A Time for Prose

I read something noteworthy last night in the WWII-era travel memoir, Seven Years in Tibet – two starving,  frostbitten, coinless, and tired men take a look at the splendorous beauty of the Forbidden City of Lhasa, Tibet which has taken them 18 months of death defying ordeals and prison escapes to reach – a vision and height which no European before them had ever attained – and one says to the other, “After poetry, prose!”  That’s all he said.  And what he meant by that was, that’s beautiful – but so much for poetry, what can we eat and drink and where can we bathe and sleep – the prose of life.

When it comes down to it, the prose of life takes priority over “poetry “no matter how much, or for how long, we have waited to see the Forbidden City.  I can see an outline of the "Forbidden City" in my own writing these past months, and I know the trials it has taken to get this far – and how much further I have to go – but the prose of life is upon me as my college-age children arrive home for the summer.  Due to varying schedules, it will be a miracle to find a few quiet hours to myself.

Once finally admitted to the Forbidden City of Lhasa, the author and his comrade stayed for seven years – keeping journals, befriending the current Dalai Lama who was only a teenager at the time, and generally soaking up the atmosphere of Tibet. The author, Heinrich Harrer, returned to Austria as the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1950, and so wrote this memoir from his journal recollections.  But first he had to live it.  He wrote many other books, but none had the impact or success of the one he actually lived through.

When my children return to their respective lives next August 24th (or so), and the house is clean and quiet once again, and my own belly is full, and the body is exercised and rested – the conditions necessary to appreciate the beauty of the "Forbidden City" – that is when my mind can return to writing my book. In the meantime, I’ll keep the journal, pen some notes, and perhaps finish an occasional blog . . .

“The once-longed-for sight could not shake us out of our apathy. The climb through the rarified air had left us breathless, and the prospect of an ascent to nearly 20,000 feet was paralyzing.”   (Seven Years in Tibet)