Spring's Dissonance: A Writer's Paradox
Cindy surrounded by swan picture frame; age 15
Every Spring, like many writers, T.S. Eliot's opening lines to The Waste Land echo through my consciousness: "April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire...". Eliot gracefully captures the season's paradox—a clash of hope and melancholy, blooming life amid the remnants of winter, breathing deep and facing the allergens! (Okay, that last one is just MY addition.)
Of course there are a slew of poets who have written about Spring; you can check many out here: Spring Poems via Poetry Foundation, and I think everyone has a poem about daffodils hidden in their repertoires, but for Eliot... the call of Spring invokes a cruel blend of memories that makes you DESIRE things--eek! You want to frolic like when you were young (but maybe you have arthritis in your knees), find wild and brazen intimacy (in late-night bars perhaps, when your bedtime is now 9 p.m.), and stir up (probably fictional) carefree days of youth.
We writers are a strange breed, aren't we? We thrive on the juxtaposition of seemingly contradictory ideas to unveil profound truths, to create metaphor, and what a thrill when the union hits just right! Is there any better moment in a writer’s day when the metaphor elevates the entire piece, the contradictory concepts shake hands and agree to become more than their parts, when the perfect vehicle arrives to carry your words to the reader? Bring on the tension, conflict, paradox!
As an Aries (if you believe in such things), I lean toward paradox--an extroverted introvert; impulsive yet thoughtful; a dance of ego and codependency. My counselor has advised that I not let others take me into the past against my will, so I have been trying to look forward rather than backward--in terms of my memoir writing, that’s hard to accomplish! In my personal life, I’ve made attempts.
My birthday month usually triggers a quest for SOME kind of meaning, and it kicks off with my father's birthday--I always thought it a great joke that he was born on the 2nd instead of the 1st (April's Fool Day)--he's a pure jokester at heart, even when the humor covers up anger or grief. He would start the water balloon fights at our birthday parties, tell pun-plentiful jokes and stories, and laugh off any emotional reactions. For his 84th this year, he celebrated by taking his 75k+ comic books to a convention to "See if he could still do it." (He could.) His sister is 87 and still mows her lawn and shovels snow in New Jersey winters, so they're pretty tough stock (as is my mother’s family). For my future, when worries about aging and the mortal coil flare, I remember that my family tends to persevere, to live long and prosper. And, for all of his faults, my father's determination to live a joyful life reminds me that it's possible.
My youngest granddaughter was born on the fractured anniversary of my parents’ wedding--my father left after 50 years of marriage (beware the return of the high school sweetheart in your 70s!) My granddaughter arrived amid much turmoil and with a physical break as well--her clavicle. She's a fighter, though, undergoing (successful) heart surgery, moving from house to apartment to house, losing and gaining family members--she rocks! And often rocks the boat. She is the most openly expressive of the family—telling you she loves you, running to give BIG hugs, expressing sadness and joy in equal measure, and sudden bursts of anger turning physical on occasion. For her, we celebrate with a Bluey cake and decorations, Princess Anna costumes; we swim in the hotel pool for hours, until her motor gets too wound up, and I contemplate my lineage and what I have passed down -- Inter-generational trauma atop her own? ADHD and Depression? Resilience?
Memory and Desire?
This year for my birthday, my uncle gifted me a photo of my teenage self in a clouded-glass, swan-kissing frame. He leaned over and with tears in his eyes told me he loved that photo because I had been such a badass--and that he was proud of me and who I had become. These are not words spoken in our family--being proud of one another OR "badass." I was always black sheep, rebel, runaway, liberal, lost. I felt nothing like my family of origin, remained always on a quest for kindred spirits and chosen family so I wouldn’t feel like an alien. My adolescence looked badass to a few, as wild and free to others, and as a psychological disorder to some (myself included)—I never felt badass or free, but I did feel wild at times.
April awakens this wildness within me, as well as a weariness. Spring means Bonnie Raitt and B.B. King, blues wrestling with my carefully balanced mood; some days Joan Jett, Janis Joplin, or Mother's Finest rattle my memories of dancing every morning, impromptu poet and musician jam sessions in my living room, and long car drives consisting of my private concerts (confession—I wanted to be a rock star!) Now that my old voice fails to hit any note above a low alto, I notice the youthfulness, the sweetness of these world-wise performers; they used to sound mature and world-weary. But now I thrill to the soft and melodic notes—I never noticed the sweetness of Janis Joplin that carries the grit and growl. She left this place of existence at age 27; at double her age, I see her as both young and an old soul, an unruly and vibrant melody. I can take that forward; I can take my survival forward as well.
Spring reminds me of the life I've lived, the dreams I held. It's a bittersweet, chaotic beauty. The season also offers fertile ground for writers and artists of all kinds. This complex symphony, a beautiful dissonance, drives writers to translate the world's richness into words. What discordant melody does Spring evoke in you?
Prompts for Deeper Dives:
1. Spring represents new beginnings, and it follows a period of dormancy. Can you craft a story or poem that explores both the excitement and the lingering shadows of winter? What are the “What Ifs” that can stimulate stories of the future?
2. Consider the concept of metamorphosis, a hallmark of spring. Can you write a story where a character undergoes a significant transformation, or perhaps a creature undergoes a fantastical metamorphosis? What transmogrification appeals to you these days?
