In the past few days, I have had more than one attack of what I call my "German sorrow." This malady can be defined as not seeing the glass of life as being at least half full, not to mention half or more than half empty, but seeing it as having been crushed, reduced to a few moist shards scattered in a back alley. The sorrow, which never lasts long, was deep but had nothing to do with depression, since I was feeling so sorry for them. Only by extension did I feel sorry for myself, as having to live in a world where such bad things happen. The German attack was brought about by learning of the deaths of three talented young people.
1.
Yesterday a young man named Lee Thompson Young, 29 years old, died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He had been a Disney child star; since growing up, had become a successful actor. He did not show up for filming of an episode of a TNT series in which he was the co-star; subsequently he was found dead in his home. (I admit to being far removed from fans of Disney and of TNT; I had never heard of him.) This man was young, successful, talented, rich and popular--What could have have made him end what many would consider to be a very enviable life? I felt immensely sorry for him.
Just a few days before, I read about the ravishingly beautiful Gia Allemand also 29, who hanged herself on August 14, 2013, She was an actress, model, and reality show contestant, who had just signed a contract to star in a new TV series. What had she been thinking? Whatever it was, she won't be thinking that or anything else ever again. How very sad!
The third death, which occurred today, was even worse. Chris Lane, a 22-year-old from Australia, was attending East Oklahoma University. He had received a full baseball scholarship. He was jogging when a group of three teens approached from behind. One of them shot him in the back; the murderer was fifteen years old. He didn't know Mr. Lane; there had been no attempt to rob him. Why did he do it, he was asked. For the fun of it, he replied. For the fun of it.
I wish I had a second life as a guardian angel--maybe some day I will. If I were one, I would go back a few weeks in time. I would sit Mr. Lee and Ms. Allemand in a room and lock the door. You are not allowed to leave, I would tell them, until you give me assurance that you choose to live. I would begin by telling them the true story of a man whose wife and only child died in a car accident. He wanted to die; he couldn't imagine living without them. Somehow he got through the terrible first year after their deaths. Five years later, to his utter surprise, he found himself remarried with two stepchildren he adored. Nothing would ever replace those he lost, but life was very much worth living again. People in despair imagine that the despair will last forever--it is such an overwhelming feeling. But nothing lasts forever, not even sorrow. If you die after a midnight's flash of despair, I would tell them, there will be no sunrise for you ever again. No second chances--think about that! I would wait until the crises passed, perhaps hours, perhaps a month. (Guardian angels are very patient.) If that didn't work, I would transport them to a psychiatric facility (mythical creatures can do that) where they would get the treatment they need. Chances are they would eventually live lives felt to be well worth living, despite the occasional downs, and because of the wonderful ups.
In the last case, I would become the guardian angel of the murderer, before he became a murderer. . (All guardian angels are completely convinced that the Zen Buddhists are right: deep down--in this case very deep down--there is a pearl of perfection in all of us.) I would see to it that he be removed from society for as long as it takes for him to learn how to be human. I would see to it that he gets the help he so desperately needs.
This is of course pure fantasy; I am not a guardian angel, help is not so readily available, and all three are still dead...
3.
What am I doing? Why am I grieving over people I don't even know? Why am I choosing to do that instead of celebrating happy lives around me? Is it the vanity of inner sorrow seeking corroboration in outer sorrow? I better watch it--I am, after all, a member of the most self-destructive group by far in the United States-aging white males. We are bumping ourselves off in unprecedented numbers! (The suicide rate of elderly females remains roughly constant at about 5 per 100,000--65 year old males have a rate five times higher, and at eighty-five, have a rate twenty times higher.)
At present, I have as much penchant for self-destruction as I do for sky diving, but "don't worry, be happy" is always the best policy, so I decided to cheer myself up. I meditated, then played a Scott Joplin rag on the piano. It is impossible to feel sad while playing Scott Joplin. Then a knock came at the door; my wife had returned from work. While I opened the door, I thought of the Heine poem which contains the line about German sorrow and how to get over it. (He had been exiled from Germany and was living in France) These are the lines:
Es kommt mein Weib, schoen wie der Morgen,
Und laechelt fort die deutschen Sorgen...
Then she arrived, fresh as the morrow,
And smiled away my German sorrow...
We had a nice dinner and a lively conversation. I told her about my German sorrow. We decided to remove it by crossing the Rhine into Maurice Chevalier territory. We decided to think of three happy people instead of those three tragedies. My wife's grandniece, a wonderful child, started kindergarten today. Wow! My wife's nephew--to whom I am also close--recently got a great job as an editor in Indonesia. Wow! Wow! Then we thought of our gentle, hard-working son. Wow! Wow! Wow!
4.
Late that night, however, the ow ow ows came back. (They are part of life, after all.) Nirmala was asleep. I went down and very softly played a melancholy Michel Legrand tune on the piano, the tragic love theme from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. I quietly sang the following to myself during one of the A minor variations:
They are gone forever--What a tragedy!
Far too many weapons--what a malady!
Yes, we could have helped them--why such
misery?
Yet are we our brother's keepers?
(E major seven cord, then a pause, after
which I emphatically whisper, a cappella:
You bet!)
low A.
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