The Vitruvian Conundrum

Life in the Balance

   I am up at night, lights off, only a bluish glow from the desktop computer, my dog asleep at my feet, my husband coughing in bed in the next room, trying to get his fever down with Ibuprofen. It’s late. The world beyond our windows has shifted on its axis, metaphorically speaking, at least once every three days. Sometimes toward horror, sometimes, relief, sometimes hope, sometimes generalized anxiety. And all without much time to process one historical moment before the next arrives. I’ve noticed my own mood rising and falling in the midst of it all. And I’ve noticed myself looking for a solid place in the middle. Not just a zone of even-keel, but also a zone somehow in the center. Picture Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man, his head, arms and legs touching the sides of the wheel into which he’s been drawn, forever bridging the space of balance. I know, aspirational.

And yet, it reminds me that if I contemplate the center point, I am able to reset myself throughout the day, rather than taking that wheel and rolling off into the underbrush. In the center is watering the roses, plucking off the dead blooms, and suspicious-looking spotted leaves. Also, walking downtown in the middle of the afternoon, doing errands, taking in the street musicians and small dogs (of which there is always an assortment). Noticing. Just today, I was walking toward a young couple on the sidewalk. She had her hands cupped in front of her chest. When I passed them, I saw a small, wild bird fly up from her cupped palms into the sky––a fledgling, I believe––and a look of awe on the woman’s face. What a minor event, brief and nearly hidden in the crowd of people going from one place to another on a summer day.

Then I went home to my husband and his fever, to the pile on my desk, to the paperwork and dishes and laundry. The news coming from the next room. I could feel the wheel wobbling a little.

I don’t know what it means to be human, what we’re here to do. I just know each day is its own kind of mountain. Sometimes steep, sometimes gentle. But every day requires something of us. Or, more accurately, at least a dozen things: to be there for a friend, a child, to get exercise, to turn in a paper on time, get a check-up. Perhaps all of the above. All while watching the tournament of the larger world on our imaged or actual screens. A high-stakes game. We can’t turn the world around by ourselves, as much as we might want to. We can only keep going up our own incline and hope that on the way we are able to be present and to help someone else along the path. To hope that maybe all the small things we do add up over time.

But taking another look at the Vitruvian man, I must admit he seems miserable! All that holding the center must be exhausting! He looks like he’d much rather be doing anything other than stand naked in the middle of a circle, his abundant mane falling to his tense shoulders.  Oh––better sometimes to feel the whole oceanic sway of the world than to try and stand apart from it. To feel the massive heft grief, the pull of hope. To be all the way here for the time we have, caught up in the story, but also taking a moment to look at it from a bird’s eye view.  A bird lifting off into the sky for the first time. What wonder, what awe, to look down at the view.

If you’re interested in learning more about my upcoming classes and events, check out www.danushalameris.com. Summer poetry school is almost in session! New online class starting August 4th.