Prompt 254. That Ethereal Gain

On magnolias in bloom & a poem by Emily Dickinson

Hi friend,

I got out of the hospital on Monday night, and in the days leading up to it, I kept making jokes that I was ready to escape the clinker. My room this time around didn’t have much of a view—just another building of steel and concrete, not a lot of sunlight. I didn’t have much with me; only a Frida tote with some clean clothes and toiletries and a few painting supplies. But what little I had was colorful, so I arranged it all into a little makeshift tableau by the window.

It helped—until Sunday morning at least, which is when I reached peak claustrophobia. I was in a fog. I hadn’t gotten out of bed in days. I was having weird dreams and hallucinations from being on so many pain meds, from lack of sleep then too much sleep. Time was collapsing the way it does when you’re in the hospital, and I just wanted out.

By then, I’d finished my IV antibiotic course, so the main obstacle to discharge was being weaned off the pain meds. Out of a sense of desperation, I decided to go cold turkey and stopped hitting the pain pump. When my medical team saw that I’d gone a day without it, they also took me off everything else, and by Monday evening, I was home.

It’s difficult to describe the deep sense of relief, the joy, the near-euphoria of homecoming—of sleeping in my own bed, feeling the familiar softness of my sheets and my favorite pillow perfectly cradling my neck. Or to be reunited with River, feeling the heft of her head on my chest. Or to use my espresso machine to make myself a latte each morning. (Oh, my espresso machine!) But it was a hard week. I felt so sluggish, so cognitively delayed, too exhausted to do basic things. I felt the bodily toll.

Then on Thursday, I woke up with a little more energy. It was about 6 am, and I went out to my terrace by myself, without my phone. I took my pruning shears, deadheaded all the blooms that needed to go, then watered all the plants, including two little magnolia trees that I’ve been nursing over the last year. Even though it’s unusually late in the season, they’ve burst into the most beautiful, wonderfully fragrant white blooms.

Back in March, when I was making my first fledgling efforts to rejoin the greater gathering, a community member named Arielle sent me Emily Dickinson’s poem 574; the first line is “My first well Day — since many ill —.” In it, the speaker recounts falling sick one spring, then spending many weeks in bed, wracked with pain, experiencing brushes with death. At the same time, she has visions of the natural world, first blossoming, then going to seed. When she reemerges and beholds the sun again, her perspective is different: “My loss, by sickness — Was it Loss? / Or that Ethereal Gain / One earns by measuring the Grave — / Then — measuring the Sun —.”

I thought of that poem while on my terrace, tending to my plants. After a week in a chemical haze, I felt so much joy sinking my fingers into soil, admiring those magnolia blossoms, cultivating something beautiful. There’s something deeply humbling about being brought to our knees. When you’re there low to the ground, you get to marvel at the miracle of small things.

With all this in mind, today I’m sharing Emily Dickinson’s poem 574 with you, and a prompt inspired by it. May it help you reframe your losses and shed light on those ethereal gains.

Sending love,

Suleika

Some Items of Note—

• Today, July 30, from 1-2 pm ET, we’re meeting at the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers. As I’m still recovering from this last hospitalization, Carmen will be taking over hosting duties—and will be meditating on two of my very favorite things in the world: the poet Mary Ruefle and friendship. Find everything you need to join us here!

• If you missed the week’s chorus of collective gratitude—one of my very favorite happenings of the week—you can follow and add your small joy here!

Raven Roxanne, Summer Bloom (2022)

Prompt 254. My First Well Day — Since Many Ill — by Emily Dickinson

My first well Day — since many ill —
I asked to go abroad,
And take the Sunshine in my hands,
And see the things in Pod —

A 'blossom just when I went in
To take my Chance with pain —
Uncertain if myself, or He,
Should prove the strongest One.

The Summer deepened, while we strove —
She put some flowers away —
And Redder cheeked Ones — in their stead —
A fond — illusive way —

To cheat Herself, it seemed she tried —
As if before a child
To fade — Tomorrow — Rainbows held
The Sepulchre, could hide.

She dealt a fashion to the Nut —
She tied the Hoods to Seeds —
She dropped bright scraps of Tint, about —
And left Brazilian Threads

On every shoulder that she met —
Then both her Hands of Haze
Put up — to hide her parting Grace
From our unfitted eyes.

My loss, by sickness — Was it Loss?
Or that Ethereal Gain
One earns by measuring the Grave —
Then — measuring the Sun —

Your prompt for the week:

Write about that ethereal gain—about something you came to appreciate in the aftermath of loss or upheaval.

If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.

Today’s Contributor—

Emily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830. As a poet, she was prolific, and she sent poems in letters to friends; however, during her lifetime her work was not publicly recognized. She died in 1886 and the first volume of her work was published in 1890; since then, she has never been out of print. She is considered one of the founders of a uniquely American poetic voice.

About the painter Raven Roxanne

Raven Roxanne was raised on the Florida Gulf Coast by a family of artists, studied painting at Auburn University, and now lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, her son, and their scrappy rescue pup Willie. She’s releasing a new collection of magnolia paintings in September; follow her on Instagram for more.

For more paid subscriber benefits see—

• Cultivating Seed Dreams, where I wrote about how I’m never more creatively inspired than when I’m in the hospital and ways to conjure that energy on the outside

• On Creative Surprise, an interview with the artist and writer Mari Andrew, where we talked about paying attention and seeing the magic in the mundane

• Marriage Vows & the Myth of a Good Catch, an installment of my advice column Dear Susu, where I answer the question, “Is it fair to ask someone to marry you if you’re broken?”