Envy

Last Sunday Jim and I heard Terryl Givens speak at church in Cambridge. He’s a professor of English at the University of Richmond and a prolific writer. Listening to him speak, it's obvious he is also a prodigious reader. Jim took careful notes, which I transcribed two nights ago.

I left the talk feeling the joy of scholarship. I fantasized of reading every author and thinker that he mentioned, of studying New Testament Greek, of understanding philosophy and theology as well as he. It was pure fantasy, which I realized even as I aspired. And I didn’t descend into envy: I consciously chose to celebrate his accomplishments and appreciate the enrichment he gave me through his lifetime of study and thinking. He possesses an extraordinary intellect: I do not. I want very much to respect him for that and be grateful for his generosity in sharing his learning and insights.

Our congregational choir is rehearsing for our Easter program April 21. Tess, our director, is a consummate musician (she plays harp professionally) and has an ambitious program in mind, including a chorale from Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion. Last week I practiced my part and even listened to the whole piece on YouTube. I am not at all familiar with it: my experience has been with orchestral and instrumental works more than choral.

Last Sunday’s rehearsal was painful. There were only about eight of us, including just two altos. Although I had mastered the first page, much of the rest was beyond my grasp and I muddled through. Later in the day, at home, I practiced my part some more. As I thought of the rehearsal, I realized that other singers are much more familiar with the work as a whole and with the chorale specifically. In my new-found mode, I found myself appreciating the musical studies they have made and recognizing that it blesses my world.

 And what is envy? Part of it is embarrassment and inadequacy. It’s a painful awareness of what I don’t have and haven’t accomplished. How much more generous, and pleasant, to be delighted with the gifts of others around me.

As I started this blog post, I realized I've written about this nearly a year ago. I'm swimming!

SWIM!

I’ve continued to think about my campaign to end whining in my life. “Stop whining!” developed into “Stop whining, Mary!”, then “Stop whining immediately, Mary!” and finally: “Stop Whining Instantly, Mary!” I love acronyms and I love swimming. “SWIM”. I love the feeling of moving through the water; I want to move through life.

And what have I been whining about? My inability to read and retain information. Last week, I had a break-through. Jim and I were driving his sister, Mary, (the original Mary Johnston) to O’Hare airport in Chicago. They were talking about books. Instead of envying them, unable to join in the conversation, I quietly listened, enjoying their knowledge and appreciation of good writing.

Where did my disability come from? I remember quite clearly, 22 years ago, when I first started taking a psych med, feeling dull and slow-thinking. I could only read comics in the Boston Globe, no articles and certainly not a book. Kay Redfield Jamison, my hero memoir-writer, describes a similar symptom. My ability improved and I don’t have clear recollection of the intervening years. About ten years ago, I told a woman at DBSA-Boston (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance) that I struggled with reading. It was all I could do to read my scriptures. She smiled and said, "I'm glad you can read your spiritual writings." I hadn’t appreciated what I did have. She had just returned from Israel and had brought back small gifts for her friends at DBSA. Even though she hardly knew me, she gave me a small, translucent stone with the word “miracle” etched in it. Perhaps looking at the stone would help make a change in my life.

I appreciated her optimistic attitude and, over time, reading has gotten easier.

I’m at the point in my life (I’m 61), that I can’t say for sure what causes any of the problems I deal with. Back in 1995, when I was 39, I could see clearly that the psych med changed my thinking and abilities. Later I learned that manic depression is a progressive disease. The psych meds keep the symptoms at bay. Is the underlying illness contributing to my symptoms? I have a harder time reading when I’m depressed.

And now, in my sixties, age starts playing a role. If my symptoms worsen, perhaps it’s the age-factor.

Whatever it is, and it must be a combination of factors, whining does nothing but slow me down.

Each time my son Matt suggested audiobooks, I resisted. I won’t be able to remember what I’ve heard; I will get distracted and miss things. But, when I stopped whining and to took his advice, I was excited with the results. Listening to an excellent narrator read with energy and expression, I am able to follow and retain. As the weather improves with the change of season, I look forward to long walks accompanied by great ideas and literature.