Against Wind and Tide

by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

  In the same way, I look at the stars at night. I find the circle of navigating stars by which we used to fly. I repeat their names, like an incantation: “Capella, Castor, Pollux, Procyon, Sirius …” And from a much earlier stage in my life, I remember the psalm I learned as a child: “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handiwork.” Looking at the stars, one is extended to another dimension.

  On the human plane also, surprisingly, other dimensions open up. The definition of insight, you remember, included understanding and sympathy. If one has married and had children, there are grandchildren. Free of cares and guilt, one can watch these familiar strangers. They carry reverberations of the past (one recognizes a father’s humor or a husband’s inventiveness). In the other direction, they are periscopes into the future. Through them one sees glimpses of what the future may hold. You extend your life backwards and forwards. And whether they are your grandchildren or someone else’s, your pupils, or younger co-workers, you will find them very receptive to your attention and, especially, to your praise. You demand less from them than you did from your own children. And you have learned to listen.

  Listening is a key to friendship, and friendship with all ages becomes more enriching as one marches along. Your contemporaries have weathered their trials and so have you; you have more in common with them than you once thought. Communication becomes easier. It leaps ahead more swiftly, skipping the preliminary steps. One is less shy; one has dropped the mask and some of the pride. And you know that time is short. As in the old Housman poem, you feel like saying:

  Take my hand quick and tell me,

  What have you in your heart.

  ………

  Ere to the wind’s twelve quarters

  I take my endless way.*

  I am not overlooking the losses. There are losses that cannot be replaced: of friends, of family, of husband or wife. One must, and should, grieve. But I don’t believe grief is impoverishing or a waste. Neither do I think grief is simply to be endured. It is a live emotion, like joy, love, or anger, and, like all strong emotions, it can enlarge life. Unlike depression—which is not a live emotion but a withdrawal, an ebb tide—grief is a full tide. It sweeps away irrelevancies and distractions. Petty emotions are lost in its path. Even regrets and remorse are washed out to sea. One is left closer to the mysteries at the center of life.

  Yeats knew this when he wrote the last lines of this poem, “Dialogue of Self and Soul”:

  When such as I cast out remorse

  So great a sweetness flows into the breast

  We must laugh and we must sing,

  We are blest by everything,

  Everything we look upon is blest.

  Yeats was, I think, describing insight and one way of reaching it.

  T. S. Eliot, in Four Quartets, defines other approaches to insight when he speaks of “moments of illumination.” There are such moments when one seems to break out of the boundaries of the ordinary world. One recognizes them as moments of beauty, stillness or wonder: listening to a Bach fugue or to a thrush’s song on a spring evening, a moment of meditation on a still morning, or sitting in a chapel alone, or wordless communication with an old friend. These are the moments of “absolute unmixed attention” that Simone Weil describes. They are cracks into timelessness or, in old-fashioned terms, glimpses of eternity. I think one can cultivate the cracks. We are more open to them when we are out of the procession. (When we were young, we were pressing ahead to the next chair.)

  At such moments, the losses and the limitations, the tasks and the gains of the second half of life are forgotten. One is reconciled even to the hardest losses. One feels close to the people one has lost. Not that one has brought them back to one’s side, but one feels no longer separate from them, or from anything of importance. Separateness itself—standing alone as a child or feeling abandoned in age—has melted, evaporated like a mist. And here at the end I can only quote Eliot from his poem “Dry Salvages”:

  The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,

  Fruition, fulfillment, security or affection,

  Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—

  We had the experience but missed the meaning,

  And approach to the meaning restores the experience

  In a different form, beyond any meaning

  We can assign to happiness …

  Tellina, Darien

  October 24th, 1981

  Dear Vicki and Stephen [Mitchell],

  Your letter folded into the little box with the precious quartz crystal was waiting for me in Connecticut when I got back from Switzerland not long ago. I felt badly it had been waiting so long, but perhaps I found it at the right moment. It is always hard to come back from Switzerland, where there is more time and peace, and the mountains. (I miss all three in Darien.)

  The crystal is very beautiful and makes me think of mountains. (Perhaps childhood memories of crystal mountains in fairy tales, up which the knight had to climb to find the treasure or free the princess.) But this crystal seemed beneficent, and not an ordeal to be met; it pleased me very much that you should have chosen it for me. I find there is an inner mountain slope caught—or reflected—inside. (Did you notice this?) I don’t know much about crystals but feel very open to this one and its tradition. So I often leave it under my pillow or in my pocket when I walk in the fields here, and I am sure I “will get to know it.” I am very grateful to both of you.

  I don’t know where I am going to die, Stephen, so I can’t forewarn you. (Not, I hope, in Maui or Darien.) I don’t feel like dying yet; I have one more book I hope to write. But I do think often about death—chiefly in the sense of “Time’s winged chariot drawing near.”

  October has been very beautiful here. I think autumn is my favorite season and I feel in tune with it. It was good to see you both and I hope I can again before long—Darien is nice in the spring—and the chalet is a quiet place to walk and talk.

  I hope all is well with both of you and send my love and grateful thoughts.

  Anne

  Saturday, January 16th, 1982 [DIARY]

  It is hard to start a new year—half a month late. I find it appalling that I have done no writing on a new book—only notes—and not many of them since coming back from Switzerland. Of course, it has been busy, but where has it gone to? There have been emergencies. Richard’s back problem. Reeve and he were here in my house when I came home.

  I feel that the children are all going through crises: Land and the giving up of the ranch; Jon and Barbara (who has not been well), who are beginning to plan to move to a smaller house; Ansy and Jerzy* in Washington, distressed by the Polish crisis, and she by the anniversary of her melanoma operation last year; Reeve in suspense (and badly overworked) with Richard’s pain and depression in his long convalescence from the back operation; Scott and Alika pinched for money.

  There seem to be so many minor, or major, emergencies. “Just living” takes so much time and strength. This is age, I realize, although I have been well. I get so tired.

  I am slowly finding things to make my life (technically) more efficient: a new snow-plower, a new mechanic at a nearer gas station (due to Elsie’s* neighborly suggestion) for my car, taking the train to New York (not easier—but possible). But there must be other psychological reasons for my avoiding working on that book. I do anything rather than face it. Why?

  Sunday, January 17th [1982]

  Perhaps I avoid working on a book on age because I have not solved the problem myself. (“It is insoluble,” Mina says.) Perhaps insoluble, but still visible, analyzable, even describable.

  One lives in the midst of other people’s crises. Con telephones me that Aubrey is in the hospital again. He fell, and they still do not know if it was another (small) stroke or only an increase of his diabetes (the blood sugar has increased tremendously). This can be treated but it is more complicated and more perilous. And I do not see any way out for her. It can on
ly get worse: more of an invalid’s life for Aubrey, more anxiety for Con, more isolation and diminishment of life.

  This morning I wake feeling better. It is bright and very cold. I put out grain and fat for the birds. Berwick† rushes out and then back in again. I call Reeve and find out that Richard is back on “total bed rest” again. She is steady and hopeful and says he is having two medical visits a week and they are trying to find out what “sets him back.” He is, of course, depressed and thinks there is something wrong that “they” haven’t yet found out. This is not a downhill picture: Richard will get better; it is only long and slow and incredibly hard to decipher. Why does he regress? Was it the trip to New York? Or climbing the stairs (once) on his return?

  Sunday, January 31st [1982]

  Some kind of thaw has set in. A gray day, overcast and drippy, still slippery underfoot. I got out yesterday, backing all the way, and went to have my hair done prior to my evening’s engagement of supper with friends in New Canaan and a show of old movies (silent) afterwards in a big barn hall, with a musician who creates musical accompaniment to silent movies.

  I have been dreading this evening all week. Why did I get caught? Because one can’t refuse everything if one is a widow. Supper is smallish with very nice people. Then we go on to the barn where we see silent movies and hear the musician (I almost wrote “magician”—for he seemed like one), miraculously fitting music to the films’ mood and meaning. It is good entertainment (old films of Chaplin, John Barrymore, Lillian Gish, etc.). But the evening was very long (and rather cold in the barn) and ended up rainy.

  It was somewhat spoiled for me by realizing that the whole affair was a benefit performance to raise money for the New Canaan Art Center. I felt as if I were “on show,” to benefit the performance. And why not? I might add—somebody to get more people interested in the cause. All money raising has an element of this publicity courting.

  My problem was that I wasn’t very interested in the cause. It was good entertainment, but not exactly art—or not an art I am very open to or knowledgeable about. I find in today’s magazine section of the N.Y. Times a definition of art by Pasternak which satisfies me: “Contemporary trends of thought imagine that art is like a fountain, whereas it is a sponge. They have decided that art should push forth whereas it should absorb and become saturated. They think it can be broken down into methods of depiction, whereas it is composed of organs of perception. The proper task of art is to be always an observer to gaze more purely than others do, more receptively and faithfully.…”

  Perhaps the composer was following this tenet. The people who watched were merely being social, and being entertained. My friend introduced me to everyone—out of kindness I am sure, but it made me feel “on show” too. And before the evening was up, I felt recognized more than I enjoy, and obliged to be smiling all the time. It was a “smiley” evening and I came into my dark and silent house with relief, feeling I had eaten too much and smiled too much. And it will no doubt lead to other contacts I don’t particularly want. Why did I go? One has to take some chances—if one lives alone.

  Les Monts-de-Corsier

  July 14th, 1982 [DIARY]

  I have been in the chalet ten days—arriving on July 3rd with Berwick. The plane was so full that they put me in first class, which was very comfortable with lots of room for Berwick so I didn’t have to hold him on my lap.

  I found the chalet had been opened by M. Parker,* and the light and water turned on, but filthy—inside and out: deserted and dusty, rugs rolled up, dead flies, paint flaking off, everything damp and mildewed downstairs. And outside, the shed enlarged to take in the new oil tank—quite a neat job. But my yard overgrown with long grass, weeds and briars, and strewn with the workmen’s broken wine bottles, tools, lumber, bits of plaster and broken tiles, even odds and ends of clothing. I start immediately to clean up.

  First a trip to Châtel† in the new car which I have trouble with (gear shift, while I have been driving an automatic) and am very nervous about—to do some shopping. The landscape looks the same, green and hazy toward the mountains and lake. Everyone is out in the fields, cutting or raking the hay. I go to the big co-op on the edge of town, as it is the easiest, and buy enough for two or three days for Berwick and me. It is Saturday and things shut early.

  Sunday I go to Nesta’s for lunch, a disastrous day. I was too tired. I had trouble with the car (my own mistakes in shifting) and got it stuck on the hill leading up to Nesta from Lausanne (after picking up Monica). Nesta’s “François” went down to rescue me. I climbed the hill carrying Monica’s radio, my own bag, and leading Berwick. It was hot, exhausting and humiliating.

  Nesta had the exiled Princess Olga (of Yugoslavia) and the exiled Queen of Romania and her lady-in-waiting. I was hot and tired, and royalty bother me. I don’t know when to curtsey and when to address them as “Your Highness” and when as “Ma’am.” I felt very shy (about eighteen) and very upset about damaging the car (probably burnt out the clutch). François got it uphill, finally, but then the battery was dead. I had to be driven home, humiliated and upset.

  Monday was a perfectly beautiful day. I had breakfast on the balcony and looked across at the lake and the Dents du Midi, remembering how Scott had trimmed the tops of my trees last fall to give me this beautiful view. And then there was my “guardian angel” tree at the corner of the balcony looking down at me. I felt better.

  I telephoned Scott, and M. Paschoud at the garage who said he would go to Nesta’s and get the car. I called Mme. Lavanchy, a cleaning lady I had written to: yes, she would come Tuesday afternoon to clean, but then she was going on her vacation—for three weeks! I felt cross but there was nothing to do about it. It was nice to talk to Scott, who sounded very relaxed and glad to hear me. He says he is going to Brazil on an exploratory trip to talk to the primatology center there. I am delighted.

  I sweep every day and find something new: the radio in the big armoire, the bird seed (I hang up the feeder). My lavender bushes are blooming; they survived. I cut the grass from around them. I pull down the chaise longues from the attic to sit on the balcony in the evening.

  Little House

  Friday, January 7th, 1983 [DIARY]

  A week into the New Year. I have not written since I came home from Switzerland. It was the same last year. I go for walks every afternoon with Berwick and this keeps me sane. Desk work in the mornings. There are family problems—Land has not yet sold the ranch although there was a firm bid which fell through; it is very hard on him. He has done all the hard work on a family-owned ranch. Barbara and Jon are separating. I knew this last spring, but I hoped it would not come off, or would not cause so much anguish.

  I go down to Anne’s for Thanksgiving. It is a beautiful weekend and we walk with the children and have a quiet Thanksgiving lunch. Her book has come out and has had some very good reviews. It is charming and gay and well done.

  Reeve comes for her last visit before the baby. We stop and have supper with Krissie and Bob (I bring a casserole and wine).

  Aunt Edith died peacefully in her sleep. I am glad for her. She was so tired and sad and had so little to live for. She was afraid of dying; I’m glad it was so easy. I went to the service in the Englewood cemetery. I had not been there since Mother’s death.

  We stood around the grave site, just a little round hole for the can of ashes. I had never been to a service where there wasn’t a grave and a coffin. It seemed very artificial. I looked at the tops of the trees and felt grateful Aunt Edith had escaped. We said the Cutter family psalm (121st). I don’t know that I believe in graves that have to be cared for and visited. I don’t object to cremation, but shouldn’t the ashes be scattered to the winds? It seems like a contradiction to burn a body and then bury it in a can.

  We went back to the house for a brunch. The dining room (neglected for so many years when I went to see Aunt Edith in bed) was polished and clean, and the beautiful table glowing with candles, silver, plates of sandwiches, and cakes
and wine. All the treasures Aunt Edith loved—china, glass, silver—were out on display as if for a wedding or some splendid party (and she used to love parties). So much of it was suggestive of ECM and Next Day Hill (which she had learned and copied from her older sister)—antique furniture, Mexican silver, old plates, and a “groaning board” of food. I felt odd—partly that it was so nostalgic and partly that I was the oldest person there (probably).

  When I left, I knew I would never see the house again and that my ties with Englewood were now completely broken. With Aunt Edith’s death following the deaths of Dana and Mary Atchley* last spring and the departure of Connie Chilton and Ann McGavin from the Elisabeth Morrow School, I felt there was no reason to go back to Englewood. I am not too sad about it, but an era is closed.

  I miss Dana terribly and was glad I had seen him in the last months of his life even though he could hardly speak (our eyes and our hands spoke). But I was grateful he did not have to live any longer. And all summer, and even now, I think about him every day with gratitude and sometimes with humor too, remembering his warm affection and his perceptive and humorous and practical advice as a doctor. In a sense, his death returned him to me—as he was in his good years. What a gift to have known him!

  Christmas at Reeve’s: quiet and warm and loving with the children, and Richard well and walking around without pain. Reeve and I fed the animals (I protesting). She is so active and I worry for her, but she enjoys throwing hay down for her horses and sheep in the big dark dusty barn. (She is the little mother to us all.) I go back in another month to take over when she is in the hospital. I am somewhat apprehensive. I am not the person I was eight years ago when her last child was born (Susannah). How quickly one grows old in the seventies! I feel the change each year now. Especially getting up in the morning, stiff and slow. But by the time I’ve exercised, had my bath and breakfast, I feel vigorous again. Nevertheless, only the mornings are really good—at least, for thinking, writing and any difficult job or decision or action. I can shop in the afternoons, or write checks, or see people, sometimes, though I often fall asleep after lunch—or want to. And after my nap, I never quite get back to morning vigor. But I walk with Berwick and am invigorated by that, and the beauty of bare trees against a late red sky and then tea.