I try to collect my thoughts from among those of great thinkers. In my mind they linger like monsters and gods, Titans and Olympians that battle for an earthly domination. In my room they are represented as books; the words on pages bound up neatly into glossy paperback volumes newly bought from the bookstore, or old yellow pages falling out of well-cracked spines. None of the books has precedence over another, except for that one which lies on top of the other, the mere result of chance, a capricious browsing and restacking. Some, however, do remain close at hand and they are testaments of the dialogue I’m learning.
There is something about the inward turbulence and tumultuous cycle of ideas, which a student of the great books must inevitably undergo, that helps define my relation to mom’s illness. It is something infinitely beyond myself that doesn’t lend itself to an easy comprehension. And if it is comprehendible I know my mind cannot contain it; the instability of my own ideas and the tentativeness of the subject render it ungraspable. Yet, I do not suggest that nothing can be said until I understand pain or death, but rather, that this is not an easy issue, even if to say so is no novelty.
As far as I can tell, we have been presented with two problems: a biological and a theological. Each deserves consideration according to its nature. At the same time, I believe the latter to subsume the former and thus I do not think they can be properly separated. That being the case, there is singularly one method to deal with our problem. We must practice it daily, nightly, hourly, and with the most intense urgency. And perhaps, even comfort.
