Walking through Central Park never smelled sweeter than today. The promise of new life was everywhere: in the lovers and sunbathers, in the tinkling laughter of children, in the pink blossoms, and the bluest sky.
And yet where my mind went was to a passage from a novel, The Last Life, by Claire Massud.
It was April when I read the book, and I was in the village of Menerbes, in Provence, not far from where the story is set. A translpanted Algerian family owns a Mediterranean resort for the well to do French. On a perfectly potent Spring day, the teenage protagonist’s father gets in his car, drives to a deserted road and after sitting alone, feeling the air and smelling new life all around him, takes his own life. What I remember was that the narrator thought Spring was too beautiful and promising for her father to bear.
The morning I read that, I missed breakfast at the house where I was staying. Instead I stayed in bed reading and listening dreamily to the sound of a visitor’s voice coming from the kitchen. When I heard him leave, I ventured down for coffee and to tell my hostess about that poignant passage. For a few seconds, she looked at me as if I’d slapped her. Then she began to speak. The local policeman of the village who’d just left had dropped in for much needed solace. Unsure he could stand to do his job another day, he told her he had just cut down an older couple from a tree in their orchard. They simultaneously hung themselves that very morning. “Suicide is most rampant in the Spring,” he said.
No matter how hard I try to understand wanting to leave this world, especially when everything else is coming to life, the only thing that makes a flicker of sense to me is if it’s because Spring, so full of earnest assurance, is always fleeting before our eyes.
The pinks of those amazing blooming trees leave me feeling the love of spring’s bounty. I am perplexed at the thought of leaving this earth when life becomes warm and beautiful where basking in the glow is nothing short of sublime.
I don’t have an answer except that it has to do with feelings too deep to withstand, and the fleeting existence of man, represented by a moment in a rare Spring day. This morning i got up and thought of the quote, “Today is a good day to die,” googled it, and thinking it referred to Crazy Horse at the Battle of the Big Horn, found out that it was probably a cheapened version of willingness to risk everything in defending their lands. Their (shortened) cry, “Hokahey roughly translates to, “I am ready for whatever comes.” That is much different than taking one’s life on a gorgeous spring day.
As you may know, Stephanie, this is a classic example of what Carl Jung called Synchronicity. When it happens you know you’re in tune with your environment. Many coincidences are not merely by chance.
I do know this, and thank you for confirming it. Have looked at your blog but not your revolutionery site yet. But I will….later today.
Wow. What a touching and wonderful post. I’m so glad I have found your blog. I too am
A fellow nature lover. I followed you after seeing one of your posts on sketchjay’s blog.
Martha: I already said this on your lovely site, but one cannot be too grateful, so thank you! Looking forward to seeing what else you are up to!