Barrett Dorko
08-03-2007, 04:45 PM
It’s been a quiet week in Cuyahoga Falls…
These days on TV you see the parents of dead soldiers speak of their sons or daughters as if they were still alive. There might be a gentler way of saying that, but when it comes to this war I feel that being brutally realistic is best.
The parents use the present tense. They say, “He is,” and “She is,” and my ear always picks this up. They’re in transition, a transition that’s got to be beyond anything we can imagine. They can’t bring themselves to say something they thought they’d never hear in relation to their child; “He was,” or, “She was.” I suppose a counselor waits for these words to emerge and that they don’t rush them.
Last week was the first one teaching for me since the death of my clinical life. As I suspected I would, I struggled to change the syntax of my speech from “I do this” to “I used to do this.” I know it will get easier, but the transition troubles me. I’ve searched around in an effort to reduce my anxiety. As usual, I found solace in an unexpected place.
Most of what I’m about to write has its origins in a recent broadcast of Studio 360 ( http://feeds.wnyc.org/studio360/podcast).
Often described as “the most sacred, secular place in America,” the Lincoln Memorial ( http://sc94.ameslab.gov/TOUR/linmem.html) has been described as a Greek temple, but it’s not, really. The multiple steps, the flat roof and the columns representing states belie that. If anything, it’s closer to Mayan ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_civilization). There’s no door, no obvious barrier between those outside and those within. In short, a welcoming atmosphere. The people visiting are astoundingly eclectic. As Sarah Vowell ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Vowell) notes, she’s seen the words etched in the wall behind Lincoln being read simultaneously by “a guy in a cowboy hat and an Hasidic Jew.” Far beneath Lincoln’s feet the reflecting pond alters his face at night from brooding to surprised, and this illusion makes the marble seem even more alive.
I want to focus on the asymmetry of Lincoln’s hands, seen here ( http://bensguide.gpo.gov/3-5/symbols/lincoln.html). The right is draped over the armrest; open and soft and not threatening in any way. The left is closed in a fist, full of tension and power.
Listening to all of this; the way the whole of the structure is often misunderstood, how long it took to settle on its design, how it welcomes everyone and often serves as a backdrop for important moments in certain movies (including Legally Blond II), I felt comforted somehow. My clinical practice was like this, mostly. And Lincoln’s legacy continues to live well beyond his death, especially through his words.
But when I heard about his repose, extending through one hand and not the other, well, something in that resonated especially in me.
My own hands reflect this emptiness and tension, and whether in the clinic or not, I still have them. And they have more work to do.
These days on TV you see the parents of dead soldiers speak of their sons or daughters as if they were still alive. There might be a gentler way of saying that, but when it comes to this war I feel that being brutally realistic is best.
The parents use the present tense. They say, “He is,” and “She is,” and my ear always picks this up. They’re in transition, a transition that’s got to be beyond anything we can imagine. They can’t bring themselves to say something they thought they’d never hear in relation to their child; “He was,” or, “She was.” I suppose a counselor waits for these words to emerge and that they don’t rush them.
Last week was the first one teaching for me since the death of my clinical life. As I suspected I would, I struggled to change the syntax of my speech from “I do this” to “I used to do this.” I know it will get easier, but the transition troubles me. I’ve searched around in an effort to reduce my anxiety. As usual, I found solace in an unexpected place.
Most of what I’m about to write has its origins in a recent broadcast of Studio 360 ( http://feeds.wnyc.org/studio360/podcast).
Often described as “the most sacred, secular place in America,” the Lincoln Memorial ( http://sc94.ameslab.gov/TOUR/linmem.html) has been described as a Greek temple, but it’s not, really. The multiple steps, the flat roof and the columns representing states belie that. If anything, it’s closer to Mayan ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_civilization). There’s no door, no obvious barrier between those outside and those within. In short, a welcoming atmosphere. The people visiting are astoundingly eclectic. As Sarah Vowell ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Vowell) notes, she’s seen the words etched in the wall behind Lincoln being read simultaneously by “a guy in a cowboy hat and an Hasidic Jew.” Far beneath Lincoln’s feet the reflecting pond alters his face at night from brooding to surprised, and this illusion makes the marble seem even more alive.
I want to focus on the asymmetry of Lincoln’s hands, seen here ( http://bensguide.gpo.gov/3-5/symbols/lincoln.html). The right is draped over the armrest; open and soft and not threatening in any way. The left is closed in a fist, full of tension and power.
Listening to all of this; the way the whole of the structure is often misunderstood, how long it took to settle on its design, how it welcomes everyone and often serves as a backdrop for important moments in certain movies (including Legally Blond II), I felt comforted somehow. My clinical practice was like this, mostly. And Lincoln’s legacy continues to live well beyond his death, especially through his words.
But when I heard about his repose, extending through one hand and not the other, well, something in that resonated especially in me.
My own hands reflect this emptiness and tension, and whether in the clinic or not, I still have them. And they have more work to do.