Descent into . . . . .
When I was eleven, we visited my grandparent’s cabin near the shores of Lake Tahoe in California’s Sierra Nevada range. The building was everything one might expect from a cabin in the woods; a rustic appearance with an all-wood interior, a wood-burning stove set with cozy chairs, and small bedrooms. On this visit I noticed a number of old, care-worn books on a shelf near the stove. One book in particular seemed intriguing, so I pulled it from its place. At the top of the burnt orange colored spine were the words: TALES – POE. Below it read, World’s Literary Masterpieces.
I opened the book in that cabin and began reading one of the stories. The title was A Descent into the Maelstrom. I still have this book and although I have not gone back to reread the story, the details have stayed with me over these past 64 years, popping into my head now and then. A fisherman off the coast of Norway is caught in an enormous whirlpool that is sucking everything, including his friend, into the depths of the ocean. The protagonist escapes, having been inexorably changed by the experience.
Recently the story came back to me again, but this time I had an epiphany. The tale was autobiographical, not because Edgar Allen Poe was tossed around by a maelstrom, but I suddenly understood that Poe was noting his own descent into madness. Poe’s own fears of decline are more obvious in The Raven or The Tell-Tale Heart, but having read this story as a boy, I’m only now understanding an aspect of Poe’s “descent” with a new perspective.
I see the story anew because more and more often I feel a similar descent. I try to be pragmatic about these self-analytic feelings since it seems as if the world as a whole is descending into a form of madness, so to parse out what may be my own slide, from that of the increasingly dysfunctional environment around me, is not easy.
No doubt these feelings are exacerbated by age, but also by watching people I care deeply about descend down the one-way rabbit hole of delusion and paranoia. One very good friend in particular is rarely capable of a salient conversation without telling me about the demons in his computer or the voices emanating from electrical outlets. Recently he has turned on me as well, accusing me of all kinds of imagined betrayals. I try to remember that he did not choose this path and that who he had been, my wonderful friend and mentor, is no longer there.
As we reach our 70s and 80s, I believe it’s only natural to wonder about our own mental acuity based of the decline we see in others, whether they are friend or family or even those in the public eye. As older members of society, each of us has likely witnessed this tragic transition. Of course there are some things that might mitigate this progression such as medications to slow dementia, but ultimately there is little we can do aside from remaining understanding, caring, and kind.
A portion of the difficulty in assessing my individual path is the oblique nature of predicting the future. I will ask myself if the moments of forgetfulness or the fear I feel at times are indicators of my own decline. It’s very hard to tell. Our mother would often tell us that she was losing her mind when she couldn’t remember a word or where she had put an item. My siblings and I would attempt to reassure her that everyone forgets a word or misplaces their keys. That it was not indicative of anything other than human nature.
Eventually she did begin losing more than her keys. I was extraordinarily lucky to have my sister, Jenny, who was geographically closer to our mother and able to watch over her. We were also very fortunate to have her reside in a wonderful veterans’ home in Yountville, in Napa Valley, where her care was beyond what we could have imagined.
As noted above, I don’t know where I am headed. My hope is that if I begin to step into a delusional and paranoid world that my friends and family will have the capacity to help me move towards a dignified end of life. Or if I have the wherewithal to see this direction myself and have the ability to take control, I will be able to make my own critical decisions.
I will leave you with a poem I wrote many years ago when my mother came to visit Rachel and me in our Illinois home.
A Walk in the Woods
I asked her to walk with me that mid-September day.
With a bit of coaxing, she agreed.
We noticed the days were growing shorter,
for the coolness of fall coated the tips of our fingers
as an almost too bright sun filled the late afternoon.
On that day, the woodland called to us.
I wanted to photograph her again
before the mother I had known faded from my view,
before her own personal fog enveloped the pieces
of the familiar that still remained clear.
As we walked we discussed topics of the day,
people we had known and she held my arm.
At one point I noticed the sun playing through
the remnants of a thistle growing by the lake.
I asked her, “Do you see how the light dances on the seeds?”
She said, “Yes.”
And so I focused my camera on that moment in time
as she stood behind me, watching in silence.
When we continued, I asked her to sit on a bench by the path.
Through the lens the forest shadows caressed her hair,
but I could not capture her face or the darkness stealing her mind.
Now when I look at the seeds shining at me from across the years,
I know this as my favorite photograph of her.
She is not in the image, but I feel her behind me,
watching the sunlight dance across the brown, dry thistle
on that cool afternoon in mid-September.
This beautiful and poignant writing of your mother and the photograph that accompanied it will always hold a place in my heart ever since I first beheld it.
Thank you Georgia. I know that this poem and the accompanying photograph (that is not in today’s offering) in particular have always carried a very poignant meaning for you.
Tobin – such resonance. Having gone through periods of dealing with dementia in both of my parents and not having taken the time to hear more of their stories and capture them it occurs to me that we all have to write our stories while we still can. None of us know what lies ahead and whether our memory banks will just peter out at some point. I want to honor your writing and your storytelling in these weekly musings.
I’ll leave you with a poem as well, a very short one, that maybe captures the missed opportunities of writing and telling our stories.
I Had Hoped to Drive You One More Time to the Ocean With the Wind Whipping Through Your Hair.
I was holding your hand as you opened your eyes and took your last breath.
Paul, Exquisitely put! Thank you so much for adding your thoughts and poem to today’s offering. I think that a large part of why I’m writing these weekly essays is exactly for the reason you mentioned. I don’t know how long I still have to place my ideas and feelings into a written form, to be able to continue to make sense of the world and express it as best I can. Your own travels and writings are an invaluable resource, not just as a personal catharsis (which writing certainly can be) but also to help others glean a better understanding of our precious environment. So thank you! Keep up the great work.
I have been grateful to seeing both my folks through their last days and that they both maintained a mental acuity that I hope to also have in my final days.
Bless you Toby!
Thank you Michal – A woman I once knew, who, at 94, had been a founding member of our arts and music council in Long Grove. Connie lived to be 101 and had an exceptional and vibrant life, filled with passion and joy all of her days. She was having some trouble with her legs and went to her physician who told her that she had a serious infection that needed to be treated. She declined treatment, called all of her family members who gathered around her and helped celebrate her long life during her final month. She passed away sounded by loved ones allowing all of them to say their good-byes. At least to me that was an ideal life and a perfect way to leave this earth.
So, here we are, everyone, without exception. The younger version of the “self” that we presently believe ourselves to be did not have the perspective to appreciate the richer, the more detailed view that we now may entertain. Now that we stand upon the summit of years, in our 70’s, at last we catch the view. The way up is the way down…
The exquisite thrill of existence entails loss, loosing everything precious. We must give it all back, release every defining element to the cosmos from which we came. I am at loss to say it any other way. What I received must be returned.
There are times when a bare hint of what is in the cards, a hand that everyone will play as he/she can, – that I know this really sucks. I’ll hate to leave, I think. If I am lucky leaving will not be so bad. Following me will be others that I have loved… I leave them to world-making. My prayer is and will be that their world-making-love will exceed what I was allowed, or managed to express given the role space and time, destiny, – allowed me to play.
I am reading again Letters To A Young Poet by Ranier Maria Rilke. In letter no. 2 I read these lines today:
…for at bottom, and just in the deepest and most important things, we are unutterably alone, and for one person to be able to advise or even help another, a lot must happen, a lot must go well, a while constellation of things must come right in order once to succeed.
I wish you well my friend. Lunch at Taste of Paris soon?
Jerry: As always you give me something to chew on. That in itself is one of the reasons for offering my thoughts in this venue. A way forward that I may not have considered. And isn’t that our hope, a way forward where we learn from the past, from others, from the environment. The darker side of me asks, “So what’s the point if we learn all this material and then we die.” But at those moments I must remind myself that it is the path itself that counts and not the end of the trail. We all die, everything will end at some point.
I find it interesting that you mentioned those who will follow give you a certain amount of solace (or at least I think that’s what’s meant). For me, as I contemplate my own ending, I think of those who have gone before. Those who have left the crumbs of knowledge so that I can follow along their path, as if I’m lost in the woods until I come across their bits of wisdom. They are physically gone. They went through life and it came to an end, as will mine. Perhaps it’s strange that the deaths of those I admire give me my own strength to carry on until I don’t.
Yes to lunch, soon.
Silly Me! As always, I am drawn to your words, your writing. You always challenge my mind and you have so much to share! This week made me sit and think as I stared out at nature and listened to the birds and the locusts. As I pondered your words, I thought – Maybe you are not descending at all. Maybe you are prepared to catapult forward into the next existence, leaving behind your Mark upon this world as we know it. Thank you for sharing the beautiful poem about your mother. I remember that picture. I can’t remember if I first saw it in your studio or at your show? I loved it and I love your writing! I love you, my friend. Keep sharing and keep challenging us all. Continue to leave your Mark because we need more bright lights in this world! Thank you for being one of those bright lights that keep shining.
Good morning my wonderful friend. I hardly have words to be able to respond to your kind and generous reply to this week’s piece. In the next few weeks I will be working on an offering about tethers, the invisible kind that connect us to those who we love. The bond (tether) that Rachel and I feel for you is both strong and permanent. Some tethers are tenuous in nature and can be broken fairly easily, but I think we are all aware of those that have more substance. Anyway, getting ahead of myself here.
Hope to see you soon.
I’ve spent a good while looking for the poem that this blog entry and its rich conversation remind me of. No luck. The closest I can get to it is this clumsy comment. Each of us seems to be taking the globe of our life in our hands and turning it slowly in the light. What a privilege it is to be able to see from a long perspective the beauty of a friendship, some particular anguish, a hard time, an untimely death, the unexpected helping hand — all in the glowing colors of their places in the whole.
Hi Verna,
As always your thoughts and words are so greatly appreciated. I believe life does change us, to a degree. There is a goodly portion though, of how we view the passing of time and the physical process of aging, that seems set from a very early age. When I was 4-years-old my parents enrolled me in a nursery school run by the University of Washington. The intent of the school was to allow graduate students to observe the behavioral patterns of each child. At the end of the school year, a lengthy report was written and shared with the parents. I still have the report and will revisit it every ten years or so. What’s remarkable is how I can see the issues that were important to the 4-year-old self, are still (for better or worse) a part of who I am and how I react today. This document can be rather disturbing with regard to finding out that aspects of my personality have changed so little over 70 years. But here I am. Still kicking (literally).