Jonathan -- I know you're a kindred spirit.
Unbreakable -- I don't know why I'm always surprised by these feelings. You'd think I'd expect them by now...
Fusun -- I appreciate your hugs. The same to you.
Fernsy -- Refuge is a good word. It's easy to make things (marginally) better. It's harder to make things actually RIGHT. And how you bridge that gap determines how satisfied you are with the world.
Lezlie -- That's the worst, getting a card back.
Jlsathre -- There were several years when I didn't send cards. It's always a dicey affair and who needs that during the holidays?
Barb -- I'll take "wow." :)
Deborah -- I hold tight to my address book even though it is a dying sort of book. Like recipe cards.
Deborah Mendez-Wilson -- Thank you! I assume you mean chile sauce? I'd go with Miguela's recipe first!
Bea -- Didn't mean to slam ya, but I'm glad you felt what I wanted to convey.
Linnnn -- I love greetings from beyond. Facebook has kind of make that obsolete, but I'd prefer them to come thoughtfully, with a stamp.
Ann -- Thank you! Happy holidays to you and your family.
Sarah -- I don't know about that. Sometimes when I click the post button I wonder if what I had to say is interesting or worthy of that mouse click, so I always appreciate it when people stop to comment.
keri -- Gee, you make me blush, and so happy. Happier!
James -- Yes. Emotions, argh! They complicate everything. In the worst and the best ways.
Greenheron-- I'd pay to read praise like that. And I'd pay more for sincere praise like yours.
Clay -- It's so good to see you on the boards. I was wondering where you'd gone. Thanks for stopping by.
Fingerlakes -- My motto is "Always trust Joan."
And Panglossian? I think not. Ditto you ever being merely vague and decorative.
this was wonderful
This was worth a second read. I don't know where my first comment disappeared...but here's a second. With congrats on the cover.
(I find that putting words to my thoughts is SO healing. You've done it for me.)
And thanks for your comments on my retirement piece.
Lucy -- I'm so sorry to hear about your friend. It does feel unreal, that people are here one moment and then gone. And it's almost ridiculous when those people are OUR AGE!
Abrawang -- You are a sweet-talker! (Keep on talking.) I was at one point a silly person, and have my silly days. Remembering them keeps me from being so again.
Leslie -- Thanks so much for stopping by and for your comment.
Thoth -- It's always good to see you 'round. Thank you!
Julie -- I so appreciate your kind words, and seeing your smiling avatar.
Vivian -- I hate it when comments get eaten. They're never as profound when I'm trying to recreate them! You're a trooper for commenting a second time.
ccdarling -- This time of year we all take stock, and the losses are heavier. There are de facto lists all around us (I keep thinking of the chairs at the table as well). It's enough to make anyone sad if you think about it too much. So don't think about it too much!
Marcy -- I hope so. I'm always happy to convert a pessimist.
Dirndl -- Your next of tinsel and twist ties is probably more tightly and artfully woven than any other I can imagine.
mynameise -- Writing is healing. (I'm sure you have your own healing words to type out. I'd love to read them.)
al -- Well, that's a pessimistic form of optimism, but I like it!
Franish -- I wish the same for you as well.
Mary -- From one sunnyside to another!
Thank you for this.
The last 2 sentences of the 2nd graph were complete to the nth ~ If Confucius didn't say it first, YOU WIN for best original quote since his last nomination.
As to the 1st sentence of the 3rd graph... Panglossian? - off to dictionary.com
(apologies for the delayed response...we may share a little bit of those Panglossian tendencies, but I'm generally silently sanguine ~ or vocally dyspeptic - it's a 50/50 toss up).
As for address books, I've never thrown one away. They are shorthand for a poor man's journal and a walk through time that costs me nothing, not even a stamp. Yet the time I get to spend in Reminiscenceland is well worth the storage. No return address indeed.