RilkeIt was a bit of miraculous synchronization, I think, that happened yesterday; the somewhat mystical kind that forces the eider down on the nape of the neck freeze then stand at a very tall attention while a wonderful shiver radiates down the spine. Pecking through pictures and finding that scrap of paper with the Rilke translation on it seemed so unspecial in its usualness - a gardener might not be able to tell which seeds are which, and it is a thrill to plant one (just yesterday!) only to see it sprout in perfect timing alongside some completely related event. I feel like the little mystery-seed yesterday is now a full grown Christmas tree, and though it might have known why it was being planted and when, I was not at all aware of its meaning. In a way: "I know what I have to do and do it, but don't know what it is until it's done."
René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke was born on the 4th of December (Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Happy Early Birthday!) in what was then known as Bohemia to what were then known as Parents. They were bad, they were troubled, they were downtrodden in their own lives and a burden on their son's. Rilke, the child, before he'd learned language and its grammar, probably didn't know that the place he lived would change irreparably forever along with the people (strangers, actors, stand-ins) who raised him. The sad old story goes: The parents had already made a daughter before he was born, though she passed away after only a week of glowing life. Sophie, the boy's mother, mourned the loss so deeply and was so encumbered by the pain of it all that she would dress the boy in girl's clothes, gave him a girl's name, and made him behave like a girl would. He grew up and was forced towards a military career. He became a poet, instead. A song pops into my head: "Who am I to have any idea who I am?" It is a good question, for Rilke especially: his parents sure didn't know who he was, it follows logically that the person himself might be mistaken as well. He surely knew himself in a way that they, and we, didn't and can't know him.
So, yes, without knowing I felt a pull to that translated poem and having not thought much about Rilke or even casually browsed any of his books for at least a year, it was a bright and shining and glistening and dewy and delectable mountain of smiles when I learned that the day of his birth is tomorrow, and a celebration is somewhat in order. It was like burrowing into the darkest corner of my messy closet and finding a rumpled, but dandy, tuxedo only to realize the very next day I'd need it for my own surprise wedding. Another opportunity to think about him is always a pleasure. Happy early birthday, Mr Rilke. I hope you and old Rodin are cheersing champagne in the sky with Cezanne.
