It’s in the root of elms,
Congealed and stirring.
In the buried daffodils.
In the chickadees’ song,
This deathless dawn.
In the sun’s opaque promise.
In the sustenance of light.
And the day’s breath.
Hope’s there, waiting,
For you to make.
.
Is it okay if I call you friend? I’ve known you for so long and it is time for you to be a friend. You are with me always. Sometimes you sit in the living room of my house, powerful in your presence. At other times you are like a guest taking a nap in an upstairs bedroom. I used to fight you or plead with you to leave, but I don’t do that anymore. I let you be. I’ve discovered the gifts you bring with friendship. I am grateful for the clarity you allow, for whatever energy you permit, for writing, above all for that, for the daily work of living. Who would have ever thought that we would end up being friends, that even as I do all I can to keep you gentle, I could welcome you? I accept you and limit you all at once. Come on in, there’s a rocking chair for you by the fire, but it is still my house. Now that you’re a friend, I don’t know what to call you. Your medical name sounds too formal and distant. You are more than a condition. You’re not me and yet you are a part of me. The metaphors used to describe you seem too impersonal. Darkness, grayness, the words lack accuracy. You are painfully bright at times. To call you by your symptoms is to treat you like an enemy and I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ll simply call you my old friend. I call you my old friend because I know you, I’ve seen through you. I’ve even seen compassion and hope in you. These are the things that only friends can see. I know you now, so well, and so I call you my old friend.
I was on a panel yesterday at the Brooklyn Book Fair with Mitali Perkins, Kate Milford and Anjali Wason. The title of the panel was “Making It” and it dealt with the tough situations the panelists put their characters in and how those same characters “make it” – that is, survive. It was wonderful panel and the questions from Anjali (the moderator) and the audience were very insightful. Being in that panel got me thinking about many things. What is it in me that likes to put my poor young characters in such dire straits? Pancho loses his dad and his sister. DQ has a rare form of cancer. Marcelo has to spend a summer working in a law firm! Oh, my goodness. In answering a question from the audience, Mitali Perkins said that she wanted to write something funny and I remember thinking how wonderful it would be to write something light and airy and fluffy. Do I have it in me? I hope that humor and a certain lightness of being will always be a part of whatever I write no matter how serious the topic or how dire the straits that my characters find themselves in. I think that this lightness of being that I seek so much has much in common with hope. No matter how serious the topic, hope needs to be part of the mix. And humor. I think what saves serious, realistic fiction from being too dreary to read is hope and humor and love. Love is not something that is directly conveyed from author to reader. It is more of an aura, a feel that the reader picks up. The love I’m talking about is the love of the author for his characters – so that even when they are in a rough spot, they are still very much loved. I’m not sure that there are any literary tricks to convey this love. It is either there, in the author’s heart, or it isn’t. For some inexplicable reason, my poor young characters will probably always find themselves confronted by a reality that can be harsh sometimes (and kind and beautiful as well). I can promise you that they will also find in themselves a way towards hope and love.
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