Dear friends,
You will know, of course — how could you not? — that today, Emily Dickinson is celebrating her 193rd birthday. She was born on December 10th, 1830, and lived most of her life in Amherst, Massachusetts, in the northeast corner of the USA. She travelled a little — to a school for a while, occasional visits, never very far — but spent much of her time in her own town. In fact, not just in her own town; she spent a lot of her time in her room in her house in her own town. She was focused. 1775 poems, give or take.
She published very little during her life, but not because of a lack of literary awareness, or because of a lack of connections. She maintained a long standing correspondence with Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911), a writer, Unitarian minister, abolitionist, soldier, and politician.
He was somewhat of a mentor to Emily Dickinson, although I never quite believe the word mentor is the right word. Emily wrote to him after she’d read his article “Letter to a Young Contributor” in The Atlantic Monthly in 1862. In her first letter, she asked, "Are you too deeply occupied to say if my Verse is alive?" He wrote back, with some suggestions — “surgery” — and questions, and then Emily Dickinson replied with this letter:
25 April 1862
Mr Higginson,Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude — but I was ill — and write today, from my pillow.
Thank you for the surgery — it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others — as you ask — though they might not differ —
While my thought is undressed — I can make the distinction, but when I put them in the Gown — they look alike, and numb.
You asked how old I was? I made no verse — but one or two — until this winter — Sir —
I had a terror — since September — I could tell to none — and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground — because I am afraid — You inquire my Books — For Poets — I have Keats — and Mr and Mrs Browning. For Prose — Mr. Ruskin — Sir Thomas Browne — and the Revelations. I went to school — but in your manner of the phrase — had no education. When a little Girl, I had a friend, who taught me Im-mortality — but venturing too near, himself — he never returned — Soon after, my Tutor, died — and for several years, my Lexicon — was my only companion — Then I found one more — but he was not contented I be his scholar — so he left the Land.
You ask of my Companions. Hills — Sir — and the Sundown — and a Dog — large as myself, that my Father bought me — They are better than Beings — because they know — but do not tell — and the noise in the Pool, at Noon — excels my Piano. I have a Brother and Sister — My Mother does not care for thought — and Father, too busy with his Briefs — to notice what we do — He buys me many Books — but begs me not to read them — because he fears they joggle the Mind. They are religious — except me — and address an Eclipse, every morning — whom they call their “Father.” But I fear my story fatigues you — I would like to learn — Could you tell me how to grow — or is it unconveyed — like Melody — or Witchcraft?
You speak of Mr Whitman — I never read his Book — but was told that he was disgraceful —
I read Miss Prescott’s “Circumstance,” but it followed me, in the Dark — so I avoided her —
Two Editors of Journals came to my Father’s House, this winter — and asked me for my Mind — and when I asked them “Why,” they said I was penurious — and they, would use it for the World —
I could not weigh myself — Myself —
My size felt small — to me — I read your Chapters in the Atlantic — and experienced honor for you — I was sure you would not reject a confiding question —
Is this — Sir — what you asked me to tell you?
Your friend,
E — Dickinson.
Eight years after these initial correspondences, Emily Dickinson and Thomas Higginson met. He wrote a series of letters home during his short stay, including this memorable experience of what it was like to be with Emily:
“I never was with any one who drained my nerve power so much. Without touching her, she drew from me. I am glad not to live near her. She often thought me tired & seemed very thoughtful of others.”
(You can find his full letter here.)
Most years, as Emily Dickinson’s birthday approaches, I read some of her poems, and some of her letters. The singular approach she had in language, the mix of curiosity and independence, the particularity of her own syntax, and the world she inhabited: her dog, the hills, the family, the house, the books, the reading, her own thoughts.
I’m curious: what line, or language, from her letter stays with you? And why?
For me, it’s, “I would like to learn — Could you tell me how to grow — or is it unconveyed — like Melody — or Witchcraft?” And why? Because. Because what? Because yes. I love the connection, and yet distance, she establishes between melody and witchcraft. But also, there’s the boy, the dog, that terror, and the burying ground.
Happy birthday, Emily. And hallo to you all,
P.S. If you’re interested in collections of her letters, the brilliant (and often very funny) people at the Emily Dickinson Museum have a bibliography here.
The Dickinson Electronic Archives contains many of her letters — including this one from above.
P.P.S. A few years ago, I did a poetry residency at the Church of the Heavenly Rest in New York City. A book of the prayers and essays I wrote during that time — Being Here — is being released in early 2024, and the preorders have opened. All proceeds go to good causes, and — like a bad cause myself — I’ve forgotten which cause it is. But it’s a good one. And I’ll find out and let you know.
- Could you tell me how to grow -
Is this not applicable to everyone?
Even if only asking this lifelong question to ourselves?
My life partner passed to the beyond but a week or so ago and this question plays in my head, my heart, my waking -
Is this not a good time to grow? Am I listening, opening, wondering, living into every moment come heaven or hell, drinking in the waters of loss and beyond?
Prayer 🙏🏼 is in the asking and the listening, the continual opening and releasing as this very breath
"I had a terror — since September — I could tell to none — and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground — because I am afraid "
Why? Hmm... the words - "terror" "Burying Ground" "afraid" ... The past two months, like many, I have been bearing witness - through a screen - to the continuing horrors and humanitarian catastrophe in Gaza, one I struggle to find words to accurately describe - and in the midst of it, I was so moved to see a group of Palestinian journalists singing. These were men, once boys, sheltered in Nasser hospital, while heavy shelling was happening around them. I was moved to see them singing, and in the video clip, I recognized one of the journalists, Wael Al-Dahdouh, the bureau chief of Al-Jazeera in Gaza City, whose wife and children were killed by Israeli airstrikes while he was reporting the news, whose grief was televised, whose face I recognized well from seeing it soaked with tears ... thinking at the time how there was something very soft and sweet in his face... and thinking of the courage it must take to show up and continue to report the news.. and then to see this image of him, with a group of other men, singing... not knowing if any moment would be their last... this line of Emily Dickinson's struck me. It reminded me, also, of Bertolt Brecht's line, "In the dark times / Will there also be singing? / Yes, there will also be singing. / About the dark times.” And it made me think too of how when I am really stuck, emotionally stuck, if I have the wherewithal to get myself to turn on some music, and sing along, however poorly it may sound, or to chant... how it does something. There is a transformation. It moves things.
I was struck by Burying Ground being capitalized, and seeing it that way made me feel as if this Burying Ground is something we all share, which of course it is. But in grief, I think we often forget this. It's not "my" burying ground. It is all of ours.
I too was very much struck with the Melody and Witchcraft line, Pádraig, and that will stay with me too. Thank you for sharing this remarkable letter and the invitation to connect in.
** just an addendum, as of 15th December, if anyone reads this - the journalist I wrote about here, Wael Al-Dahdouh, along with his colleague, Samer Abu Daqqa, were injured as a result of Israeli airstrikes in the vicinity of Farhana Girls School in Khan Younis in the South of Gaza Strip. Wael Al-Dahdough is being treated for injuries to his arm and should be "okay." Samer Abu Daqqa, fellow journalist and cameraperson for Al-Jazeera, was not so "fortunate." It appears that continuous Israeli shelling for over 5 hours and rubble in the road prevented a rescue team from getting to Samer in time and when he was finally reached, he had bled to death. May he rest in peace.
The world so desperately needs to sing a song right now. Who knows the lyrics?