The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

I read The Diving Bell and The Butterfly on a friend's recommendation partially because I trust their taste, partially because I needed a new book to read, and almost fully because of Jean-Dominique Bauby's incredible story that it tells and how it was managed to be told. After suffering a stroke that resulted in locked-in syndrome, Jeam-Dominique was left completely paralyzed- imprisoned in a body over which he had no control, without any sort of contact to the outside world aside from blinking his left eye. This 132 page book was written by him using only his left eye to blink letters to someone typing. And although I knew that it would inevitabley be heartbreaking, I didn't expect a beautifully written, insightful, thought-provoking, and life-changing book out of this. What captured me the most was his memory of small moments that he missed, little pleasures from his old life that would never carry over to his new one. Here are two excerpts where he talks about that:

The delectable moment when I sink into the tub is quickly followed by nostalgia for the protracted immersions that were the joy of my previous life. Armed with a cup of tea or Scotch, a good book or a pile of newspapers, I would soak for hours, maneuvering the taps with my toes. Rarely do I feel my condition so cruelly as when I am recalling such pleasures.

For pleasure, I have to turn to the vivid memory of tastes and smells, an inexhaustible reservoir of sensations. Once, I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories. You can sit down to a meal at any hour, with no fuss or ceremony. If it's a restaurant, no need to call ahead. If I do the cooking, it is always a success. The boeuf bourguignon is tender, the boeuf en gelee is translucent, the apricot pie possesses just the requisite tartness. Depending on my mood, I treat myself to a dozen snails, a plate of Alsatian sausage with sauerkraut, and a bottle of late-vintage golden Gewürztraminer; or else I savor a simple soft-boiled egg with fingers of toast and lightly salted butter.

Last thursday, I sat inside a cafe across the street from Ms.51, wasting time before a rehearsal that I had to be at at 2:00. School was out for me already as graduation had been the day before, but there was another week left for the younger students. I sipped my iced coffee and wrote in my notebook and felt very grown up, watching the sixth and seventh graders out to lunch- yelling to their friends, strolling into the restaurants and delis where the people knew my order. I heard them each complain as the whistles blew and they slowly trickled back into the building we all considered to look like a jail and I realized what I had taken so for granted and what- they too- were overlooking. I couldn't help but be jealous of each and every one of them for the extra year or two that they would have there that I wouldn't. And when I went to pick up my report card and the teachers were all in a straight row of chairs that I wasn't allowed to pass- a row of chairs blocking off the entrance to what had been my second home for the past three years, the ugly brick building with broken lockers and bars on the windows and hideously painted walls that I'd spent only 194,400 minutes inside of and that held so many of both my worst and most enamoured memories- only then did I realize what was over, what I had lost. It wasn't until then that I realized that these small comforts of my middle school were- not soon to be, but already behind me- it wasn't until then that I realized how strongly I relied upon these comforts or that they existed at all. It hit me so suddenly and painfully in a way that not much does.

I don't mean to compare my experience with moving on to high school to Bauby's condition because it- of course- doesn't compare on any level and I don't claim to think that it ever can. As shallow as my struggles are next to his, this book has made me realize what defines happiness, what is goodness. It's not having a perfect life. I don't think that happiness comes with what anyone pictures or is convinced will make them truly happy. No one has a perfect life, because even when they get what- in their mind- will most definitely make them deeply happy, they want more- that's just human nature. I think that happiness is having little spurs of goodness to sustain you for that moment in time before the next one. Happiness is his warm bath and appreciation for food- happiness is having a school where I know faces and I love teachers and I'm on the top of the heap. Happiness is the forty minutes of freedom we were given with our friends out to lunch that I won't have in high school, it's going into Cafe Martin and not having to tell Martin what I want to drink. Happiness is simple things that are easy to overlook look and are far too often forgotten.

And I'm terrified of this- of time or not having enough of it, of taking life for granted or just taking the small, important moments for granted. Because I don't think that anyone can be happy if they don't see the good in pieces of their life until they've lost those pieces. I don't think that anyone can be happy when filled with the regret of having having overlooked something- no matter the size or importance- that made them happy. I think that it's about more than stepping back and looking at things in prospective and trying to realize your good fortune, or trying to see it all with an optimistic point of view. I do that- or at least I try to. I don't think the idea of optimism or gratefulness is something that people forget about, it's just something that- in the moment- is much more difficult to commit yourself to than it seems. Maybe it's because we lose faith in ourselves or in other people or in the world or in life or in whatever religion we claim to be faithful to. But this underlying fear that comes with almost everything I do or say or think or feel is that I somehow won't have control over it- as if something will dictate my thoughts, monitor my words, change my actions, take authority over my feelings. As if something will keep me from appreciating these moments given to me or not let me recognize the good things in my life. Something will hold me back, something won't allow me to be happy. Or maybe I'm just afraid that I won't allow myself.

This is why I read.

Two nights in Paris is not enough, now all I can focus on is how I must go back

I took a corny picture, I wrote a corny post. Oh well, I happen to love chliche's.
...This started out as being a poem, but I'm not really sure that that's what it is anymore.

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I am in love with the world.
Not travel, but the idea of travel.
I am in love with Venice and India and Scotland and Santorini and New Zealand.
I am in love before first sight.

I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach- this urge- this pull to lie out somewhere in the English countryside where all I can see for miles is green and all I can hear is a stream trickling or a far-off cow mooing. I yearn to wander through a Parisian street market, buying strawberries and roses from a woman who does not speak my language or ride a horse across the shallow waters of a beach that is too beautiful to exist beyond a computers desktop background. I need to explore some old vineyard in Italy or castle in Ireland. I have to run across a field in Africa, climb through a forsest in Costa Rica.
I need to see the things that cannot be real, that I can not fathom, until I see them.

Not even so glamourous though.
Really, anything will do.
I could ride across the U.S. or just stay somewhere upstate. I need somewhere that's not here- a place with no people or different people. A place with trees and fresh air and good food that I don't have to worry about eating. A place where I can be someone else or myself or whatever it is that I want to be, when I figure that out. Because more than scenic beauty, I need freedom.
I've got what every kid gets at some point- a strong, lasting case of wanderlust.

Sometimes, when my mood is high, and my imagination is wild, I can turn my backyard into a secret, overgrown garden. The old wooden bench becomes a precious, weathered antique and our small tool shed is a cottage with its own story- vines growing up the walls and wild roses at its base.

Sometimes, at night, as I lie in bed and feel the summer breeze slither through the sheets to me and hear the occasional cars passing by, I can close my eyes and imagine the bottle of red wine and slice of french cheese lying next to me- I'm suddenly 22 years old. My window becomes the open doors of a balcony in Montmartre, Paris. Distant chattering is some french dinner party in the next building over.

Everything is perfect.

Then, I open my eyes to see my block in Brooklyn, New York lying beyond the lace curtains and my heart sinks. The distant chattering is my neighbors coming back from a late show, the cars are all American-made. The breeze- which I'm sure, is not nearly as wonderful as the one in Paris's nights- comes through, not a balcony, but a window which, even open, traps me and confines me inside the house and the life that is mine.
Until I close my eyes again.

Slow down.

When I flipped to the end, I honest-to-god didn't know it was over. I scanned the next page and saw that blankness- that absence of words- and the feeling that came wasn't so much sad as it was confused. I waited for the empty, hollow-ness that always came with the end of a beloved book. But, it never come. Maybe then, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings wasn't so beloved to me after all. Or maybe the end of the book just didn't feel like an ending. It stopped abruptly and out of the blue just as a new chapter of her life was being opened- almost as if Maya Angelou had collapsed, mid-paragraph, pen still in hand, unable to finish her thought. That's what it felt like. But then again, that's what this whole book seemed to feel like to me- one event after another, one place or thing after another that you just keep thinking you'll get attached to. Person after person gets introduced into Maya's life and they just seem so prominent for that moment, that you keep hoping they'll be important or that you'll get to know them and love them, but then, before you know it, they're ripped out from under you, gone from the story. And you just keep wondering- what happened to him or her? Where did they go? When did they go? Did I miss it? Every chapter in her life seems to begin and end in all too much of a hurry and before you know it, she's gone from 7 years old, living with her grandmother in Arkansas to 16 in California with her mother and very own baby boy. All that happens in between is this great big blur, and you find yourself wanting to know more about that best friend that she once mentioned or the woman that introduced her to literature and changed her life or the people she stayed with when she was 15 and didn't have a home. You want to know more because, when they were mentioned, they seemed so vital- at the time, they were all that mattered. And then suddenly, they were gone as quickly as they seemed to come.

That's why I sort of hated this book, at first. I expected it to be more poetic, more smooth but everything seemed to come out jumbled and sudden and out of place. Only now- now that I've finished it and put it down and started to move on- only now do I realize that this unpredictable, erratic seemingly mess of a book wasn't poorly written or not well thought out. It was like one long stream of consciousness, but in the best way possible. The way in which this book was written so accurately symbolizes coming of age- it so precisely describes growing up.

The other day, as I was going through my insanely disorganized room- cleaning it out to prepare for repainting the wall from a light peach-y pink and yellow theme to a more dignified, mature, deep red- I came across a number of old notebooks and journals. And as I read about my teachers and friends and problems that seemed to consume my life at the time, I realized that I didn't remember any of it. I didn't remember why I had been mad at Ms.Dina or what the wonderful present that Mackenzie had given to me for my birthday was or who on earth Jane was. I barely even remembered anything about the year that my best friend spent in Puerto Rico- something that I'm absolutely positive consumed every second of every day in third grade. All of this that I'd written about- complained about, cried about- things that crumbled my little heart or things that brought me to life, things that my world spun around- all these things were so quickly forgotten. Just six or seven years later. All that was left were these little snip-its, brought back to life and drawn into my mind again by my writing.

And I realize that- just like Maya- I'm growing up, perhaps slightly too fast. Me not remembering my elementary school years is like Maya jumping through every moment of her own growing up experience in her writing. All of the sudden, these things that meant so much are gone- these shallow things that consumed my life are forgotten. And sometimes I wish, just like with the book, that I could rewind and live through everything slower, get to experience it all again fuller. More poetically, more smoothly. Because now all I have are these little glimpses- like passing by my younger years through the window of a moving train- the view is sharp and inconsistent and everything is rushing by so fast that I only have time do catch tiny glances, snapshots. I want to slow down and get to know the people better and see the places closer and encounter the problems more fully- I need some time to smell the roses. Because I feel that, just like Maya, my life is swerving forward uncontrollably and I'm practically grown up.

And I shouldn't be.

Not yet.