On blooming slowly

Rimbaud and the fecundity of the spirit

Genie by Arthur Rimbaud

He is affection and the present since he opened the house to foaming winter and the hum of summer, he who purified drink and food, he who is the charm of fleeting places and the superhuman deliciousness of staying still. He is affection and the future, strength and love that we, standing amid rage and troubles, see passing in the storm-rent sky and on banners of ecstasy.
      He is love, perfect and reinvented measurement, wonderful and unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine beloved for its fatal qualities. We have all experienced the terror of his yielding and of our own: O enjoyment of our health, surge of our faculties, egoistic affection and passion for him, he who loves us for his infinite life
     And we remember him and he travels. . . And if the Adoration goes away, resounds, its promise resounds: “Away with those superstitions, those old bodies, those couples and those ages. It’s this age that has sunk!”
     He won’t go away, nor descend from a heaven again, he won’t accomplish the redemption of women’s anger and the gaiety of men and of all that sin: for it is now accomplished, with him being, and being loved.
     O his breaths, his heads, his racing; the terrible swiftness of the perfection of forms and of action.
     O fecundity of the spirit and immensity of the universe!
     His body! The dreamed-of release, the shattering of grace crossed with new violence!
     The sight, the sight of him! all the ancient kneeling and suffering lifted in his wake.
     His day! the abolition of all resonant and surging suffering in more intense music.
     His footstep! migrations more vast than ancient invasions.
     O him and us! pride more benevolent than wasted charities.
     O world! and the clear song of new misfortunes!
    He has known us all and loved us all. Let us, on this winter night, from cape to cape, from the tumultuous pole to the castle, from the crowd to the beach, from glance to glance, our strengths and feelings numb, learn to hail him and see him, and send him back, and under the tides and at the summit of snowy deserts, follow his seeing, his breathing, his body, his day.

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Hi friends,

I have started this new year slowly. Quietly. I have also spent some time reading and revisiting a bit of the French poet Arthur Rimbaud, which is not as pretentious as it sounds. Strangely enough, Rimbaud factored largely into my young life. This revisitation was earnestly inspired by a visit to a Patti Smith concert last week which I wrote about here. I have often gone to see Patti Smith with my dad — who is at times much cooler than me, having first seen her live in 1974— and who introduced me to punk at a young age. This time, though, I went on my own and returned reinvigorated about the sometimes belaboured task of living.

Patti Smith is known for her decades-long love affair with Rimbaud’s work, often celebrating or paying tribute to him in her own. As a teenager, I went to a French school for a year, and we were tasked with deciphering Les Illuminations and writing meticulous assignments on his work. Later, studying French Literature as part of my undergraduate degree, I was asked to read him again (and again) and felt I had a head start. Still, I’d often have to take out my hefty Collins Larousse to decipher the French and understand his words, and even then, they didn’t always land.

When I read Genie earlier this week, I was struck by its power and resoluteness of flavour. Something about this piece of writing reminds me of the cyclical nature of existence, the circles we humans put ourselves through — and how we have done this through the ages. Never have I been reminded more of the persistent and universal nature of human existence than when I am reading dead poets.

What does this have to do with blooming slowly? Well, dear old Rimbaud puts me in touch with my teenage self. The tentative one, the intimidating one with the cigarette in her mouth, sunglasses on and, ridiculously, drinking espresso (?!!?). Little adornments which covered up an intensely insecure and scared little girl who wanted to be seen, heard, and loved so badly. And how the girl is also me and how that girl already had so much wisdom she couldn’t quite acknowledge or see.

Do you ever feel behind in life? I think there is a tendency (read: conditioning) to think that if you haven’t acquired certain things by a certain age, society may deem you useless and invisible. This is especially true for women in a patriarchal society. After becoming disabled in 2015, I have felt this persistent and pernicious feeling that I am behind — something I’ve written about extensively.

I’m behind my friends having babies, one after the other. Each time a pregnancy announcement comes pouring into my inbox I am faced with a duality of emotion: that of delight and sorrow. I spent time with my friends’ kids this week; they call me ‘titi’ or ‘aunty’. I don’t feel there are better words to hear; my delight in being an aunty is genuine, and yet, somehow, the steady stream of pregnancies that mark the years face me with a failure to thrive. I don’t think we talk about this enough. I also don’t think there is any shame in having feelings about it, but (like most things that make people uncomfortable), it can be hard to talk about. I’m behind those who reach ever greater heights professionally. Each time I see a friend or a peer moving forward in their career, reaching milestones, getting raises, or other achievements, I am faced with more duality of feeling: pride and jealousy. I have not experienced much movement towards the heights of my peers in the eight years since my transplant. There has been considerable stagnancy in my career. Sometimes, I’ve even wondered if I can call what I do a ‘career’.

The deep grooves of trauma and many years of recovery set me back and made me fearful: I felt little progression for a long time. I witness people buying homes, building businesses and savings accounts, making investments, finding relationships, getting married and constructing a life. And yet, through my 30s, I have felt far behind — as if none of those things will ever happen for me. As if I lived (that is, didn’t die) only to live constricted, small, fearful, unable to expand wider than the small box that disability wrought for me. In many ways, it’s just a box I made for myself because it made me feel safe, in others the setbacks had consequences.

Each time I notice my jealousy, and I do notice it — make friends with it even (because I can’t just ignore it, that only makes things worse), I remember that even that teenage girl who sunk into the mystical words of Rimbaud blossomed slowly (despite growing up too fast). I have always blossomed slowly. And my blossoming does not look like yours or yours or his or hers. It is my own, and even if it never blossoms the way our capitalist patriarchal society deems acceptable, it will continue to blossom beautifully towards whatever it loves. And truthfully, I’d rather be unacceptable.

My blossoming will continue to write words whether or not anyone reads them. My blossoming will continue to buy myself flowers and place them on my altar. It will continue to pray in my own way to my experience of the divine within and outside of me. It will continue to deepen my connection with nature and plants and to notice their impact on my body, my sleep, my being. It will continue to be relational, and it will continue to deepen relationally. It will continue to move towards intimacy despite feeling the terror of what intimacy might bring. It will continue to bear witness to those who are more vulnerable than me. My blossoming will continue to learn as much as possible in this lifetime that makes me feel alive and, alternately, is useful to others.

So when I get caught up in the jealousy of the ease that money brings, that status provides, and that the idea of having a family and a lover means that you’ve somehow won the game of life, I remember that I blossom slowly. That my nectar is not your nectar. My pain is also not your pain. That my simple act of living was a miracle because it was not promised. It is never promised.

I do not parade my jealousy here today at the start of the year to profess any sorrow. Quite the opposite: it is a reclamation of all the many abundant blessings I already possess. My breath, my body, my many, many possibilities and choices. The clean running water from my tap and the food in my fridge. My best friend texting me from the plane and the clean sheets on my bed. The teachers and mentors and family and friends who are only a text or a phone call away. The invisible support that always holds me, always holds you.

Earlier this week, I listened to someone I’ve known for a long time talk about the bigness of their life, and I was moved to tears because I’ve witnessed their life get bigger. And alongside their growth, I’ve witnessed my life grow bigger too — in ways I could never have imagined. My life is not for nothing and is also not a destination or a race towards some goal. It is cyclical, like us humans, like nature itself. It is continual grief and sparks of sumptuous joy and bliss. The start of the year can sometimes feel like a pressure cooker to achieve goals and slough off the failures of the year that came before. But we blossom slowly in winter; maybe my slow blossom can give you permission to take a beat. To sit back and appreciate what you’ve already done and where you’ve already been.

I’m alive, and so are you. It is not a given, and yet here we are. Here’s to the fecundity of the spirit, the immensity of the universe and Rimbaud at the start of the year.

With love,

Nora x