JoBiv vs. Dickinson, the Pandemic edition

Isn't this the space where I tell you I'm lucky, just in case you want to judge my anxiety or compare it to your own? Emily Dickinson has an answer to that - I measure every grief I meet - by the way, but I do want to tell you I know I'm lucky.

I'm still getting paid in this pandemic. Most of the preschools run by my company have furloughed all of their staff, including administration. My center expects some proof of life while they pay us, thus we're doing online trainings, Zoom sessions with families, homework of a sort... and up until this week it was hard to keep up with their demands. They required 20 hours of work per week, but somehow that felt impossible. How does one read articles and write responses when your phone keeps lighting up with all the people who are desperate to connect, when your thoughts wander to that catastrophic news article, when you just want to go to the dang store but you're too anxious to leave your block?

This week, the leadership teams from our schools asked for a different kind of work. We still had articles to read and Zoom calls, but Fridays were set aside for "reflection" and "self-care." If those quotation marks feel loaded, they absolutely are. I can't help raising my bullshit shield when a buzzword flies by my ear.

One of our choices for reflection was this prompt:

Self-Reflective Activity: “Developing hope in times of change…” Please answer the following questions:

• What does this quote by Emily Dickinson mean to you? “Hope is the thing with feathers.”
• Where do you believe your sources of hope come from?
• Where do you look for hope in your life? What are three things you hope for?
• How have your hopes changed as you have grown up?
• How has hope affected decisions you have made? How will you use the message of hope in the future?

When I tell you this prompt hit me right square in the Enraged English Major... well, let's just say I was shocked to find boiling anger so close at hand.

First of all, what a trite reduction of Dickinson's already short, very digestible poem. WHY? Why reduce it to this line, which I'm sure appears on many a tattoo and journal cover and inspirational poster separated from its not-even-that-complex context?

I'll tell you my assumption: because they Googled "reflections about hope" or "journal prompts hope" and got this in a little package. Tada! (And they're also worn out and stressed and hanging on from a swiftly unraveling thread.)

Second, we're in that Too Little Too Late period of this quarantine. This prompt, this concentration on self-care and reflection, comes at the same moment that we're hearing about new protocols for reopening.

We're being handled, and I feel the sticky touch of every awkward manipulation.

And I wonder how Emily Dickinson would have coped in the midst of a pandemic. Honestly, I think we know. She would have: 1. isolated, per uzh 2. written a buttload of elegant angst-ridden letters and poetry, per uzh.

Nonetheless, I answered the well-aimed provocation. And you may read it. In the end, did it get me writing? Yes. Did it give me an avenue of expression during a time when I feel powerless and stifled? Kinda. I'm sharing with a sense of cringey self-awareness that I chose to respond with a slap, and somehow still didn't communicate the layers of barriers between myself and any kind of hope.


“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

I never had a favorite Emily Dickinson poem, of all the pages and pages of poetry I analyzed, critiqued, emulated, shared throughout my undergrad and graduate education. She came off cold and distant, always using familiar words in oblique formations, hedging all of her most passionate declarations with quick self-censure and theological metaphor. It’s not that I didn’t like Dickinson, I just felt she was trapped in herself, winding around in a web of strict morality and this urge to wedge her fierce needs into acceptable forms. Reading her work resonated with me in uncomfortable ways, I know that for sure.

And this poem brings all of that right to the fore. Dickinson speaks of “Hope” - already carefully framed in delicate quotation marks - being something so light that it perches. She contrasts this lightness, the sweetness of its song, with its constancy and persistence, even “in the Gale” - a storm of emotion, doubt, crisis events, who knows? And lastly, she tells us that despite its steadfast presence, it never asks for anything in return. For something that seems so fragile and sweet, how can it also be so permeating, immovable and humble? She also seems to say, this “Hope” is inside her, actually within her soul, and therefore she can always hear its voice, even over the cacophony of her own internal storms.

Dickinson often contemplated divinity and aspects of Christianity in her work (even her odd poetic form is closest to hymn structures) and perhaps that’s where she loses me. But maybe I also simply disagree. I believe “Hope” is a light thing as well, something that wants to rise and pull us with it, and its voice is sweet and strong, but I do believe it needs feeding. In my experience, the cost of maintaining this sweet little bird works against its function, because it often requires the same resources I need to battle the actual crisis. In order to invest in hope, to turn and focus the ray of my thoughts on hope, I somehow have to turn my efforts away from what needs to be done in the moment. I can’t be bothered with setting up some carrot-on-a-stick contraption to motivate myself through harder moments.

Or is “Hope” is too vague and abstract for me, with its “tune without the words,” and instead I rely on what I know for certain: I have survived worse, over and over. I have defied death and disease and grief, and limped onward through life, knowing that every hard thing eventually becomes soft if I work at it. Everything that is heavy eventually wears down to something lighter. Is that hope? Is it pragmatism? Even knowing this for certain - that no circumstance or feeling is permanent - that knowledge has nothing to do with feathers or sweet bird song. It has everything to do with pushing through the storm.

I think this is the point where my personal philosophy brought me to Children’s Literature. Despite assumptions that children’s books are “cute” and “sweet” and safe and optimistic, many of the most successful books - the books children ask for - are full of courageous journeys rife with danger and challenges. They give children access and validation for feelings they know: defiance, frustration, fear, and the inner drive to resolution. I think of books like Where the Wild Things Are, Harold and the Purple Crayon, and of course We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. All of these stories are carefully crafted to show children who take risks, push through, problem-solve, even enjoy aspects of the journey, and find their way back home.

How strange is it that this crisis, this journey, took place in our homes? The challenge is more that home itself has changed, that the “beyond” is beyond us, and that we yearn for the most mundane of our weekly rituals. In that sense, this hope - the hope that we will return to some kind of normal - should be within our reach, yet it still seems depressingly distant. My hope, which is more of a knowledge, is that I will show a child how to put on her own jacket again, that I will hear a boy singing his favorite song to himself on his nap mat again, that over months and years I will hear countless young voices declaring “I did it!” with that resounding song of self-accomplishment. I know these things will happen, but it will require a deeper commitment to showing up each day, to being present with each tantruming child, to balancing my own needs with those of growing, hurting humans. My hope certainly needs feeding, and reminding, and perhaps a mantra beyond any “thing with feathers.”

So, I offer you this, from Michael Rosen’s We’re Going on a Bear Hunt:

“We can’t go over it.
We can’t go under it.
Oh no! We’ve got to go through it!”

Blossom with me

 

I love Blossom Dearie, in case you were wondering. (I'm actually fairly sure you weren't wondering.)

Some talented person with a lot of time on her hands made the above animation to accompany one of Dearie's most darling tracks,"Doop Doo Dee Doop." First of all, that's a genius song title, and the promise of the title comes to full fruition with the first lines: "Why don't you join the group? It's better than being a party poop." Although I have a gorgeous and growing list of replies to that question, the lighthearted joshing of the invitation could almost convince me.

The animation confounds me, however. It seems to depict a dream sequence, or a shopping trip to the local greengrocer. Or it could depict the complicated life of a carrot. Hell, I don't know, but it's charming, nostalgic and makes you wonder if the artist was a Freud fanatic. It could also be complete artistic randomness. I couldn't find much information about the animator. All links led to... well, nothing much.

Back to Dearie... She's one in a list of unapologetic artists who purposely promote a stylized character in their music. Dearie's is quiet but confident, straightforward but playful, naive and simultaneously savvy. She chose standards with heartbreaking stories (Sophisticated Lady) and sang them as a confidential counselor, empathetic and unintrusive. She transformed downright corny Broadway tunes like "Surrey With the Fringe On Top" into salacious, private invitations.

She's been criticized, of course. In an interview Fresh Air's Terry Gross, Gross asks about detractors of Dearie's "tiny voice." Dearie says, "It's very funny to have worked and sung for so many years, and then someone tells you, 'Well, you're not breathing properly.'" But she was unconcerned: "I think that [working with a vocal coach] would probably make my voice more powerful, but at this age, I don't think I'm going to worry about it."

In other words, I'm the one with the career. Buzz off.

As a singer, I find I'm also amazed by her conversational diction. She speaks the words with unabashedly American pronunciation - strong R's and nasal vowels - and rarely elongates a word, even if she slows down the song. She places lyrics, almost talk-singing, and the style makes me feel like she's having a friendly chat, telling a story over coffee. There happens to be a jazz pianist at this coffee shop, but that's just fine.

Actually, I would pour money on that coffee shop. If I had any.
 

Of course, Dearie was the pianist - a pianist first and a singer second. Her sense for rhythm and restraint starts on the keyboard. She punctuates the song with her voice rather than possessing the song with a full-body belt. I envy her musicianship, her sense of comic and dramatic timing, and her minimalist abilities.

In later tracks, she shows off her vibrato a bit more, and this reinforces, for me, the deliberate choice of her delivery; she didn't whisper her songs because she couldn't sing, she chose that character. She laid back on her piano bench, approached the mic with her sweet secrets and became an icon.

I would love to have that confidence. I have no idea whether I even have a signature style, especially since my tastes range from the self-possessed divas (and divos) who came out of the Big Band era to the subdued (and possibly stoned) understatements of Cool Jazz.

Perhaps if I pursue a carrot amidst a rain of fish, it will all become clear. I'm taking a nap.

Lists help.

Since firing the family I nanny for (doesn't that make me sound empowered?):

1. I've written most of a short story! Fiction! Creative-like! And I've been drawing, and mostly NOT crossing it all out in a self-hating fury!

Yes, that's a cyclops standing in a rudimentary rendering of the Frog Pond. Yes, it's gotten a bit beat up from being toted around in my journal. Yes, there's a story idea linked to it.


2. I've pulled out a ton of my own hair. Subconsciously, usually while watching Netflix. Don't blame Netflix, however. I do have strategies I should be acting on to prevent and/or reduce this nasty habit.

3. I have had phone conversations (note: plural) with my brothers and Mom. The phone rings and I answer it! Like an adult!

4. The man-boy I'm growing attached to has gone on a trip and I have noooothing to dooooo... besides tear my own hair out, paint my nails in needlessly elaborate patterns, weed through my entire wardrobe

4. I weeded through my entire wardrobe, which needed a good thrashing! I have picked out all the junk that was too big, was made out of that polyester blend that makes me sweat in public, or that I simply never wore, consigned about half of it and donated the rest. Aww yeah!

5. Dad and I are emailing and texting, despite his persistent attempts to make me abandon all the psychiatric support I receive in Boston. His latest evangelizing crusade; Robert Whitaker's Anatomy of an Epidemic, a book detailing how dramatically mental illness, and disability status, has increased in the United States, and positing that misuse of psychiatric medications is at the root of this epidemic. Considering one of my main hurdles in the course of my treatment has been the feeling that I lack the support of family and friends as I attempt more difficult - and life-interrupting - therapies, my father's rather loud proselytism is decidedly unwelcome at this very moment.

6. I had an appointment with my foot doc. He's leaving MGH forevs. Jerkface. But, I did get my brace refitted, and had a new one cast (by a veeery sexy dude who had no qualms flirting with me while casting).

7. Why not have 7? Hmm... now I have to think of something...  I'm missing Shane lately, and trying to work against my natural proclivity to doubt the friendship we had. Trying to simply celebrate and enjoy what we had. I made this to share for his birthday:

Yay lists!

The end.

Remember when I made things?

Tiny Oil pastel, circa 1998, found in the artist's closet

Oil on canvas paper, 2013 (with glare), made during an art class my roommate teaches and which I did not pay for.

I'm trying, dipping my shy little toes back into the pool of creativity. Can't say my orange is that creative, but it's loosening up the joints.

I had a friend basically yell at me because he saw my robot and toaster from last fall. He thought it was just a cute avatar, didn't know I'd painted it.

 Acrylic on canvas, 2013, baby shower gift for friend who teaches math

Then it went like this:

Unnamed friend: You should write a story about those guys.
JoBiv: I am, in fits and starts. Still working out a plot or two.
Unnamed friend: I could find you an artist to work out a few boards with you.
JoBiv: Yeah, that'd be nice. Painting in the buttons every time gets tedious.
Unnamed friend: Umm... are you saying YOU painted that?
JoBiv: Yep.
Unnamed friend: (Lecture on wasted talent, blah blah, "I never knew you were an artist" blah blah, "You HAVE to work on this story!" blah blah.)
JoBiv: Wow. I mean, thanks.

Of course, I look at this little piece and say, "The robot's sitting in the wrong place, and his femurs are too long and his tibias are too short. The table looks like it's made out of spongecake. The value of the gray robot and the blue background are much too similar. There should be a dot after the zero, because calculators don't work like that," etc.

Regardless, I bought a sketchpad, a cheap one. I dug out all my old art stuff and made it visible in my room. I'm staring at all of it now, and it seems dimly possible that I may be creative. Soon?

Stepping forward, back up the down escalator for eternity, or to open doors, shining with light and possibility. We shall see.

Where, oh where has my poetry gone?

I have poetry in me yet, don't I? I have committed myself, yet again, to the writing life. I have been unfaithful, or purely negligent. It's time to start paying attention again.

I'm making art, however. That's the easy stuff. And happily messy.