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Authors: Elizabeth Hay
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to her as ever, but less talkative. Apparently, Dido wasn’t a woman who felt the need to explain herself, and Eleanor was left to read on her own the signs of something new between her friend and Eddy.
That night, once again, Eleanor couldn’t sleep. She’d made a mistake with the measurements when she’d ordered new window shades for her bedroom, and light poured in on all sides, giving her what she called Marilyn Monroe nights, they were so blond and sleepless. Finally, she went into her windowless bathroom, closed the door, rolled up a towel and shoved it into the crack between door and floor. Then she sat on the floor in the perfect darkness and suddenly tears were rolling down her face and she didn’t understand why. I’mnot unhappy, she thought. I’m really not unhappy. I’ve been much unhappier in the past.
About three in the morning she made tea and took her cup outside. She sat on the steps and fell to brooding about her ex-husband, his life with poor Barbara, his life with her, his unresolved life. Then her thoughts drew her back to childhood, to her father, to their joy in each other, their mutual devotion. Moved by some impulse, Eleanor went back inside, crossed to the bookshelves in the living room, and pulled down the first book her hand landed upon. Where the book fell open, she began to read, and the first words were
“like imperfect sleep.”
“Like imperfect sleep, which instead of giving more strength to the head, doth but leave it the more exhausted, the result of mere operations of the imagination is but to weaken the soul. Instead of nourishment and energy she reaps only lassitude and disgust: whereas a genuine heavenly vision yields to her a harvest of ineffable spiritual riches, and an admirable renewal of bodily strength.”
Eleanor read the passage a second time. Saint Teresa was justifying her visions, saying they came from God, not the devil, because they left her changed for the better: not feeling as one feels after imperfect sleep, but renewed and strong.
A lovely coincidence, thought Eleanor, but it doesn’t lead anywhere.
Nevertheless, she kept reading. The book was
Varieties of Religious Experience
by William James, and she found herself especially affected by the chapters about sick souls, the divided self, conversion. She came upon the old, recurrent phrases in use for centuries, “inexpressible joy took hold of my heart,” “a great change came over me,” and thought, These people whofind God assume a new flesh tone. Instead of being clothed and lumbered with self, they step naked into a new world. She thought she understood how it worked. Just as you can know by the wreckage of a moment that life will never be the same—your father dies one night when you’re eighteen—so an awakened soul understands that from this moment on everything will be different, but rather than pain and sorrow, a reliable joy will be yours. If you take up the challenge.
Eleanor set down the book and closed her tired eyes. Such a big
if
.
Later, as she stood under a hot shower, she wondered if any of her feelings would ever be consummated, or if she was one of those people who is religious without ever having a vision, just as she’d been married without ever making love.
WHEN GWEN WAS FOUR YEARS OLD , she had a yellow summer dress with an ice cream pattern. To eat an ice cream cone in that dress, to watch her cone melt and disintegrate while the pretty cones on her dress remained frozen, perfect, gave her a sensation not unlike this one, of seeing typed words on the page turn into a great big mess in her mouth.
She tried to describe to Eleanor what it was like being on air—feet dangling, heart pierced with doubt, head all tangled. And Eleanor thought of Absalom in the Bible—Absalom fleeing an angry King David by riding his mule through the woods, dodging trees and ducking under boughs, until his mass of curly hair got so entangled in the low branches of an oak tree that
That night, once again, Eleanor couldn’t sleep. She’d made a mistake with the measurements when she’d ordered new window shades for her bedroom, and light poured in on all sides, giving her what she called Marilyn Monroe nights, they were so blond and sleepless. Finally, she went into her windowless bathroom, closed the door, rolled up a towel and shoved it into the crack between door and floor. Then she sat on the floor in the perfect darkness and suddenly tears were rolling down her face and she didn’t understand why. I’mnot unhappy, she thought. I’m really not unhappy. I’ve been much unhappier in the past.
About three in the morning she made tea and took her cup outside. She sat on the steps and fell to brooding about her ex-husband, his life with poor Barbara, his life with her, his unresolved life. Then her thoughts drew her back to childhood, to her father, to their joy in each other, their mutual devotion. Moved by some impulse, Eleanor went back inside, crossed to the bookshelves in the living room, and pulled down the first book her hand landed upon. Where the book fell open, she began to read, and the first words were
“like imperfect sleep.”
“Like imperfect sleep, which instead of giving more strength to the head, doth but leave it the more exhausted, the result of mere operations of the imagination is but to weaken the soul. Instead of nourishment and energy she reaps only lassitude and disgust: whereas a genuine heavenly vision yields to her a harvest of ineffable spiritual riches, and an admirable renewal of bodily strength.”
Eleanor read the passage a second time. Saint Teresa was justifying her visions, saying they came from God, not the devil, because they left her changed for the better: not feeling as one feels after imperfect sleep, but renewed and strong.
A lovely coincidence, thought Eleanor, but it doesn’t lead anywhere.
Nevertheless, she kept reading. The book was
Varieties of Religious Experience
by William James, and she found herself especially affected by the chapters about sick souls, the divided self, conversion. She came upon the old, recurrent phrases in use for centuries, “inexpressible joy took hold of my heart,” “a great change came over me,” and thought, These people whofind God assume a new flesh tone. Instead of being clothed and lumbered with self, they step naked into a new world. She thought she understood how it worked. Just as you can know by the wreckage of a moment that life will never be the same—your father dies one night when you’re eighteen—so an awakened soul understands that from this moment on everything will be different, but rather than pain and sorrow, a reliable joy will be yours. If you take up the challenge.
Eleanor set down the book and closed her tired eyes. Such a big
if
.
Later, as she stood under a hot shower, she wondered if any of her feelings would ever be consummated, or if she was one of those people who is religious without ever having a vision, just as she’d been married without ever making love.
WHEN GWEN WAS FOUR YEARS OLD , she had a yellow summer dress with an ice cream pattern. To eat an ice cream cone in that dress, to watch her cone melt and disintegrate while the pretty cones on her dress remained frozen, perfect, gave her a sensation not unlike this one, of seeing typed words on the page turn into a great big mess in her mouth.
She tried to describe to Eleanor what it was like being on air—feet dangling, heart pierced with doubt, head all tangled. And Eleanor thought of Absalom in the Bible—Absalom fleeing an angry King David by riding his mule through the woods, dodging trees and ducking under boughs, until his mass of curly hair got so entangled in the low branches of an oak tree that
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