How it all started
That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.
“Tintern Abbey” lines 83-103
William Wordsworth
I was introduced to this poem and the rest of the Romantics in my British Romantic Poetry class at Wells College with Professor Burroughs. It was my junior year which meant I was in the midst of preparing for my senior thesis proposal that I would carry out the following year. As a Creative Writing concentration, I would be writing a creative nonfiction piece which, along with comprehensive exams covering all four years, would serve as my final evaluation as an English major. I knew what I wanted to write about, but I had been having a hard time getting it into my proposal- even enduring some push back from senior professors.
"You're sure this is your subject?"
Gray, piercing eyes shot over half-rimmed glasses and demanded a clear, concise justification for my choice.
"Yes Professor Lohn."
How this woman with tangled whips of hair, black sweats and mismatched socks could be so formidable is something not worth explaining.
"I think it could work."
She took a swig of metromint water and the peaks of her eyebrows shot up in astonishment. "This is going to be quite a challenge for you."
It was fair of her to say. I wanted to write about my severe anorexia, depression, PTS and the abuse and mistreatment that came from my parents' divorce, adoption by my step-father and my training in high-level gymnastics. All in one piece. I knew this was my subject and no one would convince me otherwise. But I doubted whether anyone would read something so depressing. I had no idea why this was so important to me to do.
"I want it to be about identity, and I want people to come away thinking of themselves and not me. I want them to forget the details of my story-" I was trying to convince the both of us. She swallowed her water, her eyes never wavering, as I continued to wonder.
Breakthrough came with the caring assurance of a gifted instructor. We read these lines aloud in class and analyzed them. I was enraptured. Something about this poem filtered very deep into my being and filled me with peace.
Class ended and I went up to Professor Burroughs and just started to talk with no point to make, no question to ask- jumbled words just tripped over my tongue and onto her desk.
"I just love this so much and I don't get it."
She so calmly continued to gather her books and place them into her bag. Her generous ears were unstartled by my rambling.
"Think about all you've been through. Think about what you've lost," she knew my story like she knew the stories of many of her students, and she cared deeply about us all.
"You're like Wordsworth. You can hear the still sad music."
We walked out of Cleveland hall. The moss and vine grappled with the brick building and yellow tulips swayed along the walkway from the lake breeze rolling up the hill. She spoke with me until I understood what she saw. What she took the time to do is still one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. It was more than making sure I knew the material for the test. She helped me to forge a living, breathing connection to an idea and a mindset that I have relied on for confidence and direction in so much of what I have done since then.
I know that it is possible to explore loss, and it is not vain or cynical to do so; it is important to discuss because we all will face countless losses in our lifetime. To ignore our pain and yearnings is to ignore huge portions of our lives and ourselves. In writing about it, I can find the movement, that continual push of life- because life does not end or even stop for a breath when we loose something, no matter how important. This can seem cruel if we allow our minds to stay there, or we can choose to see that it is healing. Just as our bodies know to immediately send a rush of blood to a cut on our hand before the knife even falls to the floor, so too do forces of life rush in to keep us moving in the midst of hardship. It is not to belittle our pain. God is not mocking us by his design. We must move forward. Life is too generous to move through it with clenched fists. We are meant to let go, to overcome; to see that by clenching a fistful of weeds we will be unable to grab hold of the fields of new experiences that are blooming around us.
Your words have awakened my soul.I can relate. Through our joined colors we are survivors. Thank you for being real Kayleen.