Fair Weather
by Dorothy Parker
Sunset Gun, 1928
This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
A marked and measured line, one after one.
This is no sea of mine, that humbly laves
Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.
So let a love beat over me again,
Loosing its million desperate breakers wide;
Sudden and terrible to rise and wane;
Roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide
That casts upon the heart, as it recedes,
Splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.
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I have completely and totally fallen head-over-heels in love with a poem and a particular phrase.
"They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
No matter how many times I repeat the phrase; it never fails to stir something within me.
"They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
I wrestle with mental illness. So did Dorothy Parker. She was a founding member of the Algonquin Round Table, a group witty, urbane, caustic, playful bon vivants, writers, and critics that met daily for lunch at the Algonquin Hotel from 1919-1929. the group also met for poker at night calling themselves the "Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club."
She was an alcoholic and frequently contemplated suicide. She had a conflicted and unhappy childhood and her formal education ended when she was 13. She was black-listed as a communist while a screenwriter in Hollywood. She died at 73 in 1967 leaving her estate to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Foundation and later transferred to the NAACP.The struggle of mental illness is one of hills and valleys, Mt. Everest and the Marianas Trench, cane-pole fishing and the "Most Dangerous Catch," and calm seas and "The Perfect Storm."
"They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
So much of my life is a storm. At first, I was just buffeted by the winds and torrential rains of my illness. I felt as though I had no control. It was difficult and excruciatingly painful. With each banging of my head against the mast of my rudderless ship, I lost hope of surviving. At the darkest, survival wasn't even the objective. The objective was to stop the pain. The difficulty came when I let the pain become my identity.
"They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
Eventually comes spring and "the hills are alive…", the Sermon on the Mount happens, Andy and Opie head down to the Mayberry fishin' hole, and March is blue skies and bluebonnets in Texas.
"They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
I am not my pain. I have an Authentic Self. My theme song does not have to be "It's a Small World After All."
"They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
The calm can be good. The storms can become squalls. The calm does not discount my suffering. Rain comes, it makes things grow. I can grow. I can be calm. I can be resilient.
They sicken of the storm, who knew the calm.
But Jesus immediately said to them: "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
Matthew 14:27
Peace.
