The last we see of Ophelia alive is her sing-song soliloquy on the uses of flowers. “There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’Sundays.” On Sundays the rue would be dipped in holy water to adorn the heads of churchgoers with the holy water. It’s the bitter taste of the yellow-herb that gave it its most commonly used name: rue, as in, regret. It’s purity, it’s bitterness. It’s all that is good and painful all at once. But she also says “You must wear your rue with a difference.” Why does she ask the person she speaks to use the rue differently than how it’s used in church? Rue has anti-inflammatory effects and can be used to cause abortions. I suppose we get to decide how we use our rue with a difference. I’ll keep it in my pocket; save it for later.
I’ve learned some things recently. I’ve learned that dandylion wishes are important. As are slicing pears with a beautiful knife: the pear and the knife in the same hand. I’ve learned that singing is communication. I’ve seen people I care about fall in love, and I’ve seen people I care about grieve, and learned how little I really understand. And I’ve learned that, people don’t need to die to seemingly disappear completely.
I was a melancholic child. An old soul, as parents like to say to comfort themselves. But I learned how to be happy over time. I learned of laughter and music, and the ways that friendship can be good. When I was very young I grieved my own future death, then later, I grieved the loss of my youth. Later still, I grieved my grandpa, my grandma, my uncle, my favorite math teacher, a friend of my family’s, a friend of mine. And I couldn’t help but to lose time to sorrow and distraction. I mean, it’s not like grieving is usually healthy. I’ve never heard someone say, “yeah, they died, but I’m grieving really well. I’ve been super healthy about it.” Grief is ugly and unrelenting. A delicate monster that transforms. But, in knowing that grieving is a part of life, how do you begin to contend with the time lost to grief? The parts of yourself lost to grief?
Folk bard Jean Ritchie sings in the song “Keep Your Garden Clean” to, “Let no one take your thyme.” But it’s advice that she can’t take. Her garden is outside of her control now: “...in the place where my thyme stood, It's all growed up in rue.” Her time is taken over by rue: regret. She’s made stagnant. But at the end of the song she gives up on her garden and plants a willow tree. A melancholy symbol, certainly, but also resilient in its nature with the way that it bends with the wind so that it does not break. Willows look sad in the stillness, but they are so defiantly alive when they dance in the breeze. Perhaps, to grow a willow is to learn how to live with regret.
Katniss finds hope in the young Rue in The Hunger Games. She realizes how lonely she’s been, and how nice it is to have a sister again. But then Rue is hurt badly, and she’s fading quick. The small child asks her to sing to her as she dies, so Katniss sings the first song that comes to mind: a lullaby. In tears, she sings, “Deep in the meadow, under the willow. A warm bed of grass, a soft green pillow. Lay down your head and close your eyes. And when they open, the sun will rise.” A promise of safety, of light; a promise that Katniss cannot keep. But she promises it anyway because she wants Rue to feel safe as she drifts away. I imagine Rue in the very garden that Jean Ritchie describes in “Keep Your Garden Clean”: this place where thyme (time) can no longer grow, but there’s still that willow tree. Somewhere to rest.
I have an older friend. She’s in her seventies. She’s lost so many people in her life that I wonder sometimes how she still seems so happy. I imagine the grief must combine into one mass. Something unfaceable at times. But the living continues I suppose. Maybe there’s no trick to it at all. There’s no forgetting, no plant you can ingest to expel it. But there is something to remembrance, even if sometimes it feels empty.
I wrote a poem after a friend of mine passed on about how it feels like all that’s left of them is fractured pieces. Eggshells. People kept telling me that “you still have the memories of the time you spent together.” As if those memories could ever be enough. But I understand now that the memories weren’t eggshells. They were flowers, and they’re still growing. Changing with me. I’ll take the rue from my pocket now. I can use it with a difference: maybe adorn myself with it, maybe plant it. And let the beautiful yellow bitterness dot the border of my life. I think there’s a garden out there somewhere: with rue and a willow and a place to lay our heads. And it’ll wait for us. There’s no rush in getting there. No rush at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment