Jenifer’s Shelter Island Journal: Dry spell

Not exactly an inspirational headline, but at least an ironic one. The most frequently-heard phrase this whole long, dry summer, has been, even when the barest of sprinkles has occurred: “We need the rain.” But now that I’m officially suffering a “dry spell,” it’s raining all the darn time. And it’s particularly inconvenient considering this is my 150th — my semi-tri-centenary — column.

Not that that’s necessarily a cause for celebration. But at least I could view it as a minor achievement if I wasn’t suddenly feeling like an empty, dried-up husk who was unlikely to ever have another good idea in her head, who, in fact, with the submission of this 150th, might find that is, literally, “All she wrote.”

I’m not sure why I’m in this creative slump at this particular time but, recognizing that I am has actually provided me with the aforementioned headline, along with the near-certainty that, no matter how I may feel, the chances are I’m not alone. Throughout our lives we will all experience stretches of time when we feel disconnected, uninspired, even irrelevant.

Of course, now that I’m a bona fide denizen of “old age,” I realize that those down downtimes feel a little dicier now. After all, time is more and more of the essence, but long experience has shown me that, one way or another, those fallow periods are temporary.

In fact, for old and young alike, dry spells are often the harbingers of  renewal, and perhaps while we’re waiting, we could spend some of those interminable empty hours to good purpose in reflection. I know that “reflection” is one of those “vegetable” activities — good for you but unappealing. Well, it’s an acquired taste, I guess.

For instance, from the promontory of 150 columns, I can look back on my past offerings and see what my editors meant about me being “off my beat” sometimes. I do tend to stray far afield occasionally from the task of writing a column specifically for Island seniors. Got to watch that, maybe.

As I reflect, I’m also reminded of how grateful I am, for so many reasons, to have been given this column to write, e.g.: these 800 words have schooled me in the power of revision in a way that even years of teaching never did. I’m also thinking that I should find an effective way to invite column suggestions from you all — for a time I put my e-mail address at the bottom, but to no avail.  Worth thinking about.

There. That wasn’t so painful. At least for me. However, you may find that like a Seinfeld episode, this column’s saying a whole lot of something about a whole lot of nothing. Fair enough.

In the meantime, if anyone else is feeling blah, mentally-creatively bankrupt or just plain bored, consider what author Joseph Brodsky opined in his “In Praise of Boredom:” When hit by boredom, let yourself be crushed by it; submerge, hit bottom. In general, with things unpleasant, the rule is: The sooner you hit bottom, the faster you surface. The idea here, to paraphrase another great poet of the English language, is to exact a full look at the worst.

The reason boredom deserves such scrutiny is that it represents pure, undiluted time in all its repetitive, redundant, monotonous splendor. In a manner of speaking, boredom is your window on the properties of time that one tends to ignore to the likely peril of one’s equilibrium. In short, it is your window on time’s infinity.

Try to embrace, or let yourself be embraced by, boredom and anguish, which are larger than you. No doubt you will find that bosom-smothering, yet try to endure it as long as you can, and then some more. Above all don’t think you’ve goofed along the line, don’t try to retrace your steps to correct the error. No, as the poet said, “believe your pain. This awful bear hug is no mistake. Nothing that disturbs you is.”

Wow. That’ll teach you to be bored. Actually, it’s the young who know how to be bored, or at least how to get there. At my age, boredom’s a luxury I can’t afford. But Brodsky’s draconian advice applies to “dry spells” as well, though I think I’ll just go with “the sooner you hit bottom, the sooner you surface.”

Here’s a few lovely lines from a George Herbert poem, “The Flower,” which, while it screws up my metaphor, bestows a hopeful note on all elderly “dry-spellers” out there:  

And now in age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;

I once more smell the dew and rain,

And relish versing: O my only light,

It cannot be

That I am s/he

On whom thy tempests fell all night …

I think my heart just felt a drop …