For Whom the Bell Tolls

No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine: if a
Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse,
as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor
of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans
deathe diminishes me, because I am in-
volved in Mankinde; And therefore
never send to know for
whom the bell tolls; It
tolls for thee.

John Donne

Of course the context in which I quote these famous lines printed over four hundred years ago (1624) and echoed three hundred years later (1940) can barely touch the gravity of the subjects each author had in mind when he put pen to paper. To re-echo their words in my own encroaches on sacrilege itself, but perhaps this is what makes literature and the dialogic nature of language so wonderful - untouchable even. The universality of ideas and feelings held within the nexus of each sentence, each paragraph, transcends the smallest scruples of pain and the largest degrees of joy. Crumbs and epochs (there's catachresis for you) are held conjointly in such places and so excuses the appropriation of literary giants.

My dad always said that the world waits for you just outside your door. And the banal realization of 'no man is an iland' then consists of slipping on one's shoes and stepping over that threshold. The collision of lives occurs on streets, not in one's room, and in Cambridge, they more often than not happen themselves on Green Street (or just outside the local grocer's for that matter).

The past nine months has taught me more about life than my last twenty-one years. To be fair though, that is clearly more of a reflection of my own naivete than a comment on my surroundings. Simply put, it is as if the lessons and advice given over the past twenty-one years have been collected and kept in store. This time has thus allowed their application, their release.

What causes great pain (an emotional one that translates itself physically) is the realization of this year's temporality. The gift of an interval is bittersweet. You wouldn't exchange it for the world and yet you grapple with the ache in your heart and the hollowness in your body as you say goodbye. Such a word cannot possibly encapsulate the moments of 'life' you've enjoyed over the past year, cannot manifest the tenacity with which you hold onto those moments.

The imminent goodbyes of yesterday realized themselves today. And my heart aches.

The blessing of slipping on my shoes, packing a picnic lunch and tolling a book in search of some green area to ease the pain transformed itself into two much needed collisions. I think about the timing of it all - me almost turning around to pick up a postcard I had left in my room immediately after leaving the house or attempting to enter Clare Gardens first - and God's grace (which we know covers all things) just floors me (no other eloquent way to put it). Had I not decided to mail it tomorrow instead, I would have never bumped into my friend on the way to the bridge. I would not have been able to enjoy the picnic lunch with warm company in the Sidney gardens or later bumped into another friend whom I have grown to love so much (as a brother and teacher) on my way to pick up ingredients to satisfy my sudden craving for English tea.

To be completely truthful, I am hardly looking forward to my first May Ball tomorrow night because I know that that too will be bittersweet - it being the last night I will spend with another friend and brother who has welcomed me and walked with many of us during our time here.

I am lost and I am in pain. But again God's grace is sufficient. What keeps playing over and over in my mind is Tony's* observation that life is like a gallery of paintings. He needs to see the end of things (end as in closure, as in 'complete'). And the time we are given here is like a painting that we will have to finish and then hang up in order to move onto the next. If this analogy holds true, then I am in the last stage of putting on those colors. Over the past few days I have compiled an album of photos of moments that have taken place over the past few weeks and tomorrow I will add the final section to that picture.

I hope you enjoy the colours. I hope you like the painting.

PAINTING: Cambridge 2005-2006

(*) refer to previous entry about Janice's father figure at Clare Hall

Posted on June 19, 2006 at 11:22AM