The gift of tranquility

It is a calm, almost balmy, May evening on the waterfront in Kingston.  Folks are strolling and absorbing the warmth and the quiet.

As I walk along, I am troubled, however, thinking of the young man, a stranger to me, who chose to end his life this week by throwing himself from the 17th floor of the apartment building where I live.  I grieve for him and for his family.  As I soak up the beautiy of this early summer night, I am saddened that this fellow, a boy really, must have felt such overwhelming turmoil and despair and that he will never again experience this peacefulness.

It is heartbreaking.






O Captain

It is difficult not to join the global outpouring of dismay and grief over the death of actor/comedian Robin Williams. I think it is tinged with guilt.

How could we all have taken such great pleasure from this man, reveling in his eccentric, manic, energy and talent and generosity of spirit and yet leave him empty inside? Was he aware of how treasured his contribution to humanity has been? Was there anything that his many caring colleagues and friends who have flooded news media and social networking sites to express their sadness at his death could have done to help lift him from depression and give him a reason not to take his own life? Have we failed, as a society and as individuals, to be able to help people who struggle with depression?

Maybe we are not feeling guilty but we are scared, afraid to acknowledge that when we suffer mental health issues, no matter how much support we have around us, we ultimately are in it alone.

Robin Willams’ characters have given us sensitive glimpses into living and dying and being an integral part of this world. He left behind a treasure trove of images and words and actions that will continue to entertain and educate but will now take on an additional edge.

Glenn Close has been an active advocate for a group called Bring Change 2 Mind. Read about her work and take the “pledge” found on their website.

And finally, the full Whitman poem referred to in Dead Poet’s Society.

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung–for you the bugle trills; 
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths–for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Walt Whitman