Author: Jenny Sullivan

Thoughts: All Things

I want to love as many things as I can, and for what they really are: pavement, puddles, rain dazzled window panes, crooked wooden benches, mounds of slush-speckled snow… I find I am far happier when I can wake up on a morning that is grey with a spattering sky, and say, “What (another) beautiful day!” When all weathers and all things and all moments can belong and be embraced, how much more contentment might there be; how much more mindfulness! Instead of expecting, instead of bleakly waiting, the day might come detached from approval or disapproval, and shining in the brilliance of its singularity.

Valentines and Value

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, and so I thought I would write a post in preparation. I suppose I could have written a piece and released it on the actual day itself, but I want to look at this holiday from a slightly different angle and suggest an idea for something that each of us could do on February 14th.

When I was thinking about what to write that might suit this theme, the usual ideas came to mind: of love and relationships, of being alone and finding trust in a period of waiting, or of being with another while maintaining one’s own identity and self-respect. And yet I realized I was confining myself to topics revolving around romantic relationships, which we typically associate with Valentine’s Day. The origins of Valentine’s Day, however, do not suggest such a restriction. The holiday began in honour of St. Valentine, a Christian martyr in 5th century Rome, and associations with romantic love were not forged until the 14th century under the influence of Chaucer and his courtly circle.

In our contemporary society, Valentine’s Day seems to be defined by its connection to romantic love, or conversely, to the opposite of romantic love: that is, singlehood. We are burdened with images of romantic love, but also with catchy slogans about how it is okay to be single and how a person does not need another person to complete their life. It is probably not possible to dissipate these now tightly held associations, and I am not trying to suggest that the erasure of such links would be a good thing. But, what if Valentine’s Day did not have to be just about one or the other?

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The Dance of Ash

Around a blazing fire
So spouting warmth and cheer,
With sparks to be admired
By all who gather near,
I am not often thinking of death.

And yet it too is there
Beneath the flame’s great might
The flecks of ash in air
Are dancing in the light
To live and die thus intertwined.

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Pam: Between Spaces

Dr. Pamela Lewis did not often think of herself as the doctor, or even a doctor. In her mind she was only Pam. And most of the time, this was enough.

As she peeled off her white coat, her hair also escaped from its confining clip and spilled over her shoulders: reddish-brown hair that fell in smooth, measured waves. Although Pam was not old, she felt old. Her feet hurt. There was a tingling, half-burning sensation running up her back from standing or stooping all day. Jostling in her purse for her keys, Pam peered into the dark tinted window of her car. The surface reflected her face back to her, in part. The glasses were what did it, she decided. They accounted for the feeling or appearance of age. When she had been really young, Pam had not worn glasses, and the frames around her eyes were still vaguely unfamiliar to her, as though they belonged to someone else. It was also true that they did not fit quite right. The glasses would predictably slide a little down Pam’s nose when she was speaking to a patient, giving her the air of an elderly librarian.

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Ann: The Stirrings of Life

The room to which the nurse led her looked like all the other rooms that Ann had seen before. She set down the baby carrier and waited. Margaret smiled up at her. Some people said (never in Ann’s own hearing, but then, there were other ways of finding things out) that Margaret was a funny name for a baby, especially since Ann had thus far refused to abbreviate it with a nickname. Too formal, they said, or too much of something. But Ann felt the name imbued her sweet daughter with a great measure of dignity, as good names are able to do. “Margaret,” she said softly, and Margaret watched her mother with eyes of laughing joy.

There was nothing distinct about that room. It was exceedingly sterile, as a room in any doctor’s office should be. White walls gleamed and a white tiled floor could almost have reflected her face back to her as Ann stared down at it. On one side of the room there was a chair perched beside a computer, and a few feet away was another identical chair. This chair belonged to Ann. That is, this was the chair on which Ann was currently sitting.

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Brooklyn

Brooklyn is a beautiful film, and the more I think about it the more this word seems the best and most appropriate to describe the movie: beautiful. It is a real film, authentic and honest, compassionate and perfectly paced.

What is Brooklyn about? It is set in the early 1950’s and follows a young woman named Eilis (played by Saoirse Ronan) who leaves her small hometown in Ireland for the better opportunity of Brooklyn, New York. As time passes, Eilis grows in confidence, pursues her aspirations of becoming a bookkeeper, and falls in love. However, when she returns to Ireland, she is torn again between two worlds, and a love triangle develops as well, throwing into confusion all that once seemed certain and forcing her to decide how she wants her future to unfold.

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The Failure of the Mind

I am a creative person and have often defined myself by my creativity. But sometimes I experience what I might call creative erasure. My mind, formerly filled with ideas and dreams, words and stories, becomes a blank slate. The prior rush of passion and ambition slows almost to a still.

I think that self-definition based on the mind is a habit into which we often fall. We speak of the body, of the heart and soul, but when we attempt to isolate the most fundamental aspect of self, we tend to focus on the mind. We ask, “what is it that makes me me?” and thus confront the question of personal identity. What makes identity secure? What allows it to endure over time so that we can say we are the same person now as we were a year, a month, a week before? Perhaps we have the same body, or possess a soul that is pure spirit and so superior to matter, or perhaps our psychological experiences are the key to self-discovery.

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The Revenant

The Revenant is not a film that is always easy to watch. But this, for me, is one of the reasons why it is such a great and momentous movie.

If you know anything about The Revenant (which is nominated for a total of twelve Academy Awards), you are probably aware that poor Leonardo DiCaprio (playing the American explorer, Hugh Glass) is left for dead by his compatriots and then must embark on an epic quest for survival. The highlight of the movie’s trailer (and certainly one of the highlights of the movie itself) consists of Glass rasping out this memorable line: “I ain’t afraid to die anymore. I done it already.”

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Roger: Waiting and Waste

Roger had already been to the hand sanitizer three times. The first time had been a force of habit, as he passed through the door and saw the dispenser protruding from the wall. The second time had been his response to a particularly violent cough from the person sitting beside him. And the third had merely been for something to do.

Roger didn’t understand why some people positioned themselves so close to other disinterested (and might he add, healthy!) parties. After choosing an appropriately isolated chair, Roger had initially congratulated himself on his aloneness. But these accolades were short-lived. A stocky man who was hacking incessantly decided it would be perfectly fine for him to sit right next to Roger. He did this even though there was a whole row of empty and unblemished chairs stretching out against the wall. Although Roger attempted to indicate this with his eyes, the stocky man remained in a phlegm-filled daze of obliviousness. Roger then turned his gaze with a hopeful intensity to the bin of paper masks on the counter. Alas, to no avail. When Roger had made the journey to the dispenser yet again, he returned by another way, to a different corner of the room.

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