Tenderness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  The impression had grown upon her slowly, also an astonishment she had not always been able to conceal. Her earliest memories of their idyll were abundantly rich, but only in pictures of delicious food, superb fruit, and the pleasure of taking pains over her country larder. She could still see Ch6ri — paler in the blazing sunlight — dragging along his exhausted body beneath the lime-tree tunnels in Normandy, or asleep on the sun-warmed paving beside a pond. Lea used to rouse Cheri from sleep to cram him with strawberries and cream, frothy milk, and corn-fed chicken. With wide, vacant eyes, as though dazed, he would sit at dinner watching the mazy motions of the moths round the bowl of roses, and then look at his wrist-watch to see whether the time had come to go to bed: while L£a, disappointed but unresentful, pondered over the unfulfilled promises of the kiss at Neuilly and good-naturedly bided her time. ‘I’ll keep him cooped up in this fattening-pen till the end of August, if need be. Then, back in Paris again - ouf! — I’ll pack him off to his precious studies.’ She went to bed mercifully early, so that Cheri - after nuzzling against her till he had hollowed out a selfishly comfortable position— might get some sleep. Sometimes, when the lamp was out, she would watch a pool of moonlight shimmering over the polished floor, or listen, through the chorus of rustling aspens and shrilling crickets, unceasing by night or day, to the deep, retriever-like sighs that rose from Cheri’s breast. “Why can’t I go to sleep? Is there something wrong with me?” she vaguely wondered. “It’s not this boy’s head on my shoulder — I’ve held heavier. The weather’s wonderful. I’ve ordered him a good plate of porridge for to-morrow. Already his ribs stick out less. Then why can’t I go to sleep? Yes, of course, I remember. ... I’m going to send for Patron, the boxer, to give the boy some training. We’ve plenty of time between us, Patron and I, to spring a surprise on Madame Peloux.” She fell asleep, lying stretched out on her back between the cool sheets, the dark head of her naughty little boy resting on her left breast. She fell asleep, to be aroused sometimes — but only just — by a waking desire of Chari’s towards the break of day. Patron actually arrived after they had been two months in their country retreat, with his suitcase, his small pound-and-a-half dumbbells, his black tights, his six-ounce gloves, and his leather boxingboots, laced down to the toe. Patron, with his girlish voice, his long eyelashes, and his splendid tanned skin, as brown as the leather of his luggage - he hardly looked naked whenhe took off his shirt. And Cheri, by turns peevish, listless, or jealous of Patron’s smooth strength, started the slow, oft-repeated movements. They were tiresome, but they did him good.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  But it was not till I was over forty and had made my second journey round the world that I learned in India and Burmah, all the high mysteries of sense and the profounder artistry of the immemorial East. I hope to tell it all in a third volume, together with my vision of European and world-politics. Then I may tell in a fourth volume of my breakdown in health and how I won it back again and how I found a pearl of women and learned from her what affection really means, the treasures of tenderness, sweet-thoughted-wisdom and self-abnegation that constitute the woman’s soul. Vergil may lead Dante through Hell and Purgatory: it is Beatrice alone who can show him Paradise and guide him to the Divine. Having learned the wisdom of women—to absorb and not to reason—having experienced the irresistible might of gentleness and soul-subduing pity, I may tell of my beginnings in literature and art and how I won to the front and worked with my peers and joyed in their achievements, always believing my own to be better. Without this blessed conviction how could I ever have undergone the labor or endured the shame or faced the loneliness of the Garden, or carried the cross of my own Crucifixion; for every artist’s life begins in joy and hope and ends in the shrouding shadows of doubt and defeat and the chill of everlasting night. In these books as in my life, there should be a crescendo of interest and understanding: I shall win the ears of men first and their senses, and later their minds and hearts and finally their souls; for I shall show them all the beautiful things I have discovered in Life’s pilgrimage, all the sweet and lovable things too and so encourage and cheer them and those aftercomers, my peers, whose sounding footsteps already I seem to hear, and I shall say as little as may be of defeats and downfalls and disgraces save by way of warning; for it is courage men need most in life, courage and lovingkindness. Is it not written in the book of Fate that he who gives most receives most and do we not all, if we would tell the truth, win more love than we give: Are we not all debtors to the overflowing bounty of God? Frank Harris. The Catskills Mts., this 25th day of August 1922. * * * * * * Transcriber’s Notes: Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. Typographical errors were silently corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LIFE AND LOVES, VOL. 1 (OF 4) *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  But parting with the Mulligans was really painful: Mrs. Mulligan was a dear, kind woman who would have mothered the whole race if she could; one of those sweet Irish women whose unselfish deeds and thoughts are the flowers of our sordid human life. Her husband too was not unworthy of her; very simple and straight and hard-working, without a mean thought in him, a natural prey to good fellowship and songs and poteen. On Friday afternoon I left New York for Chicago with Mr. Kendrick. The country seemed to me very bare, harsh and unfinished, but the great distances enthralled me; it was indeed a land to be proud of, every broad acre of it spoke of the future and suggested hope. My first round, so to speak, with American life was over. What I had learned in it remains with me still. No people is so kind to children and no life so easy for the handworkers; the hewers of wood and drawers of water are better off in the United States than anywhere else on earth. To this one class and it is by far the most numerous class, the American democracy more than fulfills its promises. It levels up the lowest in a most surprising way. I believed then with all my heart what so many believe today, that all deductions made, it was on the whole, the best civilization yet known among men. In time, deeper knowledge made me modify this opinion more and more radically. Five years later I was to see Walt Whitman, the noblest of all Americans, living in utter poverty at Camden, dependent upon English admirers for a change of clothes or a sufficiency of food, and Poe had suffered in the same way. Bit by bit the conviction was forced in upon me that if the American democracy does much to level up the lowest class, it is still more successful in leveling down the highest and best. No land on earth is so friendly to the poor illiterate toilers, no land so contemptuous-cold to the thinkers and artists, the guides of humanity. What help is there here for men of letters and artists, for the seers and prophets? Such guides are not wanted by the idle rich and are ignored by the masses, and after all the welfare of the head is more important even than that of the body and feet. What will become of those who stone the prophet? and persecute the teachers? The doom is written in flaming letters on every page of history. * * * LIFE IN CHICAGO! Chapter VI.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  BE MINDFUL OF YOUR ENERGYAnother thing the hospice team taught us was to be mindful of our own energy when we were in his space. “Though he is now in the active phase of dying, just because he can’t talk to you, doesn’t mean he can’t hear you or pick up the vibes. Talk to him. Tell him you love him. But don’t bring stress here or talk about things you wouldn’t talk about in front of him.” This made me realize just how sensitive we all are to energy—especially when our own energy is diminished. We absorb vibes like little sponges. We’re impacted by feelings and moods (ours and other people’s). That’s why learning to care for and protect our energy is so valuable. When friends and family got overly emotional, Dad’s pain would increase. He’d be agitated and need more morphine when they left. I suspect it was because he took on their pain in addition to his own but was totally incapable of doing anything about it. Some folks understood when we’d asked them to be mindful of the energy they brought into the room; others didn’t (they weren’t allowed back). Dad’s coma-like state lasted five days. I sat with him and caught him up on “what was doin’,’’ just as I would when he could respond. “The next-door neighbors painted their house white; it looks really nice.” Or I’d just quietly work on a jigsaw puzzle, keeping him company. “Dad, I’m having a heck of a time finding this one piece,” I’d say. “It’s probably right in front of my eyes, but damn if I can see it.” Turns out I’d never find it. The puzzle would never be complete again, and neither would our family. At a certain point, those transitioning stop eating and drinking. I mean, I guess I knew that. I just assumed they’d be given intravenous food and fluids or something. But the only thing Dad’s body had energy to process was the completion of life. We moistened his dry throat with a small wet sponge on a lollipop stick and softened his chapped lips with olive oil. Day turned into night as Dad hung on, holding fast to life. The next morning, everything changed. His breath slowed to a raspy crawl. His moans grew fainter and fainter. His skin illuminated. My mom lit candles, and I played soft classical music. Together, we created a sanctuary for his passing. The dogs came in and out, curling up at the foot of the bed. Mom sat on one side of him, and I sat on the other. She held his heart, and I held his hand. Her breath deepened on the inhale and “whooshed” on the exhale, as if she were leading a holy meditation. My breath automatically followed. With each rise and fall, I could feel Dad relax. Instinctively, Mom knew to coach him with the sweetest encouragement.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  24 “But g woe (judgment is coming) to you who are rich [and place your faith in possessions while remaining spiritually impoverished], for you are [already] receiving your comfort in full [and there is nothing left to be awarded to you]. 25 “Woe to you who are well-fed (gorged, satiated) now, for you will be hungry. Woe to you who laugh now [enjoying a life of self-indulgence], for you will mourn and weep [and deeply long for God]. 26 “Woe to you when all the people speak well of you and praise you, for their fathers used to treat the false prophets in the same way. 27 “But I say to you who hear [Me and pay attention to My words]: h Love [that is, unselfishly seek the best or higher good for] your enemies, [make it a practice to] do good to those who hate you, 28 bless and show kindness to those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. 29 “Whoever i strikes you on the cheek, offer him the other one also [simply ignore insignificant insults or losses and do not bother to retaliate—maintain your dignity]. Whoever takes away your coat, do not withhold your shirt from him either. [Matt 5:39–42 ] 30 “Give to everyone who asks of you. j Whoever takes away what is yours, do not demand it back. 31 “Treat others the same way you want them to treat you. 32 “If you [only] love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. 33 “If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. 34 “If you lend [money] to those from whom you expect to receive [it back], what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners expecting to receive back the same amount. 35 “But love [that is, unselfishly seek the best or higher good for] your enemies, and do good, and lend, k expecting nothing in return; for your reward will be great (rich, abundant), and you will be sons of the Most High; because He Himself is kind and gracious and good to the ungrateful and the wicked. 36 “Be merciful (responsive, compassionate, tender) just as your [heavenly] Father is merciful. 37 “ l Do not judge [others self-righteously], and you will not be judged; do not condemn [others when you are guilty and unrepentant], and you will not be condemned [for your hypocrisy]; pardon [others when they truly repent and change], and you will be pardoned [when you truly repent and change]. [Matt 7:1–5 ] 38 “Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over [with no space left for more].

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Over time, Buddy transformed; he went from looking like he was at death’s door to totally radiant. His matted coat became shiny, and his body functions normalized. His spirit took longer to heal, though. Like all of us with wounds, his process couldn’t be rushed. Buddy needed time, space, and stability until he felt safe enough to let his spark come back. Any sudden changes might trigger him. Once, I plopped down next to him on the sofa, unintentionally startling him awake. He instantly bit at the air like a great white shark leaping for a seal. I got the message: “Be mindful around me; I’m still in a vulnerable state.” After a long and tender winter, Buddy’s personality finally emerged. We were thrilled to meet the real him. Turns out, he was hilarious—a gentle, goofy giant, who went from being frightened of touch to moaning for ear noogies and full-body compression hugs. When he wasn’t holding court and welcoming visitors as the “mayor” of our porch, he was on patrol checking the perimeter and keeping us safe (or so we let him believe). Really, we were keeping him safe with our fenced-in yard and Garmin GPS collar. Our boy, with zero sense of direction, could really move, taking off like lightning—especially when a saucy squirrel was in his midst. Buddy adored everyone, especially butterflies. He was an embodiment of love and reminded me a lot of my dad. Especially with how he handled what came next. For a while, we chalked his weird gait up to a potential accident or issue from birth. His left leg made little halfmoon circles when he walked, and he often stood like a ballerina (with his back legs in second position). Cute but odd. We didn’t think too much of it at first. But when his gait worsened, we took him to a specialist, where we learned that Buddy had degenerative myelopathy (DM), a disease similar to ALS in people. Like ALS, there’s no cure, and the end is, without fail, heartbreaking. Paralysis would eventually work its way through Buddy’s body until he couldn’t move or breathe, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. The vet gave him six months to live, tops. No matter our family isn’t daunted by chronic disease or so-called expiration dates. We knew we’d be able to give our boy the best, longest life possible. And that’s exactly what happened. As Buddy’s disease progressed and he started to lose his ability to walk, we got him a wheelie cart (complete with trucker mud flaps), which he often flipped while chasing his little sister, Lola. When he stopped being able to relieve himself without assistance, we learned how to express his bladder and bowels. To say I’d be a good proctologist is an understatement.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Dad often joked, “Dying takes a lot out of you.” From observing him, I second that. The body slowly breaks down. It can take 45 minutes to swallow a pill. Getting to and from the bathroom looks as tricky as walking a high wire. And don’t even get me started on bathing. Dying is fucking exhausting. Because extended family members and friends weren’t around day-to-day, they had a hard time grasping what little energy he had. I imagine that in their minds, Ken was still Ken. And though his spirit was as strong as ever, his body and presence weren’t. Sometimes they wanted him to do what they wanted to do or talk about what they wanted to talk about. If he wasn’t open to exploring certain topics (often because he didn’t have the energy or desire to do so), they might get offended, perhaps not realizing that they were centering their needs over his. Having unrealistic (or even any) expectations of the dying is a surefire way to drive a wedge between you, the person you’re losing, and everyone else. Expectations can also be a way to mask our torn-up feelings about the enormity of the loss we’re facing. While we need to care for our emotions, we may also need to lower our standards, do our best to go with the flow, and once again remind ourselves that everyone is doing the best they can during a really shitty and difficult time. When someone is dying, a piece of everyone is dying with them. None of us are prepared for this. Even if someone has a lot of experience with loss, unwieldy emotions will still come up because we’re all flailing around in anticipatory grief and existential mourning. LISTEN WITH YOUR FULL BEING Listen to the person who is dying with your ears and your heart. Pick up what’s being said and not said. Difficult stuff to do, I know. We’ll get it wrong a lot, we’ll mess up when we’re trying to step up, but our willingness to try is the most generous way we can show our love when people need it most. Or as Dr. Maya Angelou put it, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” The same is true for our pace. Oftentimes we move really fast around the dying—not just physically but verbally. Maybe that’s because we’re jacked up on adrenaline, so focused on trying to get it right or to avoid discomfort that we fail to slow down and simply be. But when we don’t know how to slow down, the person we’re most concerned about may actually wind up feeling invisible.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  Soon she grew warm and I pulled off my nightshirt and my middle finger was caressing her sex that opened quickly: “E—E!” she said drawing in her breath quickly: “it still hurts.” I put my sex gently against hers, moving it up and down slowly till she drew up her knees to let me in; but as soon as the head entered, her face puckered a little with pain and as I had had a long afternoon, I was the more inclined to forbear and accordingly I drew away and took place beside her: “I cannot bear to hurt you,” I said, “love’s pleasure must be mutual.” “You’re sweet!” she whispered, “I’m glad you stopped; for it shows you really care for me and not just for the pleasure!” and she kissed me lovingly. “Kate, reward me,” I said, “by telling me just what you felt when I first had you” and I put her hand on my hot stiff sex to encourage her. “It’s impossible,” she said, flushing a little, “there was such a throng of new feelings; why, this evening waiting in bed for the time to pass and thinking of you, I felt a strange prickling sensation in the inside of my thighs that I never felt before and now”—and she hid her glowing face against my neck, “I feel it again!” “Love is funny, isn’t it?” she whispered the next moment: “now the pricking sensation is gone and the front part of my sex burns and itches, Oh! I must touch it!” “Let me,” I cried, and in a moment I was on her, working my organ up and down on her clitoris, the porch, so to speak, of Love’s temple. A little later she herself sucked the head into her hot, dry pussy and then closed her legs as if in pain to stop me going further; but I began to rub my sex up and down on her tickler, letting it slide right in, every now and then, till she panted and her love-juice came and my weapon sheathed itself in her naturally. I soon began the very slow and gentle in-and-out movements which increased her excitement steadily while giving her more and more pleasure, till I came and immediately she lifted my chest up from her breasts with both hands and showed me her glowing face. “Stop, boy,” she gasped, “please: my heart’s fluttering so! I came too, you know, just with you” and indeed I felt her trembling all over convulsively. I drew out and for safety’s sake got her to use the syringe, having already explained its efficacy to her; she was adorably awkward and when she had finished I took her to bed again and held her to me, kissing her. “So you really love me, Kate!” “Really,” she said, “you don’t know how much!”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 1: It is essential to fault that it be voluntary; and in this respect it deserves punishment rather than mercy. Since, however, fault may be, in a way, a punishment, through having something connected with it that is against the sinner’s will, it may, in this respect, call for mercy. It is in this sense that we pity and commiserate sinners. Thus Gregory says in a homily (Hom. in Evang. xxxiv) that “true godliness is not disdainful but compassionate,” and again it is written (Mat. 9:36) that Jesus “seeing the multitudes, had compassion on them: because they were distressed, and lying like sheep that have no shepherd.” Reply to Objection 2: Since pity is sympathy for another’s distress, it is directed, properly speaking, towards another, and not to oneself, except figuratively, like justice, according as a man is considered to have various parts (Ethic. v, 11). Thus it is written (Ecclus. 30:24): “Have pity on thy own soul, pleasing God” [*Cf.[2592] Q[106], A[3], ad 1]. Accordingly just as, properly speaking, a man does not pity himself, but suffers in himself, as when we suffer cruel treatment in ourselves, so too, in the case of those who are so closely united to us, as to be part of ourselves, such as our children or our parents, we do not pity their distress, but suffer as for our own sores; in which sense the Philosopher says that “harshness drives pity away.” Reply to Objection 3: Just as pleasure results from hope and memory of good things, so does sorrow arise from the prospect or the recollection of evil things; though not so keenly as when they are present to the senses. Hence the signs of evil move us to pity, in so far as they represent as present, the evil that excites our pity. Whether the reason for taking pity is a defect in the person who pities?Objection 1: It would seem that the reason for taking pity is not a defect in the person who takes pity. For it is proper to God to be merciful, wherefore it is written (Ps. 144:9): “His tender mercies are over all His works.” But there is no defect in God. Therefore a defect cannot be the reason for taking pity. Objection 2: Further, if a defect is the reason for taking pity, those in whom there is most defect, must needs take most pity. But this is false: for the Philosopher says (Rhet. ii, 8) that “those who are in a desperate state are pitiless.” Therefore it seems that the reason for taking pity is not a defect in the person who pities. Objection 3: Further, to be treated with contempt is to be defective. But the Philosopher says (Rhet. ii, 8) that “those who are disposed to contumely are pitiless.” Therefore the reason for taking pity, is not a defect in the person who pities.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  38. He saith unto them, How many loaves have ye? go and see. And when they knew, they say, Five, and two fishes. 39. And he commanded them to make all sit down by companies upon the green grass. 40. And they sat down in ranks, by hundreds, and by fifties. 41. And when he had taken the five loaves and the two fishes, he looked up to heaven, and blessed, and brake the loaves, and gave them to his disciples to set before them; and the two fishes divided he among them all. 42. And they did all eat, and were filled. 43. And they took up twelve baskets full of the fragments, and of the fishes. 44. And they that did eat of the loaves were about five thousand men. THEOPHYLACT. The Lord, placing before them, first, what is most profitable, that is, the food of the word of God, afterwards also gave the multitude food for their bodies; in beginning to relate which, the Evangelist says, And when the day was now far spent, his disciples came unto him, and said, This is a desert place. BEDE. (ubi sup.) The time being far spent, points out that it was evening. Wherefore Luke says, But the day had begun to decline. THEOPHYLACT. See now, how those who are disciples of Christ grow in love to man, for they pity the multitudes, and come to Christ to intercede for them. But the Lord tried them, to see whether they would know that His power was great enough to feed them. Wherefore it goes on, He answered, and said unto them, Give ye them to eat. BEDE. (ubi sup.) By these words He calls on His Apostles, to break bread for the people, that they might be able to testify that they had no bread, and thus the greatness of the miracle might become more known. THEOPHYLACT. But the disciples thought that He did not know what was necessary for the feeding of so large a multitude, for their answer shews that they were troubled. For it goes on, And they said unto him, Let us go and buy two hundred pennyworth, of bread, and give them to eat.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  That same morning Willie recommended to me a pension kept by a Mrs. Gregory, an Englishwoman, the wife of an old Baptist clergyman, who would take good care of me for four dollars a week. Immediately I went with him to see her and was delighted to find that she lived only about a hundred yards from Mrs. Mayhew on the opposite side of the street. Mrs. Gregory was a large, motherly woman evidently a lady, who had founded this boardinghouse to provide for a rather feckless husband and two children, a big pretty girl, Kate and a lad, a couple of years younger. Mrs. Gregory was delighted with my English accent, I believe, and showed me special favor at once by giving me a large outside room with its own entrance and steps into the garden. In an hour I had paid my bill at the Eldridge House and had moved in: I showed a shred of prudence by making Willie promise Mrs. Gregory that he would turn up each Saturday with the five dollars for my board; the dollar extra was for the big room. In due course I shall tell how he kept his promise and discharged his debt to me. For the moment everything was easily, happily settled. I went out and ordered a decent suit of ordinary tweeds and dressed myself up in my best blue suit to call upon Mrs. Mayhew after lunch. The clock crawled but on the stroke of three, I was at her door: a colored maid admitted me. “Mrs. Mayhew”, she said in her pretty singing voice, “will be down right soon: I’ll go call Miss Lily.” In five minutes Miss Lily appeared, a dark slip of a girl with shining black hair, wide laughing mouth, temperamental thick red lips and grey eyes fringed with black lashes: she had hardly time to speak to me when Mrs. Mayhew came in: “I hope you two’ll be great friends”, she said prettily; “you’re both about the same age” she added. In a few minutes Miss Lily was playing a waltz on the Steinway and with my arm round the slight, flexible waist of my inamorata I was trying to waltz. But alas! after a turn or two I became giddy and in spite of all my resolution had to admit that I should never be able to dance. “You have got very pale”, Mrs. Mayhew said, “you must sit down on the sofa a little while.” Slowly the giddiness left me: before I had entirely recovered Miss Lily with kindly words of sympathy had gone home and Mrs. Mayhew brought me in a cup of excellent coffee: I drank it down and was well at once.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  There were many american dishes I longed for too, but on the one or two occasions a year that I got to choose a meal, I would always ask for souse. That way, I knew that I would get to use my mother’s mortar, and this in itself was more treat for me than any of the forbidden foods. Besides, if I really wanted hot dogs or anything croquettes badly enough, I could steal some money from my father’s pocket and buy them in the school lunch[room]. “Mother, let’s have souse,” I’d say, and never even stop to think about it. The anticipated taste of the soft spicy meat had become inseparable in my mind from the tactile pleasures of using my mother’s mortar. “But what makes you think anybody can find time to mash up all that stuff?” my mother would cut her hawk-grey eyes at me from beneath their heavy black brows. “Among you children never stop to think, you know,” and she’d turn back to whatever it was she had been doing. If she had just come from the office with my father, she might be checking the day’s receipts, or she might be washing the endless piles of dirty linen that always seemed to issue from the rooming houses they managed. “Oh, I’ll pound the garlic, Mommy!” would be my next line in the script written by some ancient and secret hand, and off I’d go to the cabinet to get down the heavy wooden mortar and pestle. I would get a head of garlic out from the garlic bottle in the icebox, and breaking off ten or twelve cloves from the head, I would carefully peel away the tissue lavender skin, slicing each stripped peg in half lengthwise. Then I would drop them piece by piece into the capacious waiting bowl of the mortar. Taking a slice from a small onion, I would put the rest aside, to be used later on over the meat, and cutting the slice into quarters, I would toss it into the mortar also. Next came the coarsely ground fresh black pepper, and then a lavish blanketing cover of salt over the whole. Last, if we had any, a few leaves from the top of a head of celery would be thrown in. My mother would sometimes add a slice of green pepper to be mashed in also, but I did not like the textures of the pepper skin under the pestle, and preferred to add it along with the sliced onion later on, leaving it all to sit over the seasoned and resting meat.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Dying or not, Dad was all about looking “spiffy,” after all. When I was growing up, he spent more time in the bathroom than I did! He’d blow-dry his hair and set it perfectly with Vitalis for Men hair spray. I was more of an Aqua Net gal myself, and I definitely did not have the selftaught salon-quality skill he had somehow acquired. Dad was so good with hair that my mom and I nicknamed him “Kenzo,” and eventually trusted him with our own locks. When we needed a color touch- up, he’d head to CVS to get the classiest color he could find. For me, it was “Sahara” blonde. One of the last things Dad did before he died was touch-up Mom’s hair. He didn’t want to leave without spiffing her up one last time. He needed everything to be in order—including her roots. His way of giving us everything he possibly could. But with so little time left, I couldn’t understand why he cared about blackheads. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what Dad was teaching me. I didn’t want to eat, shower, or see anyone. Self-care had officially left the building. During my lowest, most depressing moments, I’d find myself thinking, What’s the point? If we’re all going to die, what difference does all this self-care make? I clearly need to find a new profession. Enter the Bioré strips. Within a few weeks, Dad would be cremated. Yet here he was, caring for his pores and himself. Not because he wanted to look good for anyone else but because he wanted to look and feel good for himself. It made me think of those Tibetan sand mandalas. A team of Buddhist monks tirelessly work building colorful geometric sand designs in intricate detail. The mandalas represent many things, including our journey from ignorance to enlightenment. Once the mandala is done, and the ceremonies and public viewings are over, the monks destroy the beautiful work of art by sweeping it away—signifying that nothing lasts forever. In this way, our bodies are like mandalas, too. Beautiful. Intricate. Full of wisdom, and, despite their fragility, worthy of spiffing until our very last breath. DR. PORN AND HOSPICE Mom called and asked me if I could come over and give her a break. “I’d love to take a shower and actually find the time to blow-dry my hair. Can you take care of Dad?” It never ceased to amaze me how little it took for her to recharge and “feel like a new woman.” Once I got there, Dad and I picked up where we left off in our game of gin rummy. We usually only got a few turns in before he nodded off.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of any of these grief faux pas, you know how easy it is to think of these folks as unempathetic space aliens, but research actually shows quite the opposite. Observing someone else’s pain sends a signal to our own brains, activating the same neural networks responsible for experiencing those same feelings, firsthand. It’s as if the pain is somehow transferred, and when it hits our nervous systems, we instinctively freak out. And let’s be real, freaked-out folks have a tendency to do fucked-up things—it’s neurobiology, y’all! In the end, there are no magic words that can take the pain away from those who are grieving or flailing in crisis. And it’s not our job to do so—I can’t emphasize this enough. It’s not your job to make it better. It’s your job to bear witness, hold space for whatever feelings need to be expressed, and, above all, be loving. Love always knows what to do. COURAGEOUS ACKNOWLEDGMENT (FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO OFFER SUPPORT) As a person who has gone through grief in various forms, I’ve found courageous acknowledgment from the people around me, meaning addressing the elephant in the room, to be most helpful. Be willing to talk about what happened. Breathe and try to be good company to them (and to yourself). Can this be uncomfortable? Heck yes! Do it anyway. Remember, we’re building valuable skills here. Skills we desperately need in the school of life. What you say —or don’t say—carries a lot of weight. How you show up for those you love in times of need can strengthen your relationship or damage it. Here are a few helpful ways to share your condolences: “I am so sorry you’re going through this.” “I’m not sure what to say, but I’m here to listen.” “I don’t know how you feel, but I’m here to help in any way I can.” “I’m with you, and I love you.” “I’ll bet you could use some help right now. How about I . . . [fill in the blank—run errands, get you groceries, walk the dog]?” Hug them. Hold their hand. Tell them you love them. Validate their feelings, especially the raw, embarrassing ones. Don’t change the subject because you’re sweating. Stay in the muck. Talk about the person they lost. Ask if they had any special birthday or holiday traditions together. Share good memories, especially ones they may not even know about. If you didn’t know the person (or pet), you can say something like, “Though I didn’t know him, I can only imagine how wonderful he was because you are so wonderful.” Send a text or leave a message letting them know you’re thinking of them but that they don’t need to respond. And don’t take it personally if they don’t. Take cues from them. If they don’t want to talk, don’t push. If they drop off the map, go find them.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  Next morning I awoke rested but very weak: the Doctor came in and sponged me in warm water and changed my linen: my nightshirt and a great part of the sheet were quite brown. “Can you make water?” he asked, handing me a bed-dish: I tried and at once succeeded. “The wonder is complete!!” he cried, “I’ll bet, you have cured your lumbago too”, and indeed I was completely free of pain. That evening or the next my father and I had a great, heart-to-heart talk. I told him all my ambitions and he tried to persuade me to take one hundred pounds a year from him to continue my studies. I told him I couldn’t, though I was just as grateful. “I’ll get work as soon as I am strong”, I said; but his unselfish affection shook my very soul and when he told me that my sister, too, had agreed he should make me the allowance, I could only shake my head and thank him. That evening I went to bed early and he came and sat with me: he said that the doctor advised that I should take a long rest. Strange colored lights kept sweeping across my sight every time I shut my eyes: so I asked him to lie beside me and hold my hand. At once he lay down beside me and with his hand in mine, I soon fell asleep and slept like a log till seven next morning. I awoke perfectly well and refreshed and was shocked to see that my father’s face was strangely drawn and white and when he tried to get off the bed, he nearly fell. I saw then that he had lain all the night through on the brass edge of the bed rather than risk disturbing me to give him more room. From that time to the end of his noble and unselfish life, some twenty-five years later, I had only praise and admiration for him.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  She thanked me and a day or two later came to me in the class-room with another puzzle and so our acquaintance ripened. Almost at once she let me kiss her; but as soon as I tried to put my hand up her clothes, she stopped me. We were friends for nearly a year, close friends, and I remember trying all I knew one Saturday when I spent the whole day with her in our class-room, till dusk came and I could not get her to yield. The curious thing was I could not even soothe the smart to my vanity with the belief that she was physically cold: on the contrary she was very passionate; but she had simply made up her mind and would not change. That Saturday in the class-room she told me if she yielded she would hate me: I could see no sense in this, even though I was to find out later what a terrible weapon the Confessional is as used by Irish Catholic Priests. To commit a sin is easy; to confess it to your priest is for many women an absolute deterrent. A few days later, I think, I got a letter from Smith that determined me to go to Philadelphia as soon as my hoardings provided me with sufficient money. I wrote and told him I’d come and cheered him up: I had not long to wait. Early that fall Bradlaugh came to lecture in Liberty Hall on the French Revolution—a giant of a man with a great head, rough-hewn, irregular features and stentorian voice: no better figure of a rebel could be imagined. I knew he had been an English private soldier for a dozen years; but I soon found that in spite of his passionate revolt against the Christian religion and all its cheap moralistic conventions, he was a convinced individualist and saw nothing wrong in the despotism of Money which had already established itself in Britain, though condemned by Carlyle at the end of his “French Revolution” as the vilest of all tyrannies. Bradlaugh’s speech taught me that a notorious and popular man, earnest and gifted, too, and intellectually honest might be fifty years before his time in one respect and fifty years behind the best opinion of the age in another province of thought. In the great conflict of our day between the “Haves” and the “Have-nots”, Bradlaugh played no part whatever: he wasted his great powers in a vain attack on the rotten branches of the Christian tree, while he should have assimilated the spirit of Jesus and used it to gild his loyalty to truth. About this time Kate wrote that she would not be back for some weeks: she declared she was feeling another woman; I felt tempted to write, “So am I, stay as long as you please”; but instead I wrote an affectionate, tempting letter; for I had a real affection for her, I discovered.

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  As he dressed, I could see he had beautiful clothes, and that intimidated me, too. He invited me to come to his apartment for a cup of tea. It was already dark out. A cold wind was blowing steadily, sifting snow. The afternoon had been warm enough to melt the snow on the sidewalk, but now it had frozen white as milk glass. I felt a small secret pride in being with someone so handsome. His carefully combed hair froze stiff. His salient cheekbones shone and caught the passing lights. The intimacy between us seemed as sudden and transitionless as in a dream. When we reached a dark side street, he put my mittenless hand in his pocket and held it without saying anything. His apartment was big and underfurnished, as though a flood had scattered the contents of a single room over several. He sat me on a straight-back chair stranded in the middle of a carpetless wood floor, but when he stepped back and saw me marooned there he laughed and invited me into his bedroom. His name, he said, was Fred. His window cast a yellow trapezoid on the pure blue snow outside. The wind had traced in snow the black bark of the tree below. A soft tango was playing on the radio. He switched off the light. The snow looked fluffier, almost as though it had risen slightly.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  5The quiet, bearded gentleman with a stoop, old-fashioned Mr. Cummings, who taught me, in 1907 or 1908, to draw, had been my mother’s drawing master also. He had come to Russia in the early nineties as foreign correspondent and illustrator for the London Graphic. Marital misfortunes were rumored to obscure his life. A melancholy sweetness of manner made up for the meagerness of his talent. He wore an ulster unless the weather was very mild, when he would switch to the kind of greenish-brown woolen cloak called a loden. I was captivated by his use of the special eraser he kept in his waistcoat pocket, by the manner in which he held the page taut, and afterwards flicked off, with the back of his fingers, the “gutticles of the percha” (as he said). Silently, sadly, he illustrated for me the marble laws of perspective: long, straight strokes of his elegantly held, incredibly sharp pencil caused the lines of the room he created out of nothing (abstract walls, receding ceiling and floor) to come together in one remote hypothetical point with tantalizing and sterile accuracy. Tantalizing, because it made me think of railway tracks, symmetrically and trickily converging before the bloodshot eyes of my favorite mask, a grimy engine driver; sterile, because that room remained unfurnished and quite empty, being devoid even of the neutral statues one finds in the uninteresting first hall of a museum. The rest of the picture gallery made up for its gaunt vestibule. Mr. Cummings was a master of the sunset. His little watercolors, purchased at different times for five or ten roubles apiece by members of our household, led a somewhat precarious existence, shifting, as they did, to more and more obscure nooks and finally getting completely eclipsed by some sleek porcelain beast or a newly framed photograph. After I had learned not only to draw cubes and cones but to shade properly with smooth, merging slants such parts of them as had to be made to turn away forever, the kind old gentleman contented himself with painting under my enchanted gaze his own wet little paradises, variations of one landscape: a summer evening with an orange sky, a pasture ending in the black fringe of a distant forest, and a luminous river, repeating the sky and winding away and away. Later on, from around 1910 to 1912, the well-known “impressionist” (a term of the period) Yaremich took over; a humorless and formless person, he advocated a “bold” style, blotches of dull color, smears of sepia and olive-brown, by means of which I had to reproduce on huge sheets of gray paper, humanoid shapes that we modeled of plasticine and placed in “dramatic” positions against a backcloth of velvet with all kinds of folds and shadow effects. It was a depressing combination of at least three different arts, all approximative, and finally I rebelled.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  First stop: his birthday celebration in Martha’s Vineyard. This idyllic little island off the coast of Massachusetts is known for its quaint harbor towns, sandy beaches, postcard-worthy lighthouses, and lush farmland. My perfectionist was pleased. For years, Dad had casually talked about visiting the island, and we all thought that sounded lovely, but we’d never gotten around to it. Now, all our rain checks were being cashed in, all at once. We arrived a few days early to take in the sights. Mom and I wandered among the charming shops, while Dad and Brian sat outside on nearby benches, reading the local paper and shooting the breeze. We drank delicious afternoon coffees and early-evening cocktails. Roamed the wild coastline and collected shells on our walks to remember our visit. At times, it felt as if we were being given a reprieve from our worries. From being full-time patients and caregivers, to just being a normal family again. For a brief moment I even allowed myself to believe that the Vineyard might possess special powers, like a Bermuda Triangle of sorts. But instead of planes disappearing in the vortex, it made tumors vanish. Unfortunately, later that night, as Dad and I sat on the deck outside the rental house sipping our gin and tonics and watching as the sky turn orange-pink, cancer once again infiltrated. And when it did, I could feel the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. “What’s on your mind, Dad?” I gently asked. “I’m setting goals to help me hang on as long as I can,” he responded. “A small Super Bowl party with my friends this winter, a new car for Mom, great little trips like this with you guys. But I don’t know how many goals to make. I’m just not ready to go yet.” Tears gathered in his sunken eyes. Change the subject. Lighten the mood. Be reassuring. I quickly searched for what to say or do to help him feel even the slightest bit better. My mind flashed to all the times he’d comforted me. He always had the right words at the right time. “I’m not ready for you to go yet, either, Dad, and I’m so sorry we can’t fix what we desperately want to fix. This really sucks,” I said, reaching for his hand. “But let’s make life a little easier where we can. . . . How are your symptoms today?” I was referring to the little hemorrhoidal bastards that had flared during our trip. His gut was ravaged by treatments, and while I was helpless against his mortality, hemorrhoids gave me something to do. “Well, they suck, too,” he replied with a hint of laughter. “That I can fix, Dad! I’m heading to CVS to get a sitz bath and some Epsom salt. Let’s at least get you some relief downtown,” I said with a wink. “I love that I can talk about anything with you, Kristin,” he said.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  We absorb vibes like little sponges. We’re impacted by feelings and moods (ours and other people’s). That’s why learning to care for and protect our energy is so valuable. When friends and family got overly emotional, Dad’s pain would increase. He’d be agitated and need more morphine when they left. I suspect it was because he took on their pain in addition to his own but was totally incapable of doing anything about it. Some folks understood when we’d asked them to be mindful of the energy they brought into the room; others didn’t (they weren’t allowed back). Dad’s coma-like state lasted five days. I sat with him and caught him up on “what was doin’,’’ just as I would when he could respond. “The next-door neighbors painted their house white; it looks really nice.” Or I’d just quietly work on a jigsaw puzzle, keeping him company. “Dad, I’m having a heck of a time finding this one piece,” I’d say. “It’s probably right in front of my eyes, but damn if I can see it.” Turns out I’d never find it. The puzzle would never be complete again, and neither would our family. At a certain point, those transitioning stop eating and drinking. I mean, I guess I knew that. I just assumed they’d be given intravenous food and fluids or something . But the only thing Dad’s body had energy to process was the completion of life. We moistened his dry throat with a small wet sponge on a lollipop stick and softened his chapped lips with olive oil. Day turned into night as Dad hung on, holding fast to life. The next morning, everything changed. His breath slowed to a raspy crawl. His moans grew fainter and fainter. His skin illuminated. My mom lit candles, and I played soft classical music. Together, we created a sanctuary for his passing. The dogs came in and out, curling up at the foot of the bed. Mom sat on one side of him, and I sat on the other. She held his heart, and I held his hand. Her breath deepened on the inhale and “whooshed” on the exhale, as if she were leading a holy meditation. My breath automatically followed. With each rise and fall, I could feel Dad relax. Instinctively, Mom knew to coach him with the sweetest encouragement. “You’re doing such a good job at this, my love. I am so proud of you.” “You can do this, my love. It’s going to be OK.” “We love you so much. And we’re going to really miss you. But you can go whenever you’re ready. We’re going to be OK.