Writ On Water

I was 19 years old and a sophomore in college when I first "discovered" poetry. I had, of course, read poems before -- I even had a few go-to verses and a budding obsession with TS Eliot that had taken root the first time my dad handed me a copy of "The Book of Practical Cats" -- but I was still, as a general rule, not someone you might expect to find sitting under a tree with a volume of Shelley or draped over some basement couch with the beat poets. I preferred stories, like with plots and characters and all that silly stuff, and I was loath to tackle any poem longer than two or three stanzas as a general rule. Poetry was, to put it mildly, my road less traveled.

Dramatic as it sounds, all that changed instantly the moment I walked through the door of my Romantic Poetry Seminar and cracked open that first page of John Keats. Two lines into A Song of Opposites I went from a skeptical student to a dedicated disciple. Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake: I loved all of them wildly, but my heart still belonged to that young English poet who so famously penned the words "Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." (Ode on a Grecian Urn)

A few years later, when I visited Rome, I made a point of stopping by Keats' apartment, which he shared with the Shelleys (Mary and Percy, both of course famous in their own rights). This is also the place where Keats ultimately died -- after his entire family died of TB and he himself also caught it, he came to Italy for the air, which was thought to be better than the cold, wet British climate. Keats passed away at age 26 after a far-too-short career and a far-too-long battle with chronic respiratory illness, from which he knew he would eventually die. I consider this to be a great loss, not only for the genius of his art, but for the fact that he was both brave enough to keep writing in the face of his own pain and even death, and scared enough to let that shine through in his poems. He was honest and playful, and he created beauty out of an extremely painful truth, all of which led me to leave his apartment and make a special pilgrimage to his gravesite in the Protestant Cemetery not far away. And it was there that I first read these words:

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ On Water.

Keats wrote this himself, and asked for it to be placed on his gravestone. I won't get into the interpretations of this by historians or literature scholars (which are varied), nor the additional words added by Keats' friends after his death. What I will say is that these words struck me extremely hard as a person, as a poet (or, at the very least, a poetry reader), and as a patient. To think that this young man, so careful and talented with words, chose to leave on his grave a personal message of impermanence, of the fleeting nature of life and the return to the same glossy surface when we're done, is almost unbearably sad. To think that he found such a gorgeous image to express his heartache and that he made not only his art, but also his life and even his gravestone a poem is beyond inspiring. Even tragedy has its sparkle.

Alas, I am not John Keats, and I can find no such lyrics for my own sense of loss this weekend. Two gorgeous souls, one of whom I was honored and blessed to call a very close personal friend and both of whom were a huge part of my life here in NY and at my transplant center, have moved on from this life into whatever comes next. They were also close friends, and I truly hope that they are together now laughing and taking silly pictures. Tina and Tom, you were and are two of the most beautiful souls I have ever had the privilege of knowing. I will miss your wit, your love, your sarcasm, your funny faces, and your insights. Thank you for the cupcakes, and the laughter, and really amazing conversations. I love you always.

And as I look out now over the lights reflected in the Hudson River, I know that we may all very well be simply "writ on water," but that doesn't make us shine any less brightly.

Call me Crazy

Powerful drug,
Regretfully necessary. An
"Evil little miracle,"
Drowning sanity (and sleep) as you wash away inflammation.
No, I don't like you;
I both love you and I hate you. And I'm
Sorry for the indecision, it's
Only that I'm feeling a little flustered, mixed-up,
Not quite myself, which might have something to do with you, or
Everything.

(PS: On a more personal note, thanks so much for all the fantastic comments to my last post. You guys are so amazing!)

sick cystic, dozing dog

say that 10 times fast anyone?

still feverish, still waiting for answers, and now stuck inside on a rainy day. (and by "stuck," i mean cuddled up with my puppy on my sofa watching him dream and staring out at the cloudy skyline -- is New York the only city that looks gorgeous when grey?) anyway, i did learn this morning that it is NOT a heart valve infection, and the resulting deep void of answers led me here. enjoy.

without answer

what if this is just another normal,

another winding road without a name,

and what if i just simply journey forward,

reflecting on the path from which i came?

what if instead of cursing at the darkness,

i look around to watch the fireflies,

and turn my glances upward for a moment

to see the starlight dancing in the skies?

what if instead of waiting for disaster,

or some too-easy rescue that won't come,

i simply trust my feet to carry onward

and pray that in the end they lead me home?

and if i must accept the path is changing,

sure footing turned to dirt and wet like clay,

at least i can be grateful for the walking

and reach out towards the hands that guide my way.

and if in fact two roads meet in the forest,

and both are known to lead to the same plight,

then maybe this road too has been well-traveled:

one hundred thousand tries to get it right.


(and ps: for those of you out there who prefer the [relatively] funny piper, she's still here i promise. good vibes for a mellowed-out fever would totally be appreciated, though. she tends to prefer to do her turn in the body when the weather is a bit cooler in here!)

Just your (not so) average, (extra)ordinary, (anything but) normal mid-twenties existential crises

I don't write poetry often, or at least not anymore since I outgrew my teenage angst phase. You'll probably understand why in a few minutes, but since I gave up hope long ago of this blog every winning a Pulitzer anyway, I thought I'd share a little of what I've been writing about lately as I've been working to come to terms with CF and all that it means for my life at this point. Hopefully some of you can at least relate, and if the Pulitzer Committee just happens to read it and love it, well, that's okay too.

In the Moment

Remember this moment as a time of rediscovery, as a point where the stalks of long-held beliefs slowly dried out and were pruned down, and new understandings allowed to take root and to grow.

Remember this as a time of challenge, a puzzle to solve on how to give back to your body with the same grace it has shown you in allowing you to live so long without the effects of this disease, of how to reconcile these two selves, both so fully and completely you, and be as giving of one as you are of the other.

Remember this as a time of positivity, not dulled or tarnished by the stains of denial, but made brighter by the knowledge of your own strength, and the reserves of energy that you know course through your beat-up veins, lending polish to hope and shine to perseverance.

Remember this as a time of revelation, when for once your value was not (could not be) defined by what you could do, but simply by who you are, and by your innermost spirit.

Remember this as a time for learning, when you came to readjust your sense of what it means to live well, and sought out a new balance based on that lesson.

Remember this as a time of opening, when you reached within yourself and cradled in your hand the tiny treasures of your own thoughts, and learned (soon, I hope), to cherish them no matter how small or tarnished.

Remember this as a time of trust, when you learned to let go of things beyond your control and began to release your heart to the ultimate wisdom and perfect balance of something far greater than you or I.

Remember this as a time of acceptance, when everyone -- family, friends, godmother, coworkers, doctors, and even your puppy -- rallied so strongly, so unconditionally, behind you, accepting your limitations, their arms stretched wide to break your fall.

Remember this as a time of searching, when the will and the wonder necessary to seek some deeper kernel of peace were ever-present, and for once not fleeting or tied to one particular moment.

Remember this as a time of surrender (NOT of giving up), of striving to gracefully accept the need for help and of finally learning the true meaning of the phrase "thank you" after so many years.

Remember this as a time of beauty, when even thunderous lightening storms seemed like fireworks designed to light up the skyline, and called to you to run outside to feel every drop dancing down your cheeks.

Remember this as a time of longing, when you knew what it was to cry hot tears of desperation and feel the cold fear of the unknown at the same time. Hold this understanding with you always, store it deep and equal to the sweetness of knowing without question that there is beauty, and that you are part of it.

Remember this as a time when hands reached down to pull you up, shoulders appeared for you to lean on, prayers from many persuasions wove a rich blanket to keep you warm, and the ultimate love of the universe held out its arms to lift you all up.

Above all, remember this as a time of grace, as a brief moment when you were forced to feel, and knew both pain and gratitude in equal, intense measure. Such moments, we know, are precious and all too rare.

And this, too, shall pass.