It is October and the air is cool. Here in Atlantic Canada, we are — I deeply hope — nearing the end of a season of drought and wildfires. Crops were decimated as heat and flame ripped across the province at distressing rates. The lives of countless animals, including humans, were imperilled and the food security of those already made most vulnerable was severely compromised. I write in the past tense, as July and August are behind us, but summer's devastation has nevertheless grabbed autumn by the throat.
The fire and famine of which I write are regional disasters, rendered miniscule when held up against the catastrophes happening globally. Jumping quickly to mind are the violent conflicts being enacted on various parts of this beloved planet, directed by dangerous and self-serving 'leaders' — a title they neither embody nor deserve. The scale of Eastern Canada's devastation is likewise diminished when I consider other heart-shattering tragedies playing out elsewhere: mass shootings, for example, or the terrifying erosion of democracy.
Though we may have secure professions and sit well-fed; though we may live thousands of kilometres from war and other violent clashes, we are not exempt from grief, from a gnawing sense of loss. How do we cope in such difficult times?
To help me, I often turn to a passage in T.H. White's 1958 novel, The Once and Future King. In the excerpt below, Merlin — the beloved magician who teaches a young Arthur all he holds dear — offers an inspiring lesson to the boy who will one day rule Britain:
"The best thing for being sad,' replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, 'is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."
Accordingly, I have begun choosing activities from a list I created in the Notes app on my phone called Things to Learn. This month, I have picked up French study again after a hiatus. I am also beginning to look for First Aid courses, as my certification is woefully out of date. This was inspired by a recent incident in a local park, where I encountered a person lying motionless, face down, in an ornamental fountain. I ran over to help, knowing I was ignorant of the best course of action. (Good news! The person was OK.)
Not on my list, but things I'm also doing to offset the sadness include: practising new forms in haidong gumdo (Korean sword fighting), and reading a gorgeously contemplative novel — Greek Lessons — by the celebrated Korean writer, Han Kang. She reminds me in her finely-wrought prose of the lifegiving forces of language and human connection.
Merlin was right! I'm feeling better already.
For information about a poetry workshop Julie Sutherland is facilitating on collective, private, and ecological grief, click here. Hosted by the London Literary Salon.
I’ve been a Merlin fan since I was a kid. His incredible descriptions, including the one you quoted above, are sheer genius. Another of my lifelong heroes, Sherlock Holmes, a man of far fewer words than Merlin, counselled Watson concerning the death of his wife by saying almost nothing: “In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than his words.” Rather than giving voluminous advice, he gave Watson the opportunity to get involved in another of his cases. He seemed to be suggesting that staying busy, getting involved in something familiar (helping Holmes) but with a new and interesting problem, was the best cure for grief. In their ways, Holmes and Merlin were both advising that busyness and novelty were the best cure for sadness.
I’ve never read this quote from Conan Doyle before, but I love it. Only tangentially related, but it puts me in mind of my neighbour who had recently lost a son. That same week, I observed him raking leaves. I saw another neighbour pick up his own rake and wordlessly join him in the task. It was the sincerest form of condolences I had ever seen.
Indeed! Lovely story.
Your first line, ‘It is October…’ is poetry; crisp and cool.
Yes, ‘Things to Learn’ and things to do. What John Lennon apparently always needed to make him happy during his darkest Sixties days was to play music with The Beatles.
Yes, leaves. I’ve thought about the ‘innocence’ of raking leaves. Now I understand that wordlessly raking them can also bring condolences.
Thanks for these thoughts. I appreciate learning this about John Lennon. His need to make art resonates (he and I are in very good company of course). I am reminded of a line from, I think, The Agony and the Ecstasy, which I read as a teenager: ‘Bleed me of art and there won’t be enough life left in me to spit.’