The thing that everyone forgets, when writing long missives about how easy it is to be away from a loved one, is that it’s all complete bollocks.
This became glaringly obvious to me the moment that I found myself standing in the Halifax airport check-in hall, hung over, wearing my mother in-laws old paint spattered sweatpants, with day-old wedding hair, and a stomach churning from dodgy Thai leftovers.
I was crying my absolute eyes out because I felt as though my heart was being wrenched from my chest with a rusty ice claw.
And one would think that, having done this so many times before, that I would never forget how much this hurts, but for some reason, like child birth (I assume) and the act of running a marathon (I know), I just always forget.
Call it the John Donne syndrome. Some stodgy old British genius pens one poem about how gauche it is to show emotion about leaving your spouse for an extended period of time, and suddenly (okay, like 400 years later) we all want to pretend as though spending months away from your life-long kissing partner is easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And yes, I am aware that I am protesting a little too much. It’s been a cool sixteen hours since I bade farewell to Marc at ye good ole’ Standfield International, and my tear ducts are still a little raw. I know that once I get into the groove of things here in the city, the days and weeks and months will literally fly by and before I know it I’ll be back in his arms, cracking jokes about Elizabeth May and watching Danish cop shows.
Speaking of John Donne – I really shouldn’t be so harsh, because I really do love him and many of his works of metaphysical brilliance.
One poem, in particular, will always hold a very special place in my heart: A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning.
I have a very distinct memory of first hearing it in Literature 12, when Mr. Hill, our teacher, and one of my early great loves, read it aloud for the class. He fancied himself a sort of Falstaff/Leonard Cohen figure, and I am pretty sure he knew that most of the class was completely in love with him.
To this day, I don’t know if it was my crush, or the power of the oral word, but everything that he read that year has stuck with me.
At first, I thought Donne seemed pretty uptight, what with so much of his writing purposefully contrasting that of his Elizabethan contemporaries. Donne found most modern prose too smooth, too easy, and it was his aim to experiment with the concept of “dislocation”, peppering his writing with abrupt starts and stops, metaphors and ironies.
(You know, all of the good literary stuff that keeps us lazy readers on our toes.)
Check the below portion of the poem:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
‘Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of the earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we, by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion.
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
I will never, ever tire of the metaphor of the golden thread that ties Donne and his wife Anne together, and my favourite line is: “So let us melt, and make no noise.”
So let us melt and make no noise.
What a perfect image. Such a perfect thought.
It’s one that I think about often as I start a little bit of a new life here in Nova Scotia.
I am melting. And making just a little bit of noise.
I am thinking about healthy ways that I can keep busy. When I spend too much time in my head, I start to think about all of the things that are wrong and bad with me. I think about how much I weigh, or how little I am doing with my life, and why I am not writing more or running faster. I go rope-a-dope with myself as hard as I can until I am left unable to stand.
So last night I wrote out a list of goals that I want to achieve during my time here on the east coast. I found a small note pad of paper and wrote them out on a single sheet, before tucking them away in a chest of drawers.
I figured this would be the closest I could possibly get to burying them in the backyard, like some kind of elementary school time capsule.
(I think about a lot of weird things sometimes. Like, for instance, do you think if someone ran over the person who one week prior ran over their husband that anyone would believe that she didn’t do it on purpose? P.S. This didn’t actually happen and I am not this woman.)
Part of my three-month plan is to go to bed each night having written out a few things that I would like to achieve over the course of the next day. So today saw me signing up for a gym membership and registering myself for two ten kilometer races – one in September and one in October. They are both races put on by MEC and I figure they’re good bets because I’ve loved running their Vancouver series. My cousin David has also started running and he has his own goals of completing a 10k race, so he’ll be joining me on the start line.
It’s always so much nicer to have someone with you on race day.
Another catalyst for these goals is that fact that I don’t have many friends here, and I figure if you don’t have friends, you might as well just get really fit (and hopefully make some friends in the process.)
But mostly I am really trying to melt.
I am trying to be nice to myself.
I am trying to melt.
And to make good noise.
One thought on “Getting it Donne”
First, everything will be alright. Second, everything will be alright. It is never easy when we must part ways, even if temporary, with our loved one no matter how long the trip. I can’t sleep, I toss and turn. I must have the TV on to hear voices that somehow comfort me as if it’s the weekend, he’s out in the living room, and I’m just curled up in bed watching ugly and terrible movies made for women that I swear men must write. After double and triple-checking all the locks throughout, I discover he is not in the living room after all. This really rings true when I speak to him on the phone, our tradition to check in one each other at the end of the night, bid each other sweet dreams, have our voices be the last the other hears before telling each other, “I love you” and then pressing “End” on the phone. Sweet dreams are never had by either of us when we are miles apart. And although I’m quite independent, he is the only person I want to say good morning to and kiss goodbye when I wake (barely coherent, if at all, but still), and he is who I kiss every day upon his return from work, and every night, he is who I kiss goodnight and bid sweet dreams. It’s crushing when I reach for him, and he’s not there. He is my heart, my love, my soul, and my home. He’s…quite cheesily…my home, my safe place, and especially when I curl up in his arms. It’s my favorite place to be in the whole world. And in case you didn’t yet know, there’s a whole lot of world out there.