If you go back to its roots, a periphery is literally something that is "carried around." Back in the 16th century (or the 14th, depending on your source), the word referred to the atmosphere around the earth. I'd love to know what, in those long-ago days, people really meant by atmosphere. Maybe they had something like the Belt of Venus in mind: the pink glow carried around the horizon at dusk and dawn, at the point where light and dark merge—something visible and radiant with the vast unknown beyond it.
"Periphery" has long since lost that atmospheric shade of meaning, and even its literal one. These days its primary definition is simpler: the outer limit or margin of something. It's a neutral word, describing plain facts. Take the fine hairs on Sempervivum leaves, for example. They grow on the leaves' peripheries, on their margins or outer edges. That is a simple truth, and periphery sums up those little hairs' place in the world without question.
Something beautiful gets lost in the summation, though. Even in the softness of shade, those delicate whiskers carry light around the periphery of the leaves and bring an atmosphere shining to life. The edges are where light gathers and plays. The periphery isn't a neutral place—it's where the magic happens.
Still, better a neutral meaning than a negative one. The other definitions of periphery aren't so pleasant. They're about relative position and status: inside vs. outside; center vs. edge. To be on the periphery is to be marginal, secondary, in a lesser or unimportant position. It's to be like the second of the hens-and-chicks in the photo above—on the edge of your awareness, fuzzed out of focus. Not central to anything, even though you might notice if it weren't there. Just...not mattering all that much.
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| Is anything as fascinating as the periphery of a tulip leaf? At least, until the tulips bloom. Then the leaves become...peripheral. |
I've been a little thoughtful about peripheries lately, a little pensive. I've missed some activities that kind of broke my heart not to be a part of—an impromptu cello performance by my oldest nephew, some dear friends' son's bar mitzvah—because, even though I'm doing better than I have in years, I'm not well enough to participate fully. CFIDS/ME really puts you on the periphery of your own life, because being in the thick of things is too disabling. You make it work for you: you find other avenues for life, like blogging and Facebook, and reveling in the small wonders in a small garden. Over time, you kind of forget what "normal" life is like. But then you have a sudden reminder of the everyday pleasures other people enjoy unthinkingly and realize how far out on the periphery you are. You are a bit like Gomer Goldfish:
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| Except that I'm never that grumpy. Obviously. |
This really isn't a down-hearted or complaining post: I know full well that being peripheral to activities does not make me peripheral in the hearts of those who love me. There are so many things that I can do. The things I miss out on do not diminish the value (or my enjoyment) of the "less important" things that come my way. And I really like my sofa; you could not find a more comfortable sofa to lie on. For hours on end.
It is, however, a thoughtful post. I've found myself wandering around the garden (in a non-strenuous way) looking at leaf edges, at boundaries and margins and outer limits, and wondering about them. What does it mean to be on the periphery? And if it means something unpleasant, what can I do to change it? I can't change illness (so far). It has set the limits. So instead, what can I do to change the periphery? To make it, not a place that's out of focus or on the edge of awareness, or even a place of neutral fact, but a place where light gathers and plays, a place that carries its own radiance around with it and has, maybe, just a bit of a pink glow?*
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| On the periphery between shade and sun. |
How can the periphery be a place where magic happens?
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* Except that I'm not really all that fond of pink.
The most beautiful music in the world contains a delicate balance of lovely melody and stressful dissonance. It seems, Stacy, that you are caught in this balance, to the extent that your dissonance compels you to find loveliness in places many of us wouldn't even think to look. It's a blessing and a curse, but to me it is just a blessing that I am able to see these things for just a moment as you do.
ReplyDeleteTony, thank you for those beautiful words. You've really touched me to the core. Thank you.
DeleteTony you said it so eloquently.
DeleteYours posts are magical, Stacy. They brighten up my day, enlighten my mind, and warm my heart. I am sorry that you have missed some experiences due to your illness. It must be very hard. I imagine your family and friends miss you much more than you realize. I am reminded of my false yucca. I initially bought it for its flower, but it's the little hairs on the stems that I look for, and bring me joy when I see.
ReplyDeleteHolley, thank you. I'm glad. It is hard to miss out on big (and small) events all the time--I'm really fortunate, though, to have a family that goes out of its way to make things do-able for me to the extent possible. They're really stellar that way! I'm going to have to look for little hairs on false yucca stems now (Hesperaloe?)--I didn't know there were any!
DeleteYour words weave the same kind of magic that the hairs on the periphery of those leaves do. You write so eloquently about what this wretched illness does to us. And you balance it with the fact that we can still matter, and have lives that contain beauty. Just perhaps on a rather smaller scale. As someone who has just missed yet another funeral,and who is about to miss a much loved nephew's dedication thanks to CFS, thank you for expressing some of the reality of this skewed version of life we have, and making it an uplifting rather than depressing post.
ReplyDeleteAh, Janet, thank you. I'm so glad you found this an uplifting post--I knew it would strike home for you one way or another more than anyone. One of the things I've always enjoyed about Plantaliscious is the way you live out your own words above so beautifully--making a life that's lovely and giving and enthusiastic, while facing the fact of illness honestly. I'm sorry you're missing out on (more) big, important events. Harrumph. If CFS were a person and standing right here, I'd blow a big raspberry in its face on your behalf.
DeleteFinding beauty in the ordinary is extraordinary in and of itself. Magic happens everywhere, especially if we pay close attention. And you do, Stacy. A beautiful post that makes it a joy to read and ponder.
ReplyDeleteMichelle, thank you so much--what a lovely gift your words are.
DeleteI don't have CFIDS but can relate in a small way, about fatigue and being relegated to the periphery. It's not easy, but it sounds to me like you are coping beautifully.
ReplyDeleteSweetbay, I'm sorry that even in a small way you have some experience of being on the periphery at times--it's a lonely place. And thank you--I think for the most part I am coping fairly well. Years of practice, no doubt... ;)
DeleteStacy I rely on the periphery for the magic to appear...it is those things that appear in my periphery, that I do not miss, that seem to be the extraordinary...much like you. If I did not pay attention to the extraordinary that appears there, life would be less interesting and beautiful. Because you linger there, I am more blessed as your words express views I seem to lose track of.... but they are there right on my periphery.
ReplyDeleteDonna, what a beautiful, poetic response--thank you. I find that I have different attitudes toward the periphery where people are concerned--I'm more likely to find that outer edge isolating and less a place of beauty. So it's wonderful to have friends who value it and are happy to make discoveries there, too.
DeleteBeautifully written, Stacy - and a jolt when I am reminded of your illness. I was enjoying your focus on such a tiny part of a small plant and berating myself for often struggling on what to post about (my workplace being so big in comparison). And so I forget that that Microcosmic emphasis is imposed on you (as incredible, beautiful and fascinating as it is) rather than your choice. If it is of any comfort, I've been ill and laid up on my sofa these past couple of weeks watching old movies (and new ones) and day time telly (yep, I was that bad!). I'm back at work now and was rather missing my day-time sofa. Thanks to this post I don't now and I realise how very lucky I am. Small comfort to you perhaps but thank you anyway. Dave
ReplyDeleteDave, I have the sneaking suspicion that if I had a more "normal" life, I would long since have run out of blogging ideas for my little garden and would have started an "Encounters with Cactus" kind of blog instead... I'm so sorry you've been ill! Here I was picturing you off tramping happily around the Dales, and instead you were reduced to daytime TV. Any time I can make you happy to be outside on cold, damp days, slogging through mud to the tops of your wellies, in drizzle and wind and fog, you just let me know. (She said, snuggling more deeply into her afghan.)
DeleteI'm wondering if someone recorded your nephew and his cello for you? Not the same as being there, but still.
ReplyDeleteFor your blog readers your posts bring that luminous golden glow you captured on the grass seedheads in your last picture. Not pink ;~)
Diana, my nephew is good at providing recordings of his playing every so often--I just haven't heard him play live since he was about 12, and now he's in his mid-20's and a professional! In addition to the pleasure of being present, it would be nice to have a visual image of him playing his cello and being taller than it...
DeleteAnd thank you so much--golden is much better!
That's really beautiful, Stacy and leaves me lost for words. It made me think about how I've firmly placed myself far out on the periphery for years due to societal stereotypes and prejudices and have only recently begun to feel more "normal" - if I can ever have an idea for what "normal" should feel like.
ReplyDeleteSunil, having to be on the periphery because of the intolerance of other humans is just incredibly sad. I'm so glad that's changing. As far as "normal" goes, it does seem as we get older that noone is normal--I suppose life histories bend and tweak us into idiosyncratic people for one reason or another.
DeleteStacy, When I was diagnosed with cancer 15 years ago, it jolted me out of the busy center of my life and forced me to pay attention to all the things I'd been ignoring on the periphery -- because they just weren't important enough to make a central focus. I hope this doesn't sound too Pollyanna-ish (I do have those tendencies :-|), but that experience taught me to slow down and pay attention to the small things on the periphery because that is where so much of the joy of living is. I find your writing imbued with that joy. -Jean
ReplyDeleteJean, I can barely imagine how a diagnosis like that must bring all parts of life into a different focus. I've actually always enjoyed the small things on the periphery, at least to an extent--probably the result of always being a slow-poke! The social part of the periphery is harder--I'm not naturally quite as reclusive as I'm forced to be. It means a lot to know that joy does come across in my writing. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that joy is a skill that can be practiced like anything else.
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