Inspired by a line in Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse
2019 first place award winner at Studio B's Annual Literary/Art Exhibit, Boyertown, PA
“Bowed down she was with weariness.” When she read those lines in the book, it was as if an arrow had pierced through the comfort and small pleasures of the morning: spring burgeoning at the window, white blossoms on greening branches, birdsong at sunrise, and Earth spinning in its orbit.
Who should complain?
She was not poor or wanting. She had a room of her own, a small income and friends. Still, the arrow hit its mark precisely, undeniably, bowed down she herself was with weariness.
Who should complain?
She was not poor or wanting. She had a room of her own, a small income and friends. Still, the arrow hit its mark precisely, undeniably, bowed down she herself was with weariness.
Outside, a train whistle, church bells chimed five times, the sound of lobster boats setting out in the harbor to raise up the traps. By the sea she was, but it was raining; ”drizzle” she called it. She liked the sound of the word “drizzle,” and of other words, like “plaintive” and “mournful.” The sounds of this morning had distracted her from the weariness of the moment, pain and the passing of time--until she read those lines.
Memories came to her of another time, a time when she believed, “there would be time enough.” There never was, for then was the time— the present— but there was always the looking ahead; that’s what one did— to a dinner with friends, a child’s birthday, a Christmas celebration with family. Looking back, she saw that pleasure and treasure had been all about her then, but she did not see, for there was tomorrow to look toward--"tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."
Memories came to her of another time, a time when she believed, “there would be time enough.” There never was, for then was the time— the present— but there was always the looking ahead; that’s what one did— to a dinner with friends, a child’s birthday, a Christmas celebration with family. Looking back, she saw that pleasure and treasure had been all about her then, but she did not see, for there was tomorrow to look toward--"tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."
So many mornings she awoke, if she slept at all for more than a fitful hour at a time, to the things there were to do. She imagined getting into a skiff and rowing until everything was accomplished. First the practical: make the bed, wash the glass left in the sink with lipstick smudge and squeezed out lime slice, pay the bills, answer emails—business first, then social. Next, the things she wished to do: return a call to her sister, visit a friend, polish her nails, send a thank you card. Those things too must be done, but after the practical ones.
Only then would there be time enough to read, to write, to think—to think with risk of realizations, regrets and remembrances of loss, as those lines in the book had brought into focus: “bowed down she was with weariness.”
Only then would there be time enough to read, to write, to think—to think with risk of realizations, regrets and remembrances of loss, as those lines in the book had brought into focus: “bowed down she was with weariness.”
What did one expect? What did one want or need from oneself and from others—children, husband, friends? Warmth, appreciation, understanding, and what did one give? Treading softly or going around, so as not to make the tiniest fracture in another’s ego, so it would be clear what she wished to create, even if unaware herself, what she valued most: freedom, harmony and peace. Surely others would see that she was there to help, to support, to encourage.
Weary from all that, it must be—seeing that it was not so—when warmth may be felt as fire to avoid, support as constraint from freedom, and encouragement as low sentiment from a lower sensibility. Too many uncertainties, questions, false expectations and misunderstandings. So it was—such was life, bowed down at last.
Weary from all that, it must be—seeing that it was not so—when warmth may be felt as fire to avoid, support as constraint from freedom, and encouragement as low sentiment from a lower sensibility. Too many uncertainties, questions, false expectations and misunderstandings. So it was—such was life, bowed down at last.
Had it all come to naught?
Being Promethean—striving, planning, prioritizing, advocating—where did it get one to be champion of freedom and humankind? Unforeseen consequences—chained to a rock—and she too. For what?
Being Promethean—striving, planning, prioritizing, advocating—where did it get one to be champion of freedom and humankind? Unforeseen consequences—chained to a rock—and she too. For what?
It must be the pain, she told herself. If it were not for its darkness, the ache of bone on bone, she would see in the brighter light of reason and not in the shadows of self-pity. But just now, the window of perception was wiped clean and clear, and she saw all the way through: it was all for naught.
Bowed down with weariness—stranded on the hard rock of her own making, a rushing tide coming in—caught up in a torrent, a deluge to drown in, and she going down with falling rain, lobster traps, spring blossoms and mournful memories of a past she had never felt as the present.
The rain has stopped and no birds sing, and from the bell tower—seven chimes, as she wonders, Where will I lay my head? Where will I leave my heart? What will I leave behind, and where will I row my little boat lost in the darkness?
