A Life Outside

Oh, to have been a fly buzzing near the ear of Emily Dickinson as she bent over her writing desk, scribbling her thoughts, contemplating the way sunlight shifts across the ground on dreary, winter afternoons.

The reclusive woman in white, who townspeople spoke of as a myth, never left her family's house during the last years of her life. She spoke through a door to visitors, lived in self-imposed exile from the world, sought to translate the power of her emotions into the little, black specks of words.

She felt things deeply, or so her poems seem to say. Thoughts and words were her entire world. She wrote hundreds of letters—the faces of friends reduced to the scrawl and smudges of their particular penmanship.

There is such romance in the story of this shy genius whose thousands of poems were only discovered and published after her death. As an undergraduate Creative Writing student, I wanted to be Emily Dickinson—someone who wrote out of the love and passion for the music of language, who did not chase publication but who wrote out of the simple need to express herself. To turn a soul inside out. To paint on the canvas of another’s imagination. To revel in the angsty torture of a “true” artist.

I loved the idea of such self-sacrifice for the craft of writing. So romantic. So exquisite. So tragic. The image of this delicate woman dressed in white writing in the stillness of her room touched me in a profound way. Something about her life seemed reverent, like a nun dedicating herself to her Holy Father.

Now, as I sit in the quiet of my own living room tonight, I feel especially akin to Dickinson—at least in terms of her solitude. And, lately, I wonder about Dickinson the person, not the myth or the genius poet, but the young woman who slowly retreated from social life.

What types of concerns caused her to pull away? Did she have a disorder that affected her ability to form relationships? Was she overwhelmed by the prospect of living a life among people? A person could argue that she suffered from agoraphobia. Is this what turned her into a living ghost?

But, what if Dickinson had not spent her days writing poem after poem? What if she had found love and married and had children and spent her days in the sunshine and the air? What if she had worn dresses of vibrant color and visited her friends in person rather than through letters?

We would never have her poems.

And, yet, at this point in my life, a part of me feels sorry for this woman who was so paralyzed that she could not leave her house. I begin to see this person hampered by some kind of inability, and I pity the genius whose “letter to the world” we cherish a hundred years later.

I am sure that she was happy in her way. I am sure that she experienced contentment in her way. Her poems show us the scope and depth of what she felt during her lifetime—whether in her actual life or dream life.

Would a healthier life have produced such concise and precise meditations on what it feels like to feel? Would she lead a more normal life if she were alive now? How many Dickinsons are lost to the world outside?

One of my favorite Dickinson poems is “I Heard A Fly Buzz—When I Died.” I am drawn to the simple truth of the poem. The fly buzzes, even after the speaker “could not see to see.” There are so many interpretations of the fly and its buzz. I think it is what it is. Nature will have her say in the end—once we pass on to the afterlife (wherever and whatever we may believe that to be). Our own physicality, decay, is between the “light” and ourselves. What we leave behind besides our keepsakes is our bodies, like a keepsake, an heirloom of bloodlines. Nature reclaims us.

Would I sacrifice the insights in this poem and all of the others if it meant Emily Dickinson, my literary hero, would have spent more time walking along sidewalks, frequenting shops, and laughing with friends?

These days, I almost believe that I would.

Agreeable Friends

When I was little, I wanted to be a vet. I would perform surgery on my stuffed animals with mechanical pencils and make stitching noises with my mouth. I’ve always felt connected to animals, whether it was the sparrow hopping in the grass, the Golden Retriever barking at butterflies, or fuzzy cygnets trailing through the algae of a pond.

I could probably try to blame Disney. Animals were often protagonists in the cartoons and movies. I strongly identified with Benji, watched all of his movies, even though they made me cry.

The longest I ever lived without a pet was my first semester at Iowa State University, and I could barely stand the absence in my heart. I would visit friends’ apartments and houses just to pet their cats and dogs.

It wasn’t long before I bought Herbie the guinea pig from Earl May, and we spent many nights together grading papers, watching television, and munching on carrots.

Of course, we are tempted to anthropomorphize our furry companions, give them thoughts that might not be their own. I do not know how much my two cats “think” about things. But, I know that we communicate.

My big, white cat is my nursemaid and emotional comforter. When I am sick, she purrs beside me. When I am crying, she comes and licks my tears. She spends every night beside me. Often, we wake up in a similar pose—arms outstretched, my head on the pillow, her head on my arm, breathing in tandem.

My little, brown cat is my constant companion. She is always quick to play and give me a laugh. She nestles beside me or on me when I sit on the couch. In the kitchen, she weaves in and out of my legs and meows loudly and urgently. She “talks” to me when she jumps up beside me, mimics the sound of my own “what?” And, so, we speak each other’s sounds.

They both greet me when I come home. My white cat perches on her cat tower; my brown cat lounges in the blinds of the patio door. They wait for me to return to our little “den” because when I do it means food, water, security, and cuddles.

These are two of my dearest friends.

Yes, I know that they could be equally as happy in another home, purring as loudly for another owner. But, that does not change the ways in which these furry companions and I know each other. We know each other’s routines and personalities. We share an intimate world. They know me better than most. We’ve been through quite a bit over the years.

I know them, too. I know that my white cat likes to sit on shoes, tables, and laptop carrying cases. She loves string and will chew things she shouldn’t. She tries to eat plastic. She enjoys joining me in the bathroom when I take a bath. She paces the edge of the bathtub, licks the water, likes me to pet her with my wet hands.

My brown cat likes to hunt and eat bugs. She doesn’t just play with the insects; she finishes the job. If I go into the bedroom, she will almost always come and flop on the bed. She loves to get in the middle of bed when I am trying to make it. She loves to chase soft little balls. Her favorite room is the kitchen where she asks for cheese and newly emptied tuna cans. One of her back paws is deformed, and she is more sensitive of it than her other paws. Only those she trusts most are allowed to touch it. She likes to bury her head in my chest and make a flutter noise—something between a purr and a deep breath. If I was cat, I would be her.

George Eliot told us, “Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms."

In the end, I suppose all they do want is a warm place to sleep, food, and water. Anyone can provide them with these.

Maybe these are the best friendships because they can be so simple. Maybe more friendships should be this way. A person makes you smile, listens to you when you need to share something, hugs you when you’re feeling down, offers you a blessing or prayer whether you ask for it or not—the essentials.

Right now, my white cat is sleeping soundly by my feet, no ear flick or twitch.

She feels safe; I feel trusted.

Such a thing makes me smile and contemplate the dreams of cats.