After great pain, a formal feeling comes –— The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –— The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’ And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
The Feet, mechanical, go round –— A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –— Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone –—
This is the Hour of Lead –— Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –— First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go –—
~ Emily Dickinson (The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #372)
That without suspecting it you should send me the preferred flower of life, seems almost supernatural, and the sweet glee that I felt at meeting it, I could confide to none. I still cherish the clutch with which I bore it from the ground when a wondering Child, an unearthly booty, and maturity only enhances the mystery, never decreases it. ~ Emily Dickinson (Letter to Mabel Loomis Todd, September 1882)
“The preferred flower of life” Emily is referring to is the Indian pipe, a ghostly flower with no chlorophyll. Like Emily, I was captivated by Indian pipes as a child, whenever I found them while playing in the woods. Native to New England, the flowers are about 3/4 of an inch long, and bloom from June to September. In one of her poems, Emily compares it to a spirit: “‘Tis whiter than an Indian Pipe –” (#1513)
My father has been in the hospital this month with a pulmonary embolism, a blood clot in his lung. He is too old (91) and too frail to tolerate a treatment with clot busters, so the doctor is opting for a conservative treatment with blood thinners. Time will tell if this will be helpful or not. Now that he is home he is hooked up to oxygen around the clock. It’s been a very stressful time for all of us, and I’ve spent many hours at Dad’s bedside, leaving Tim here to cope with his terminally ill brother, Toby.
These Indian pipes (aka ghost plant, ghost pipe) were growing near Dad’s house in the woods, and the sight of them stirred up some pleasant childhood memories for me. I put the camera on the ground for this shot and was delighted with the results! A bug’s eye view!
“Houses of Squam Light, Gloucester” by Edward Hopper
The Props assist the House Until the House is built And then the Props withdraw And adequate, erect, The House support itself And cease to recollect The Augur and the Carpenter – Just such a retrospect Hath the perfected Life – A Past of Plank and Nail And slowness – then the scaffolds drop Affirming it a Soul – ~ Emily Dickinson (The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #729)
The lovely flower you sent me is like a little Vase of Spice and fills the Hall with Cinnamon – You must have skillful Hands – to make such sweet Carnations. Perhaps your Doll taught you. I know that Dolls are sometimes wise. Robins are my Dolls. I am glad you love the Blossoms so well. I hope you love the Birds, too. It is economical. It saves going to Heaven. ~ Emily Dickinson (Letter to Eugenia Hall, c. 1885)
Renunciation – is a piercing Virtue – The letting go A Presence – for an Expectation – Not now – The putting out of Eyes – Just Sunrise – Lest Day – Day’s Great Progenitor – Outvie Renunciation – is the Choosing Against itself – Itself to justify Unto itself – When the larger function – Make that appear – Smaller – that Covered Vision – Here – ~ Emily Dickinson (The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #782)
Emily Dickinson (left) with her friend, Catherine “Kate” Scott Turner (1831-1917) Amherst College Archives & Special Collections
Interestingly, scholars have noticed that Emily’s dress seems to be out of date for the time period when this daguerreotype was taken. But this seems to make sense in light of what she wrote in a letter to her friend, Abiah Palmer Root (1830-1915): “I’m so old fashioned, Darling, that all your friends would stare.”
The following poem was included in a letter Emily wrote to Kate, about 1859. In the letter Emily noted: “All we are strangers, dear. The world is not acquainted with us because we are not acquainted with her.”
There are two Ripenings One of sight – Whose forces spheric wind, Until the velvet product Drops spicy to the Ground, A Homelier Maturing, A process in the Burr That teeth of Frosts alone Disclose On far October air. Emelie. ~ Emily Dickinson (Letters of Emily Dickinson)
Emily Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886)
We turn not older with years, but newer every day. ~ Emily Dickinson (Letters of Emily Dickinson)
“Autumn. Young Woman in a Garden.” by Konstantin Korovin
I find ecstasy in living; the mere sense of living is joy enough. How do most people live without any thoughts? There are many people in the world – you must have noticed them in the streets – how do they live? How do they get the strength to put on their clothes in the morning? ~ Emily Dickinson (The Letters of Emily Dickinson, 1845-1886)
