“Teach us to sit still”

Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
-T.S. Eliot, “Ash-Wednesday”

This was the semester I wrote a 20-page paper about the poetry of T.S. Eliot, a saga I chronicled perhaps a bit too heavily on social media. I spent months wading through copies of “The Waste Land” and “Ash-Wednesday,” attempting to string together coherent thoughts on the role of religious conversion in Eliot’s poetry.

Except that saying anything coherent about his poetry is close to impossible. Something about how he’s a modernist poet, and the meaning is found in the struggle to figure out what his writing means. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.

After weeks repeatedly reading poems and constructing meanings so I could at the very least turn a draft in, the words started to grow on me. I suppose the point of writing a critical analysis paper isn’t to learn about life. But I also suppose Eliot didn’t write poetry just so over-ambitious English majors could write critical analysis papers.

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
(Eliot)

This was the semester my grandma passed away, the first time I realized what death actually was and why it’s so often spoken of in euphemisms and hushed tones. I came back from the funeral with a large plant, handed off to me by my aunt as I was getting ready to drive back to school.

I brought it up to my room, the leafy green leaves spreading toward the window and making my room more cluttered than it already was. I named it Lazarus, because that seemed appropriate, and I spent the semester struggling to keep it alive, alternately forgetting to water it and then periodically freaking out and dumping cups of water onto it when the leaves started to droop.

I’ve managed to keep it relatively healthy. I think this is how I’ve been grieving.

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitful face of hope and of despair.
(Eliot)

This was the semester I took on a heavy load of classes and work and normal life obligations, driven by a sheer determination that I was going to leave all the difficult parts of the last few years behind in the dust. Largely, by some combination of luck, drive and divine intervention, I made it out on the other side.

I have a lot to be proud of. I’ve made progress in areas of my life that only a year or so ago felt hopeless. But just because I’m changing doesn’t mean I have to be afraid of the person I’m leaving behind. I spent so long thinking I had to change because there was a metaphorical sign on my back that screamed, “Here are all the things that are wrong with Allie.” The point of change, I thought, was to prove to everyone that the sign didn’t exist.

But I’m finally starting to learn that maybe there is no sign. Change is good, growth is good, but not because I have to escape the person I was. It’s because I’m finally becoming the person I’m meant to be.

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
(Eliot)

I suppose you could say that this was the semester that I feel like I finally started figuring out who I am, whatever that means. After a lengthy season of restless discontent, I started learning how to not be so afraid all the time.

And after months and months of clawing my way outside of my comfort zone and learning to speak my mind and working about as hard as I’ve ever worked both personally and professionally and poring over the poetry of T.S. Eliot, I finally started to learn the lesson that had eluded my for a very long time:

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
(Eliot)