Lit

I’ve been in a bit of a winter slump lately. I haven’t felt depressed or hopeless, just sort of melancholy and bored. I knew I should start paying some more attention to my mental state on Groundhog Day—when Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, predicting six more weeks of winter, I got so irritated with old Phil that I told Monty I hated all groundhogs—they were stupid, and I never wanted to hear about or see one again. And I’m an animal lover, so that was a bit of a red flag.

But a few days after Phil pulled his “more winter” stunt, I came across this poem that I’ve always loved. And as I read it, my world righted itself again:

 “The Laughing Heart”
– Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Bukowski put my feelings into words in a way I hadn’t been able to do. I realized that I had been letting my life be “clubbed into dank submission.” That phrase is a perfect description of what winter does to my spirit. And I’d let it happen this year without even realizing it—until I wanted to wage war on a groundhog. I’d slipped into a rut where I’d allowed my heart and soul to become dank and cold and dark. I’d submitted to the darkness of winter and tapped out before the fight for light even began.

But there’s hope, and Bukowski offers it with his next lines: “there are ways out; there is a light somewhere.” He cautions that the light might not be strong but adds that any light is better than none. Our job is to notice that light and, in so doing, eke out a small victory over the darkness. Those victories add up: every time you “beat death,” he says, “the more light there will be.” And therein lies the cure for melancholy and boredom—both of which are slow, terminal illnesses of the soul. The cure is to search out light and let that light beat back the darkness more and more every day.

Sometimes the light is literal. And sometimes, the light is a moment of beauty that floods my soul with delight. Bukowski says to “be on the watch” for it and “know it while you have it.” Today, I had it—and I knew it. Monty and I drove five hours round trip for a dentist appointment. And there was so much light along the way. The prairie was covered with freshly fallen snow, and we saw a herd of antelope running across it. We discovered how to play trivia games using Google on our car stereo. We talked about our first Valentine’s date which was thirty years ago this week. And when we got home, we were greeted by our boys—the best welcoming committee there is.

Speaking of our boys, my sweet Seamus has been a beautiful example to me of searching out light. (He also would assume that Bukowski wrote those last three lines of the poem specifically for him:
“you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.”)

Seamus starts looking for light the minute the sun comes up. He’s far more destructive in doing it than he needs to be—he knows how to open the blinds himself but would just as soon tear holes in them so he has comfortable, eye-level windows in which to see the light. He spends the brightest hours of the day going from one window to the next, looking for the one with the most sun. When shadows come, he sleeps on his back in little beams of sunlight. He soaks up every bit of light he can until the sun goes down. If I spent as much time as Seamus does looking for light, literally and figuratively, I’d beat the darkness day after day. There wouldn’t be any chance for my soul to be beaten “into dank submission.”

Spring is coming. I don’t care when Phil the groundhog says it’s coming; I just know it is. And every day, there will be more light—literal light that’s easy to find. But if your soul craves more—if it needs more, as mine does—take Bukowski’s advice and learn to “be on the watch” for it: beat back the darkness with it. Don’t settle for a tiny spot of it; look for floodlights. Follow Seamus’s example and tear down the blinds if you have to. Bukowski says you are “marvelous”—I believe you are, too.  And those of us who are marvelous—those like you and me and Seamus—are worthy of all the light we can find.