I have journaled much about the role of friends, especially as it involves those “old old” friends that disappoint to the core. I am learning that the sting of disappointment is like being stuck with porcupine quills.
The barbed tip hurts, and removing by yanking on the quill is painful. However, like everything else in life, you begin to evaluate how to ease the pain of extrication. If I had only known when Milly got these quills what I do now, she would not have suffered so much. Tip: you first have to cut them in half so that they go limp, the fish-hook tip relaxes, and you can pull them out softly and with reduced pain because the quills become flaccid and pliable!
I am spending much time with good friends. Some I have known for a few months. Others, for a couple of decades. And some, for a few weeks. I value their support, compassion, and their reaching out when you least expect it. Most of all, I cherish the laughter we share together. A hearty good laugh is a balm for the soul.
Recently, I heard from friends from my youth. They brought back a torrent of emotions, for they helped me remember some of the “good old days” of yore, when we were studying and working and carefree. How lucky can one be?
I am blessed.
The Arrow And The Song
Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
…was one my Father’s recurring refrains, and whenever I stare at the horizon or any body of water deep in thought, it comes back to me bathed in nostalgia, and sometimes with a flash of joy.
In the last year of his life, I remember how he sat on his favorite red leather wing chair, staring deeply into the flames in the fireplace, his big blue eyes lost in thought. When asked “Daddy, what are you thinking?” he would blurt “I am lost in the cradle of the deep”. And that was it. No explanation. Just that.
So yesterday, while I was ruminating about Dante’s circles, I thought of him. And down my rabbit hole I went.
My Father, John Dillon, lost his Father when he was a young 14 year old. The absence of his Father weighed heavily all his life. His Mother, my Grandmother, had worked for RCA Victor in Buenos Aires, and had a collection of old 78s. I believe I found the source of my Father’s saying, although it was not “lost”, but rather, it was “rocked”. The source was an old hymn, the lyrics of which were written by an amazing woman, Emma Willard (1787-1870), of Connecticut.
Willard moved to Middlebury, Vermont and had requested to attend classes at Middlebury College, but had been denied the opportunity. A persistent visionary, she was a pioneer in women’s education, and in 1814 started the Middlebury Female Seminary. Irony of ironies, today, her home is the Middlebury College Admissions Office.
Emma Willard’s indefatigable pursuit of women’s education brings to mind my Mother in Law’s own common refrain, of British origin, so in order to rhyme you have to use English pronounciation:
“Patience and perseverance made a Bishop of his Reverence!”
So now, with patience and perseverance, my next project is to edit and publish my Father’s prolific writings which he only did for his children: a history of the Dillons, an autobiography “Don Juan Nadie” (Don Juan Nobody), and a novel “Murder on the Bullet Train”. They are too good to be kept all in the family!
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep Author: Emma Willard
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save. I know Thou wilt not slight my call, For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
And such the trust that still were mine, Tho’ stormy winds swept o’er the brine; O, tho’ the temptest’s fiery breath Rous’d me from sleep to wreck and death, In ocean’s cave still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
Today would have been Adriana Dillon’s 97th birthday. It has been 14 years since my Mother left us.
Amazingly, though I spent many years remembering the dénouement, I am not sad thinking about her loss. In fact, I don’t think of her as being absent from my life the way I did when it happened. In many ways, she is ever more present than she ever was.
As my Mother was leaving this world, I emailed my children, who were not at her side, what their Grandfather, Aunt and Uncles and I were going through:
We have spent a lot of time laughing and crying together with her. We have rosaries blessed by John Paul II and pray our Our Fathers and Holy Mary’s and St. Francis’ prayers… and then we will make jokes and laugh …
We are at peace, and know that Grannie is better off going to meet her parents, the Pope, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Thackeray, Balzac, Victor Hugo, and all her beloved authors.
Grannie always said she knew God would keep her in this world until we no longer needed her. She needs to know now that we are strong enough to let go of her.
Reflecting on those last moments, I realize how lucky we were to be able to mix laughter with the tears, and to share until the very end the strong family bond that was at the heart of my Mother’s life.
I also realized then, after a full year of her death, the meaning behind the tradition of wearing black for mourning. It was a way to let the world know that the mourner was going through a stage in his/her life that required others to understand, at the very least, his/her constant void and woeful sorrow.
I once wrote that “not all women who give birth are good Mothers, and many women who do not have children themselves make formidable Mothers. For the essence of Motherhood is in giving of oneself in a selfless manner.” My Mother was the most unselfish person I have known.
Two years after her death I embarked on a new venture, one that would take me to Afghanistan, something that I found exhilarating and approached with trepidatious anticipation. How I wish I could have shared with her my discoveries of Afghanistan’s history and poetry and art. There was enduring beauty I came across, despite the incessant danger and sadness of a war-ravaged place.
Her constant reflections and wisdom are my ever-guiding principles. God’s mills grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small was one of her favorite quotes. In my own experience, it is absolutely true.
She also made the best scones and empanadas one could ever dream of, and her High Teas were a feast to behold, like Babette’s.
I am grateful that she was spared the biggest viscissitudes that some in her family have encountered since her death. I miss her physical presence, her big eyes and warm smile. She left an indelible mark that withstands the ebb and flow of time.
Since death is inescapable, one of these days we will all be with my Mother again. She was an incurable romantic. What I would give to watch Pride & Prejudice with her one more time.
If only I could leave a minuscule fraction of good will for my children to reflect on, I shall leave this world like my Mother said, when God no longer thinks I am needed around.
Dum Spiro Spero 