The Cruelest Month

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Thus famously begins T. S. Eliot's poem The Waste Land.  I studied this poem as an undergraduate 50 years ago and I understand what he means:  April can be especially cruel because the beauty of spring so starkly contrasts with the poet's brooding, depressing mood.

In some ways, it is that way in Highlands this April, not only because of this coronavirus pandemic, which as of this date has caused the death of over 40,000 Americans, but because we have just learned that Martha's beloved Mama has had bad news in the form of a return after two years of her cancer.  So I would ask readers of this blog to keep Jane Lewis in your prayers as she begins oral chemotherapy soon.

It has been especially difficult because, although we speak daily on the phone, we have not been able to see her much under these social distancing policies.  That same stark contrast in the opening lines of The Waste Land is with us every day.  We are having glorious weather now, and all of Highlands and Clear Creek are in bloom, rivaled in beauty only by the brilliant colors of autumn.  The petals of our Carolina silverbell tree are falling on the deck, but at the same time the dogwood is blooming, and we even have this lovely Lily of the Valley blooming along our back walkway.

But at the same time, there are long phone calls with surgeons and oncologists, and difficult decisions to be made, difficult facts to grasp.

It was such a beautiful morning on Monday that I stopped on the drive to Town to take a picture.  Wisps of cloud were rising out of Clear Creek valley under the shadow of Satulah Mountain in the morning – absolutely stunning! 

I found myself running harder than usual, trying to burn up some of the stress.  Martha has been doing the same in a different form; although she has taken off a few days from running because of the high pollen level in the air, she has been walking nearly every day, and she is continuing to work hard in the yard, putting that wheelbarrow to good use. We have been able to get a lot of work done this week under bright blue skies and cool temperatures that warm up in the afternoon.  It is satisfying work, and at the same time stress-relieving work.

That is my prescription for feeling depressed, after all:  work hard, run hard, pray, and be thankful for the beauty all around us, despite the helpless feeling of living during a pandemic or facing illness in a loved one.  Martha's Aunt Anne - one of Jane's three sisters - said it well, and I hope she won't mind if I quote her in this post:  "I will continue praying for her.  That is all that I can do.  But probably it is the most important."  Amen to that:  it is indeed the most important.