After the Stroke by May Sarton Page A

many friends there was no one who could fill the hole at the center of my being—only myself could fill it by becoming whole again. It was loneliness in essence for the self. Now that I can work, taking up the healthy rhythm of the days, I am not at all lonely. It means not writing letters in the afternoon but going out-of-doors to the garden, and having a bath when I come in, dirty and somehow relieved, as though the chaos here in my study had fallen into place and it did not matter too much that so many people have been left unanswered.
    Yesterday I pulled out a lot of the nicotiana and the big opium poppies—which have sown themselves here every summer—so the garden, which was being smothered, has some neat borders of flowers again. Imagine waiting for annuals till late August!
    It is, I realized suddenly, my eye that suffers from disorder and lack of form, so giving the garden some form again was deeply satisfying whereas the untidy drawers and cupboards do not really bother me, because they do not disturb the eye, and only occasionally the back of my mind.
    When I was ill I resented that I had some years ago called old age an “ascension” in an essay which appeared on the Op Ed page in the Times. It did seem too ironic for words, but I believe there is some truth in it as I go back to it now. The ascension is possible when all that has to be given up can be gladly given up—because other things have become more important. I panted halfway up the stairs, but I also was able to sit and watch light change in the porch for an hour and be truly attentive to it, not plagued by what I “ought” to be doing.
    But the body is part of our identity, and its afflictions and discontents, its donkey-like refusal to do what “ought” to be done, destroys self-respect. The wrinkles that write a lifetime into a face like a letter to the young are dismaying when one looks into a mirror. But this is the test, isn’t it? How contemptuous I have been of women who try to look younger than they are! How beautiful an old face has been to me! So if I mind the wrinkles now it is because I have failed to ascend inside to what is happening inside —and that is a great adventure and challenge, perhaps the greatest in a lifetime—not sparing the rich or the famous, a part of accepting the human condition. At least, being well, I may be able to do better at it now than even a month ago.

Saturday, August 23
    Yesterday a rather “too much” day. Anne Tremearne came late to photograph me because of the awful traffic, and I was nervous and on edge when she got here with a box of strawberries and lovely thin beans from her garden.
    I need a publicity photo badly so I hope she did well with my old face.
    I took her out to lunch and on the way she noted a wild tall purple orchid by the roadside—Anne notices everything—later a large white egret in the salt marsh. I have only seen small ones.
    After lunch she took me to the post office and the IGA. When I got home I found there was a slip saying an Express Mail was at the post office, so I started out early to pick it up before meeting Marilyn Mumford from Bucknell University and Karen Elias from upstate New York. I had a bottle of champagne for them in the fridge. It was a celebration of their meeting and becoming friends, partly through their both knowing me. I was one of Karen’s adjuncts when she got her Ph.D. from Union College, and Marilyn I feel is an old friend too, since Bucknell gave me— and Carol Heilbrun—honorary degrees two years ago.
    The express was not a letter but Eda’s new book, Oh, To Be 50 Again! , which I opened to the dedication page and discovered that she has dedicated it to me and another friend. I am touched.
    Karen, Marilyn and I had a splendid talk about everything under the sun. But after dinner at Dockside it was around nine and I felt awfully tired.
    It is better not to have two social