Dies irae

Suddenly, it seems, I am surrounded by intimations of death. While Cleo learns Greek myths, L. produces mounds of Christmas cards, and the calendar moves inexorably towards a celebrated birth, I keep coming up against accounts of our basic mortality. There was the shooting in Newtown, of course - but then, two days later, a 91-year-old neighbor died, and a day after that a good friend wrote to say that his father had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. I sit down to watch a episode of Breaking Bad, and mourn as Jesse's vibrant girlfriend dies of an overdose; I pick up the latest issue of Source, only to find that it's a collection of short essays in memory of the recently deceased Leo Steinberg, once my favorite living art historian. Consequently, it only felt appropriate when, as I read the Shahnama (a famous medieval Persian epic) at One World today, I came across this account of the gory aftermath of a battle: "No surgeon came to the pillow of the wounded. All was occasion for sorrow and blood-stained tears."

What to do in such circumstances? How to respond, exactly? Perhaps, perhaps we could think of a work such as Brahms's "A German Requiem," which was apparently initially conceived in response to the death of Brahms's close friend Robert Schumann, and then actually written after the 1865 death of the composer's mother. Unlike many requiems, its lyrics seem largely concerned with the living, rather than the dead: in fact, the first sung line can be translated as "Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted." As a result, the conductor Manfred Honeck, who recently led the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra in a performance of the piece, noted that "There are hopeful elements in it; always a positive feeling."

So you can play your Brahms. Or you can simply devote yourself with renewed enthusiasm to that 5-to-8 slot, when Cleo's home from daycare and simply wants to romp, and innovate, and read, and shriek. Over the past few days, with classes ended and grades in, I've had both time and energy, and we've had a blast. Last night, we built an elaborate 4-foot ramp of sloped books, along which Cleo could run a wooden car towards barricades of various materials; tonight, she wanted to hide under a tent-like blanket with L. while I sniffed and snuffled and circled, an inept monster confused by the trembling fabric. The activity, wonderfully, varies by the minute, but we are, at least for now, all fully invested in the play, and the result is sheer fun.

Which makes me think, in turn, of a different passage from the Shahnama. The author, Ferdowsi, is often intrigued by the workings of history, and the possibility of destiny, and at one point he seems to realize that sadness and happiness are simply bound to alternate. "That is the habit," he writes, "of the skies and fate; sometimes they are laden with pain and grief and sometimes they are full of gladness."

For now, we recognize the need for grief and try to make the most of gladness.