11 Dec 23 Yearend Voices

The One and Only Shakespeare and Three Women Speak from the Edge

Look at your calendar. Twenty days from today, 2023 will be history. Another year hooked, reeled in, gutted. Whether ugly or sweet, memorable, or boring, frightening or exhilarating, it’s about to be over. Any to-dos on your list for ’23? Now’s the time, Baby!                                                                                                 

It isn’t for nothing that many of my writer-compatriots call me the Dark Lady of the Monday Wannaskan Almanac Posts – the Almanac post-maker with one eye always looking in the rearview mirror, aslant to catch any glimpse of the shadow-rider making haste and always, always closing the gap – sun going down behind and a white unknown ahead.

There’s nothing as over as Christmas,” the old adage declares. The end-of year holidays elicit an array of emotions. Anticipation. Excitement. Hurry and flurry. Anxiety. Depression. Alternating joy and despair. It is said that impermanence is a condition of being actual. Living with impermanence tangles beginnings with endings never to be unknotted. To exist means teetering on the edge of being and not being. Joan Halifax, Buddhist teacher, calls this condition “edge states.”

And here we are at the edge of one year ending and another beginning – as it is with all things. Is it any wonder that we expect – no demand – joy and celebration as the calendar turns its final leaf? The season contains a modicum of melancholy music (think “Auld Lang Syne” – but I’m getting ahead of myself); for the most part, “Deck the Halls” drowns out the shades of sadness. It’s a time of edge states, to be sure – not an easy place to live – but we take the walk “for the sake of . . .”? Another edge state: 2024’s sunrise. 

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Moving right along . . . a thousand points of light . . . no broccoli, thanks very much. What about Sir William and the three women? Read on and experience each speaking from an edge, and in particular the most daring edge of all where we encounter the great matters of life and death. 

In deference to his place in the history of literature, we dare to ask, “What did William Shakespeare have to say about beginnings, endings, and time in between? In Sonnet 127*, he defends his love of a mistress** who does not meet the conventional standard of beauty. He claims that her dark eyes and hair (and, perhaps, dark skin) are the new standard – the edge of change in the interpretation of what constitutes beauty. The old version of beauty—blond hair and light skin—are so readily counterfeited that beauty in that form is no longer trusted. Could this be the end of a conventional bias of his time, as well as the beginning of more egalitarian thinking and behavior? Or rather, could it be a wholesale change in viewpoint. We might keep in mind that “love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.” ***

In the old age, black was not counted fair,
Or, if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;
But now is black beauty’s successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a bastard shame.
For since each hand hath put on nature’s power,
Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Sland’ring creation with a false esteem.
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

Emily Dickinson’s Uncertain Ending

"Because I could not stop for Death" is a lyrical poem by Emily Dickinson first published posthumously in Poems: Series 1 in 1890. Dickinson's work was never authorized to be published, so it is unknown whether "Because I could not stop for Death" was completed or "abandoned" The central topic of the poem is the inevitability of death and the poet's calm acceptance of it. Moreover, Dickinson projects her belief in the Christian afterlife and eternity in this poem.

Dickinson’s famous poem has all the marks of a momentous edge state playing out.

Because I could not stop for Death (479)

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— 
And Immortality.
We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—
Or rather—He passed us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—
Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity—

When Death Comes

by Mary Oliver

When death comes 
like the hungry bear in autumn; 
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
 
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; 

when death comes like the measles-pox; 
when death comes 
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, 
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: 

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, 
and I look upon time as no more than an idea, 
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

 and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular, 

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth 
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something 
precious to the earth. 

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
 I was a bride married to amazement.
 I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. 

When it is over, I don’t want to wonder 
if I have made of my life something particular, and real. 
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, 
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

Last, we offer another way of seeing the most common and singular ending of all: death. This time, the perspective is from the one dying. Most religions ask and answer the truth of birth and death. Pick your favored spiritual conclusion to the long-running questions underlying these “great matters of life and death.” What is truth to one spiritual seeker is impossibly false to another. Hades. Heaven. Nirvana. Valhalla. Oblivion. Reincarnation, Purgatory. The Dreaming. Humanity has come up with as many possible answers as there are questions leading to more questions in an endless flow of (im)possibilities.

This poem asks few questions; rather it describes one person’s experience. If it seems answers are implied, they remain veiled, just out of reach, if any answers there be.

Any Dead Woman Can Tell You

by Catherine Stenzel

Any dead woman can tell you

It is not easy to crawl back over the bar

one side all marigolds and lullabies

one side chrysanthemums and requiems

The Boatman’s calloused hand brushes her cheek

The river’s benediction blesses her feet

Death’s stone finger points in no direction

A song dams his stone throat

His tongue ripples a Desolation Sound

Waterfall chatter beats her bones 

the cataract’s blade drawn out of stone

A dead woman’s heart-root cross the bridge between

Wisdom dwells without knowing yellow, blue, green

 she sheds other-side colors – red trees grieve

The Boatman’s ferry nods fore and aft

just so, the bar blocks the stream back

Somewhere between the boat and the bar

another is speaking not near not far 

This One calls for others who flit, fuss and fret

while she embroiders spun-again gold into net

Another calls, “Cover the leavings.”

“Ending isn’t an option.” He whispers a name.

Vigorous voice in the dark 

his hand hovers over her idled heart

Another advises, “We should stop now.”

“No,” says the first as he clears her brow

His strength now incredibly near 

Calm with shadowy secrets – his voice in her ear

“It is alright. You will stay here.”

“Am I going?” she whispers her question

to death, false familiar, hollow as glass

on the bar and the bridge that she’s already passed 

somewhere and nowhere and in between

Wind in the reeds at the unyielding bar

She thrashes and grapples seven stars

Cunning Boatman dips and poles his vessel away

As he fades, he chuckles then calls out, “You know you can’t stay.”

“I am here,” she says. “Is it not so?”

Exploration 1: If it pleases you, describe the “volta” in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 127

Exploration 2: Extrapolating from #127, identify other points in time that presented an edge state for humanity. 

Exploration 3: Mary Oliver, who appeared in a prior 2023 post, uses the term “cottage of darkness.” The words have a feeling of both coziness and hidden danger. What are your thoughts on her use of the term? Does it support the main focus of the poem.

Exploration 4: A double-meaning lies within Stenzel’s poem. It can be identified by one letter. Care to find it?

*A sonnet is a poem of 14 lines that reflects upon a single issue or idea. It usually takes a turn, called a “volta,” about 8 lines in, and then resolves the issue by the end. Shakespearean sonnets use iambic pentameter and an ABAB CDCD EFEF GG rhyme scheme, but don't worry too much about all that.

** Some scholars have speculated that the “Dark Lady” of Shakespeare’s sonnets was an actual woman, rather than a poetic creation. If so, Sir William may do well to tread lightly on the edge of Anne Hathaway’s (his wife) opinion of him. To be fair, they married young and stayed married until Shakespeare’s death in 1616 at age 52.

**** The expression love is blind is first found in English in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Merchant's Tale: “For loue is blynd alday and may nat see.” The proverb was further popularized by William Shakespeare in his plays Henry V, Two Gentlemen of Verona, and The Merchant Of Venice.

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Appendix: As a sort of appendix to this post, we offer this adaptation based on Roshi Joan Halifax’s book Edge States. *

I have a small cabin in the mountains of New Mexico where I spend time whenever I can. It is located in a deep valley in the heart of the Sangre de Cristo Range. It’s a strenuous hike from my cabin up to the ridge at more than twelve thousand feet above sea level, from where I can see the deep cut of the Rio Grande, the run of the ancient Valles Caldera volcano, and the distinctive mesa of Pedernal, where the Diné say First Man and First Woman were born.

Whenever I walk the ridge, I find myself thinking about edges. There are places along the ridgeline where I must be especially careful of my footing. To the west is a precipitous decline of talus leading to the lush and narrow watershed of the San Leonardo River; to the east, a steep, rocky descent toward the thick forest lining the Trampas River. I am aware that on the ridge, one wrong step could change my life. From this ridge, I can see that below and in the distance is a landscape licked by fire and swaths of trees dying from too little sun. These damaged habitats meet healthy sections of forest in borders that are sharp in places, wide in others. I have heard that things grow from their edges. For example, ecosystems expand from their borders, where they tend to host a greater diversity of life.

My cabin sits on the boundary between a wetland fed by deep winter snow and a thick spruce-fir forest that has not seen fire in a hundred years. Along this boundary is an abundance of life, including white-barked aspen, wild violet, and purple columbine, as well as the bold Steller’s jay, the boreal owl, ptarmigan, and wild turkey. The tall wetland grasses and sedges of summer shelter field mice, pack rats, and blind voles that are prey for raptors and bobcats. The grasses also feed the elk and deer who graze in the meadows at dawn and dusk. Juicy raspberries, tiny wild strawberries, and tasty purple whortleberries cover the slopes holding our valley, and the bears and I binge shamelessly on their bounty come late July.

I have come to see that mental states are also ecosystems. These sometimes friendly and at times hazardous terrains are natural environments embedded in the greater system of our character. I believe it is important to study our inner ecology so that we can recognize when we are on the edge, in danger of slipping from health into pathology. And when we do fall into the less habitable regions of our minds, we can learn from these dangerous territories. Edges are places where opposites meet. Where fear meets courage and suffering meets freedom. Where solid ground ends in a cliff face. Where we can gain a view that takes in so much more of our world. And where we need to maintain great awareness, lest we trip and fall.

Our journey through life is one of peril and possibility—and sometimes both at once. How can we stand on the threshold between suffering and freedom and remain informed by both worlds? With our penchant for dualities, humans tend to identify either with the terrible truth of suffering or with freedom from suffering. But I believe that excluding any part of the larger landscape of our lives reduces the territory of our understanding.

Life has taken me into geographically, emotionally, and socially complex geographies. Organizing within the Civil Rights and antiwar movements of the sixties, working in a big county hospital as a medical anthropologist, founding and leading two practice and educational communities, sitting at the bedside of dying people, volunteering in a maximum-security prison, meditating for extended periods, collaborating with neuroscientists and social psychologists on compassion-based projects, and running health clinics in the remotest areas of the Himalayas—all have introduced me to complex challenges, including periods of overwhelm. The education I’ve gained through these experiences—especially through my struggles and failures—has given me a perspective I could never have anticipated. I have come to see the profound value of taking in the whole landscape of life and not rejecting or denying what we are given. I have also learned that our waywardness, difficulties, and “crises” might not be terminal obstacles. They can actually be gateways to wider, richer internal and external landscapes. If we willingly investigate our difficulties, we can fold them into a view of reality that is more courageous, inclusive, emergent, and wise—as have many others who have fallen over the edge.

Edge States

Over the years, I slowly became aware of five internal and interpersonal qualities that are keys to a compassionate and courageous life, and without which we cannot serve, nor can we survive. Yet if these precious resources deteriorate, they can manifest as dangerous landscapes that cause harm. I called these bivalent qualities Edge States.

The Edge States are altruism, empathy, integrity, respect, and engagement, assets of a mind and heart that exemplify caring, connection, virtue, and strength. Yet we can also lose our firm footing on the high edge of any of these qualities and slide into a mire of suffering where we find ourselves caught in the toxic and chaotic waters of the harmful aspects of an Edge State.

Altruism can turn into pathological altruism. Selfless actions in service to others are essential to the well-being of society and the natural world. But sometimes, our seemingly altruistic acts harm us, harm those whom we are trying to serve, or harm the institutions we serve in.

Empathy can slide into empathic distress. When we are able to sense into the suffering of another person, empathy brings us closer to one another, can inspire us to serve, and expands our understanding of the world. But if we take on too much of the suffering of another, and identify too intensely with it, we may become damaged and unable to act.

Integrity points to having strong moral principles. But when we engage in or witness acts that violate our sense of integrity, justice, or beneficence, moral suffering can be the outcome.

Respect is a way we hold beings and things in high regard. Respect can disappear into the swamp of toxic disrespect, when we go against the grain of values and principles of civility, and disparage others or ourselves.

Engagement in our work can give a sense of purpose and meaning to our lives, particularly if our work serves others. But overwork, a poisonous workplace, and the experience of the lack of efficacy can lead to burnout, which can cause physical and psychological collapse.

Even in their degraded forms, Edge States can teach and strengthen us, just as bone and muscle are strengthened when exposed to stress, or if broken or torn, can heal in the right circumstances and become stronger for having been injured.

In other words, losing our footing and sliding down the slope of harm need not be a terminal catastrophe. There is humility, perspective, and wisdom that can be gained from our greatest difficulties. In her book The Sovereignty of Good (1970), Iris Murdoch defined humility as a “selfless respect for reality.” She writes that “our picture of ourselves has become too grand.” This I discovered from sitting at the bedside of dying people and being with caregivers. Doing this close work with those who were dying and those who were giving care showed me how serious the costs of suffering can be for patient as well as caregiver. Since that time, I have learned from teachers, lawyers, CEOs, human rights workers, and parents that they can experience the same. I was then reminded of something profoundly important and yet completely obvious: that the way out of the storm and mud of suffering, the way back to freedom on the high edge of strength and courage, is through the power of compassion.

Futility and Courage

I have a friend who was a dedicated and skillful psychologist, but after years of practicing, he had caved in to futility. In a conversation with me, he confessed, “I just can’t bear to listen to my patients anymore.” He explained that at a certain point in his career, he had begun to feel every emotion his patients were going through, and he was totally overwhelmed by their experiences of suffering. The constant exposure had eventually dried him up. At one point, he couldn’t sleep, and was overeating to relieve stress. Gradually he had moved into a space of helplessness and emotional shutdown. “I just don’t care,” he said. “I feel flat and gray inside.” Worst of all, he had begun to resent his clients, and he knew this meant he needed to get out of his profession.

His story exemplifies the negative outcomes of a combination of all the Edge States: what happens when altruism goes toxic, empathy leads to empathetic distress, respect collapses under the weight of sensitivity and futility and turns to disrespect with a loss of integrity, and engagement leads to burnout. Suffering had crept up on the psychologist, and he began to die inside. He could no longer absorb and transform pain to find meaning in his work and his world.

My friend is far from alone in his suffering. Many caregivers, parents, and teachers have confided similar feelings to me. Part of my work has been to address the devastating epidemic of futility, which leads to a deficit of compassion in people who are expected to care.

I have another friend, a young Nepali woman who bucked the odds and turned adversity into strength. Pasang Lhamu Sherpa Akita, one of the country’s greatest woman mountain climbers, was an hour’s walk from Everest Base Camp in April 2015 when the 7.8 earthquake hit. She heard the thundering avalanche that killed many at Base Camp. She immediately set off to help but was forced to turn back when an aftershock hit.

Pasang’s home in Kathmandu had been destroyed by the quake—but she and her husband, Tora Akita, realized that they had to respond to the loss of life, home, and livelihood that many in Nepal were facing. “I could have been killed at Everest Base Camp,” Pasang said. “But I was safe. I survived. There had to be some reason why I survived. I told my husband, ‘We have to do something for the people who are in trouble.’”

In Kathmandu, Pasang and Tora began to organize young people, and hired trucks to bring rice, lentils, oil, salt, and tarps to people in Sindhupalchowk, the region of the quake’s epicenter. She returned week after week to the Gorkha area with roof tin, tents, medicine, and more tarps for the survivors in a number of villages. She hired local people to make new trails across and over landslides that had destroyed existing pathways. She employed hundreds of villagers to bring food and supplies to people who were completely isolated by the effects of the quake and facing the monsoon season without food or shelter.

Pasang was acting from altruism, an Edge State that can easily enough tip toward harm. But in speaking with Pasang during her months of intensive service following the earthquake, I never detected anything in her voice but unlimited goodwill energy, and dedication. She also expressed a tremendous sense of relief that she and her husband were able to help.

My psychologist friend went over the edge and never found his way back. My Nepali friend stood on the edge of her humanity. How is it that some people don’t get beaten down by the world but are animated by the deep desire to serve?

I think compassion is key. The psychologist had lost his connection to his compassionate heart; burnout had deadened his feelings. Cynicism had sent down a deep root. Pasang, though, was able to remain grounded in compassion and let those feelings guide her actions. I have come to view compassion as the way to stand grounded and firm on the precipice and not fall over the edge. And when we do fall over the edge, compassion can be our way out of the swamp.

When we learn to recognize the Edge States in our lives, we can stand on the threshold of change and see a landscape abundant with wisdom, tenderness, and basic human kindness. At the same time, we can see a desolate terrain of violence, failure, and futility. Having the strength to stand at the edge, we can draw lessons from places of utter devastation—the charnel grounds—of refugee camps, earthquake-destroyed areas, prisons, cancer wards, homeless encampments, and war zones, and at the same time be resourced by our basic goodness and the basic goodness of others. This is the very premise of coming to know intimately the Edge States: How we develop the strength to stand at the edge and have a wider view, a view that includes all sides of the equation of life. How we find life-giving balance between oppositional forces. How we find freedom at the edge. And how we discover that the alchemy of suffering and compassion brings forth the gold of our character, the gold of our hearts.