Dear friends, relatives and faithful readers,
I have an announcement to make, after weeks of no blogs, long nights of work, and increasingly sunny spring days that smell blissfully like hyacinth: as of this past Wednesday, I am officially a writer. Not that I haven’t been all along, in some capacity, but I feel rather like Julie Powell when I say that one cannot feel completely and totally like a writer until one is published. And this week I got to see my work in print, published in the newspaper I have started to work for twice a week. And though it was a small story, and I got paid about enough to cook a good dinner and nothing more, there is a wonderful sense of progress, of accomplishment in this small byline, and a sense that all of those long nights have somehow paid off.
That being said, this week was dark in seemingly every other aspect, as news of bombings in Boston and grieving families captured the country’s consciousness. A friend of mine from college lives in Watertown, a sleepy suburban town, and found herself lying on the living room floor on Thursday night, as sounds of gunfire filled her street. These things happen, we all know, somewhere in the back of our minds. But they do not happen to us, to our cities and suburbs, to our families. And the closer this impossibility comes to an improbability, the more afraid we become.
It is impossible in situations like this, whether national or the smaller, quiet sadness of a family tragedy or a sick friend, to reconcile the hurt and fear we feel with the joys of just a few days ago, or the sunshine we know will return. It is difficult, especially this time of the year, to awaken from our stupor of habit, to climb from the cocoon of winter and greet the raw, living world once more, and hold sadness and hope together in our hands.
In “The Wasteland,” which I should be ashamed to admit I have not read in its entirety, T.S. Eliot claims that:
April is the cruellest month,breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
And that particular stanza has stuck with me for the past few weeks, as I have started a second job and a new internship, and find myself racing from newspaper office to restaurant to Nick and Sam’s apartment, collapsing in my bed with legs that cramp like a runner’s. Change, I have always thought, is a cruel and painful force; but these changes have brought experience, a sense of fulfillment, more fiscal sustainability. As we near summer and the year anniversary of our graduation (and, right before that, my five year high school reunion!), I have been looking back more and more, assessing what exactly it is that I have done with my life in this past year. And though this progress has been slow, at times excruciatingly so, it has been filled with laughter and love, words and the best friends on Earth. So here I am, stuck, like Eliot, between memory and desire. Here we are waiting for spring to stir our dull roots with spring rain.
Marcel is struggling to make his own strides into societal growth, with forays into the aristocracy of the Guermantes salon and trips to the opera, and this process (like everything in Proust!) is slow as well. He is beginning to understand his love for Albertine, more adult and rooted in reality than his affection for Gilberte, and as we watch him ascend into societal heights and grow into his own artistry, it is impossible not to see some progress in this unending narrative.
Change may still shake me, and the breeze that comes through my open window contain a bit of a winter bite. But, going back once again to Eliot, this time to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” there is time yet.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.