Ode to a Blue Bike

“Life is like riding a bicycle,” Einstein once wrote to his younger son, Eduard, a brilliant but troubled student who would soon be hospitalized for schizophrenia, “You have to keep moving or you lose your balance.”

As I pedal my blue Motobecane along the bike paths of the Pioneer Valley during the lengthening days of May, I ponder Einstein’s words, which have been much quoted by biographers and bloggers. Not that they helped poor Eduard, nicknamed Tete, by his doting mother, Mileva Maric, from whom the physicist was divorced in 1919. Einstein hated being separated from his two boys and visited them on holidays (he was teaching in Berlin and they lived with their mother in Zurich), but their day-to-day care fell to Mileva, who suffered from depression herself. The older son, Hans Albert, would become an engineer and follow his father to the United States, but Tete would not be so lucky. In 1932, the 22-year-old abandoned his studies—he had hoped to become a psychiatrist—and entered Burgholzi, a fin-de-siecle, palace-like pile on a wooded hill in southeastern Zurich, where some of the most celebrated psychiatrists of the age were gathered, including Carl Jung, who worked briefly as the assistant to Director Eugen Bleuler, who first coined the term schizophrenia. But all these brilliant practitioners were like all the king’s horses and all the king’s men who couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again. Eduard Einstein would return to the Zurich sanitarium many times over the next decades, residing there full time after the death of his mother in 1948. He died at Burgholzi at the age of 55, his life over before it had ever really begun.

I can only imagine the singular hell of schizophrenia—the world fractured and distorted as if one were stuck inside a Surrealist painting, voices yelling in the head like a violent rap song one can never turn off. But I know the immobility of depression, and I know it’s almost impossible to feel sad pumping along a bike path, skunk cabbage growing in velvety profusion in the marshes, long-tailed squirrels and the occasional rabbit hurrying into the bushes.

My blue Motobecane is very old, and I have known it longer than either of my two husbands. My first husband, Len, bought it for me in a bike shop on Martha’s Vineyard during one summer we spent there in 1978. We got it at R.W. Cutler’s in Edgartown, and I remember this only because a gold sticker with the shop logo, two silhouetted figures on a tandem bicycle, is still miraculously affixed to a lower corner of the frame near the rear derailleur.

Len loved France and all things French (I can still hear him singing La Marseillaise as he plunged into the cold waters of Menemsha Sound). He convinced me to get the Motobecane, which had Made in France in block letters along the down tube, Mirage in fancy script on both sides of the crossbar, and the red, white and black Motobecane shield beneath the front reflector. Len said that the French were particular about anything mechanical—they were the ones who invented the bicycle and they also developed the first high-speed trains in Europe; I couldn’t go wrong with the Motobecane. I would have been happy with a cheaper Japanese model (I was and am still a thrifty Yankee who hates to pay top dollar for anything), but Len was the archetypal Jewish mensch who wanted only the best for his shiksa. Nothing but this stylish French Mirage with its low slung handlebars, skinny tires, and light-as-a-branch steel frame would do for his Beckala.

I suppose there must have been other colors—silver, red or orange--but I chose the metallic blue because even then I loved all things blue. The paint is now faded and scarred with rust, but three decades ago it was a lovely, cerulean blue with darker blue bands around its down tube, a dark blue brake cable running along the crossbar. The bike with its sparkle and flashes of navy reminded me of a certain vista that you could see from almost anywhere along Menemsha Beach or the Gay Head Cliffs: Vineyard Sound with the darkish shapes of the Elizabeth Islands in the distance, a wrap-around landscape of sea and sky, miles and miles of blue and deeper blue, so dazzling that on a sunny, summer day, you couldn’t look at it without sunglasses or, if you had none, without holding your hand over your forehead, couldn’t look without feeling dizzy with so much blueness.

Martha’s Vineyard is a biker’s paradise—much of the island from Vineyard Haven to Oak Bluffs to Edgartown is flat as a skipping stone with hillier terrain up island towards Chilmark. But once the metallic blue touring bike was mine, I rarely rode it—not at Martha’s Vineyard, not in New York City, not in Westchester County or in Fairfield County, where we lived after we married in 1981. The bike gathered dust in an upstairs back bedroom of our farmhouse in Bedford Hills, in the garage of our cape in Redding, Connecticut, its chain in need of grease, its tires in need of air. If anyone had asked, I would have said that I didn’t want to ride alone (Len couldn’t ride a bike, owing to a mastoid operation he’d had as a child, which caused occasional balance problems), would have said that I was too busy. I wouldn’t have said I didn’t ride because I was depressed, because I didn’t get that there was a connection between the two events: that if I had been less depressed I would have ridden the bike more and if I had ridden the bike more I would have been less depressed.

After Len died, I detached the spring-loaded front wheel of the Motobecane Mirage and boxed it up with the rest of the bike in a Bridgeport, Connecticut warehouse. Meanwhile, I struggled to find my way as a young widow, moving first to the Midwest to try to make a life with a man, and when that didn’t work out, down to Washington, D.C. for a graduate degree. When I married for the second time and moved to Vermont, the bike finally emerged from storage, red stickers dangling from its rusting chrome pedals. But I still didn’t take it out much, this time blaming the steep hills of the Green Mountains. It would be too simplistic to say that there was a one-to-one correspondence between the force field of my depression and the amount of time I spent on the Mirage, but what I did notice was this: whenever I got into a routine of riding the blue bike, in the morning before work or occasionally in the evening after dinner, singing to myself that silly ditty by Arlo Guthrie, “I don’t want a pickle/just want to ride on my motor-cy-cle…I don’t want to die, just want to ride on my motor-cy-cle,” something shifted. My body, perhaps because two perfectly constructed French derailleurs were levitating it, felt lighter, less burdened with the negativity that shuts down most depressives (you’re fat, you’re old, you’re a loser, you’re a nobody).

Three years ago, when my family and I moved to the Pioneer Valley so our son could attend the Hartsbrook School, the Motobecane got wedged into the back of the U-Haul with sofas and suitcases. We rented a duplex just half a mile from the Norwottock Rail Trail, and pretty soon I was taking mini-excursions to Whole Foods, Barnes & Noble, even to the Cineplex, proud to be saving money on gas as well as doing my bit to reduce global warming. Along with other bike riders, I grumbled about the bits of recycled glass that were mixed in with the blacktop when the trail was created in 1993 (you didn’t have to be an Einstein to figure out that this was not a good idea). That first year, I got five flat tires. But then Dorothy at the local bike shop on Railroad Street suggested I invest in heavier tires: I took her advice, and haven’t had a flat since. I’ve also found other ways to make the bike more user-friendly, adding a cup-holder, rear-view mirror and a wire basket attached to an aluminum frame over the rear wheel.

There’s a black-and-white photo of Einstein riding his bicycle that can be found on many blogs and websites: It was taken in 1933 in Pasadena, California, when Einstein was a visiting research associate at Caltech. The world-famous scientist is dressed up in tie, sweater vest, tailored pants, and fresh-shined dress shoes. He looks like he is preparing to deliver a lecture on quantum theory. He has no helmet (people didn’t wear protective headgear back then), and his mane of white hair is windblown. The 54-year-old genius, who once confided that he never really grew up, is grinning like a kindergartener. He’s smiling even though he is worried about many things over which he has no control: his boy, Tete, who has been diagnosed with schizophrenia; the Nazis, who have been firing Jews from universities and burning books, screaming that relativity theory is rubbish; his summer home outside of Berlin, to which he will not return.

The force field around Albert Einstein is dark and full of black holes, and yet he himself remains a conduit of shining, cerulean-blue California light. Einstein keeps pedaling because he still can, because he knows that if he stops, even for a second, he will fall.

Nocturne at Midnight

Six days after Deborah Digges jumped to her death in western Massachusetts, I drove to the coast of southern Maine to celebrate my dad’s ninetieth birthday. This juxtaposition of tragedy and triumph is common in midlife, framing our days with a collage of contrasts, making us sometimes as indifferent as the ploughman in Bruegel’s Fall of Icarus, who pays no attention to the boy who has tumbled from the sky.

Not that my dad would be terribly broken up by the suicide of a 59-year-old poet he’d never heard of; you don’t reach your ninth decade in this vale of tears by being overly sentimental, a weepy Caspar Milquetoast. And yet Dad has not been a stranger to dark moods over his long life; as a child, I remember him playing, over and over, on a saucer-sized vinyl record on his turntable, the mournful ballad by Peggy Lee, “Is that all there is? Then let’s keep dancing…” This ditty exasperated me in the same way that “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” by Bob Dylan exasperated him, but I would never have dreamed of telling him so. (He felt no compunction about demanding that I turn off “that garbage by Bobby Die-lan,” whose last name Dad knew perfectly well how to pronounce but said wrong just to annoy me.) A few years later, when the television series M*A*S*H was all the rage, he listened obsessively to its theme song, “Suicide is Painless; it brings on many changes…”

And then there were the hardcover books that piled up on the slender end table in his study—THE SAVAGE GOD: A STUDY OF SUICIDE, by A. Alvarez; MAN’S SEARCH FOR MEANING, which recounted Victor Frank’s survival in a concentration camp; and THE DENIAL OF DEATH by Ernest Becker. Whenever Dad was teaching his Dale Carnegie class, attending a meeting of the Lion’s Club, or traveling to New York on business, I parked myself on his red leather sofa in his book-lined study, usually with a box of Freihofer’s Chocolate Chip cookies and a tumbler of milk by my side, and read until my head ached.

So much misery for a fat, friendless teenager to gorge herself on. There was Sylvia Plath, survivor of multiple suicide attempts, and dead at 30 from the gas of an oven she’d turned on herself in a London flat in 1963. There were the Jews, gassed not by choice but by coercion, rounded up and stripped naked in Dachau, Auschwitz, and Bergen-Belsen. The Austrian-Jewish psychiatrist Victor Frankl, who had spent five years in four different labor camps, including Auchwitz, had lost his father, mother, brother, and wife in the Holocaust. Victor Frankl had stayed alive by summoning up the figure of his beloved wife, who had been shipped off to another camp, talking to her while fending off hunger, beatings and forced marches. Other survivors had recited poetry, scrawled drawings on bits of toilet paper, sung arias from operas they remembered. People, observed Frankl, could endure anything as long as they could still love, could stay connected to some person or idea greater than themselves. According to Ernest Becker, every human being needed a causa sui project (four years of Latin at Miss Hall’s School was finally proving useful) to help him forget that he was a “god who shits,” a great big pile of nothingness.

I didn’t have a clue what my own causa sui project was, but sometimes it seemed that Dad had one. Late at night, after coming home from his many meetings and long after my mother, sister and I had gone to bed, Dad would sit alone at the grand piano in the living room, playing Chopin. Dad was no Artur Rubinstein; he had taken up the piano as an adult, beginning around the same time I did, in the middle 1960s. (Years later, he would explain that his parents had not let him play as a child, insisting that the piano was for girls and forcing him to play the trumpet, which he gave up as soon as he was allowed to.) Dad and I had the same teacher, a woman named Betty Maby (this was her real name, which I accepted without irony as a child but which now seems darkly comic, if she were a character in a theatre of the absurd). Mrs. Maby had been a concert pianist in her youth, but was reduced in middle life to instructing children (still mostly girls, as my grandparents had observed a generation ago) in dumbed-down versions of Sheep May Safely Graze. (The first time I ever saw an antimacassar was in Mrs. Maby’s darkened living room in Lee, where freshly laundered squares of crocheted ivory and white lace stood guard over the backs and arms of sofas and armchairs.)

Dad was Betty Maby’s only adult student—he got to call her by her first name—and she was patient with him, his lack of rhythm and pitch, his middle-aged, arthritic fingers which were as clunky and intractable as corkscrews. But what he lacked in timing, tone and finger dexterity, he more than made up for in will. He even agreed to play in her spring and autumn student recitals in the antimacassar-ridden living room in Lee, performing at the end after all the children had finished, massacring simplified arrangements of Fur Elise and Air on a G String, despite the tranquillizers he took to still his shaking fingers. But no one but me, his daughter in a frilly dress shrinking into a sea of doilies in the back, seemed mortified by his performance. All the parents complimented him afterward over punch and cookies, confiding that they admired his courage.

When Dad played alone, with no one listening, he was at ease. There were two pieces by Chopin—the short Prelude in E Minor, which was fairly easy, and the Nocturne Opus 9 in E Flat Major which was more advanced--that he practiced over and over again, swaying on the piano bench as he leaned into and away from the keys, an expressiveness that Betty Maby, who insisted on an erect, still posture at all times, never permitted her younger charges. Dad rarely got through either piece without a mistake. The Nocturne, in particular, included several trills that were challenging for even the most experienced of players. But he played on, repeating the troublesome measures where he faltered, often waking me from the guest room above the back stairs where I had retreated to get an uninterrupted night’s sleep. When the house would momentarily grow quiet, I would turn over groggily in my bed, relieved that he was calling it a night. But he had just stopped to turn on the metronome or crack his fingers back into shape. Within minutes, the mournful chords would roll out all over again.

Dad played the piano for forty years. He played long after I gave it up, through his separation and divorce, purchasing an upright Spinet when he moved into a two-bedroom bachelor’s cottage on Lake Onota. He continued to perform in Betty Maby’s student recitals in Lee, his longtime companion, Janet, and his elderly mother in the audience, though his mother confided to me, her granddaughter, that she really didn’t see why he kept at the darned thing, and why, for Pete’s sakes, couldn’t Betty get him to stop POUNDING on the keys. After his mother’s death in 1982, he purchased a second-hand Baldwin that had been used in summer concerts at Tanglewood and moved it into his mother’s living room, now his living room, in a sunny corner overlooking the back gardens. When Betty Maby retired and moved to Florida, Dad found a new teacher, who urged him to tackle more modern composers such as Scott Joplin and George Gershwin.

At Thanksgiving gatherings, which had become festive noisy affairs of a large blended family, Dad would preside over impromptu musicales, where the theme song from the Titanic, the Ashokan Farewell, Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, and Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie’s would be picked out by various grandchildren and step-grandchildren. At the end of each performance, regardless of whether it was heartbreakingly beautiful or simply heartbreaking, Dad would clap and shout, “Encore! Encore!” When the other performers begged him to take his place at the piano bench, he obliged with a halting but lively rendition of Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer.

Dad moved his piano to the two-bedroom condo he shares with Janet on the grounds of their assisted living facility in Maine, but he rarely plays much anymore. Instead, he reads The New York Times, walks on the beach, watches television, and does crossword puzzles. Last winter he broke his hip while walking on the ice, and while he has made a remarkable recovery, he has become more cautious, less driven by the need to fill every moment with purposeful activity, more content to sit of a warm afternoon on his terrace and nap.

He’s ninety. He’s entitled to sleep in the sun. But I would give anything to hear him play that Chopin Nocturne again.

Leaving Blue Hills Road: The Suicide of Deborah Digges

“The suicide doesn’t go alone, he takes everybody with him,” wrote the novelist William Maxwell. When prizewinning poet and Tufts University professor Deborah Digges jumped from the upper bleachers of McGuirk Alumni Stadium at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst on April 10th, she took hundreds, perhaps thousands, with her: her children, brothers, sisters, ex-husbands, friends, students, colleagues, neighbors, and readers. She took the young women of Temple University’s Lacrosse Team who were practicing at the stadium that afternoon: they were the ones who called the police after finding her on the ground, badly injured, at the end of their practice. And she took me, a fellow writer and resident of the Pioneer Valley, who cannot pass McGuirk Stadium on Rocky Hill Road without grieving for her.

I never met Deborah Digges, though I was once invited to a dinner party years ago in Washington, D.C. where she and her second husband, poet Stanley Plumley, were to have been among the guests. The hostess was another writer, a fellow graduate student in the M.F.A. program at George Mason University in Virginia. I declined her invitation because I was feeling sorry for myself over a failed love affair and in no mood to make literary niceties. Now I am sorry I didn’t go, because if I had shared a meal with Deborah Digges, I might now possess some insight, however shadowy, into why she killed herself.

It had been a spectacular day, that Good Friday before Easter, unseasonably warm and sunny, more like mid-June than mid-April, with forsythia and magnolia coming into bloom, daffodils and crocuses sprouting up along the roadsides. As my husband and I inched east in bumper-to-bumper traffic along Route 9 to pick up our son, who had been let out of school early and was playing tennis at Amherst College, we noticed cells of college kids on lawns playing horseshoes, drinking beer, waving as we passed. Every other patch of muddy green seemed to host such a gathering—the boys shirtless, the girls in bikinis, everyone high on sunshine and the holiday (Passover and Easter came back-to-back this year).

Everyone except Deborah Digges, the 59-year-old widow in the driver’s seat of her VW Jetta, leaving the 1950s yellow Cape where she lived alone with her dogs and cat, passing the green mailbox she had painted herself, perched on its filigreed, white-painted stick like the welcoming smile of an old friend. The mail had already come, and she was driving to the end of Blue Hills Road, no husband in the passenger seat (her third husband, Dr. Frank Lowe, a former dean of the veterinary schools of Tufts and Cornell Universities, had died of cancer six years ago); no child in the back seat (her younger son, Stephen, was now a successful photo-journalist in Kenya; his brother, Charles, also a journalist, lived in Oslo and St. Petersburg); no one except a once-beautiful, gray-haired woman alone, turning left onto Amity Street, driving toward eternity.

But you’re a famous poet, I tell her in this strange, posthumous conversation I have been conducting over the past weeks. You have a great job; students who adore you; good health and dental coverage; a decent 401K retirement fund. You publish regularly in The New Yorker. (I know tenured professors with several books under their belts who will never be published in The New Yorker.) You have written four books of poetry, and your last, The Trapeze, is considered a “masterwork,” according to your obituary in The New York Times. You’ve published two acclaimed memoirs. (Last week, I checked out The Stardust Lounge from the Jones Library in Amherst, and inhaled it in three days, crying at the end when the 18-year-old Stephen Digges, after six years of drug addiction and delinquency, is delivered by his mother to college in New York City where he waves goodbye and says, “Thanks for a great childhood, Mom.”)

What’s more, you’re not some selfish, careerist poet boasting about your latest grants and publications, your most recent appearances at literary conferences in posh locations. You’re a good person; while your son was going through his crazy-making adolescence, you adopted a homeless boy, Trevor Clunes, and helped him negotiate Amherst Regional High School, helped him get his graduate equivalency degree. According to your biography at the Tufts University web site, you also volunteer at the Dakin Animal Shelter in Leverett, and travel frequently to East Africa to work with children at the Tumaini Orphanage near Mount Kenya.

I know you are still grieving the loss of your beloved Frank, whom you wrote about so movingly in “Seersucker Suit,” which your New York Times obituary quoted in full. When I read the lines, “O, the great ghost ships of his shoes,” I imagine you standing in Frank’s closet, smelling his trousers and suits and belts and shoes. I, too, have stared at my dead husband’s clothes, knowing I ought to give them away, and yet wanting to leave them right where they are because maybe he might come back, go to work among the living again. I know that mourning doesn’t follow some set pattern laid down in the grief books, doesn’t necessarily attenuate with time.

Still, how could you do it? How could you leave behind your own ghostly shoes for others to grieve? How could you leave those pretty, sweaty, big-boned girls in their goggles and headbands and red-lettered jerseys, girls who were looking forward to pizza and a good night’s sleep at the Econolodge, looking forward to playing UMass on Saturday afternoon, how could you leave them with images of your broken, bloody body, the wailing sirens of the Amherst Ambulance rushing to Cooley-Dickinson Hospital? How could you leave me, a middle-aged woman in blue jeans whom you never met, riding my bike slowly, at dusk, past your home on Blue Hills Road, wondering stupidly how I might have saved you?

Picasso's Blue Period

“I began to paint in blue,” Pablo Picasso wrote, explaining the origins of his Blue Period, “when I learned that Casagemas had died.” Carlos Casagemas was a painter whom Picasso had met in 1899 at Els Quartre Gats (The Four Cats), a café in Barcelona. The two Spaniards traveled to Paris in 1900 and opened a studio together in Montmartre, eking out a living as artists and visiting brothels where Picasso would paint murals on the establishment’s walls in exchange for services. But Casagemas lacked Picasso’s swaggering sense of self; when Carlos was rejected by a woman he loved, he shot himself with a pistol at The Hippodrome Café on February 17, 1901.

Picasso was in Barcelona at the time, but when he returned to Paris, he channeled his grief into his work, choosing the color favored by turn-of-the-century, avant-garde artists as well as that most closely associated with melancholy. Picasso’s subjects were outcasts: prostitutes, prisoners, beggars, drunks, laundresses, one-eyed old women, emaciated street musicians. But bourgeois Parisians didn’t want to be reminded of these ghoulish figures from the lower depths—despite the revolution of Impressionism, the art world still prized a prettified classicism—and so the melancholy, monochromatic pictures went unsold. Picasso became so poor he couldn’t afford to buy paints, and even had to burn his canvases in order to stay warm in his garret on the Rue Voltaire. But the young artist was not to be deflected from his quest. He continued to paint in blue, sometimes working the features of Casagemus into portraits of his friends, but rarely, for the next three years, adding other colors.

More than a hundred years later, JPEGS of Blue Period paintings can be downloaded from dozens of Internet sites, posters of The Old Guitarist turn up in coffee shops and college dorms. (My friend, Sarah, remembers putting up The Tragedy, which depicts a poor, desolate family on a seashore, in her dorm room at Mary Washington College in Virginia in the 1970s, and recently my friend, Christine, noticed The Tragedy on the walls of a jewelry store owned by an Indian couple in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York.) The pictures haven’t stopped speaking to us. It seems astonishing that a young man barely out of boyhood—he was only 20 in 1901—possessed the empathic intelligence as well as the technical artistry to portray such feeling.

Of course, a young man’s melancholy is a different animal than an old man’s disaffection. And while scholars believe that Picasso probably suffered from a mood disorder for most of his life—which he battled by adopting a killing work ethic as well as a dizzying parade of serial mistresses, who got progressively younger as the decades passed—he never again painted exclusively in blue. In 1904, when he fell in love with Fernande Olivier, a dark-haired model and artist who would bear him his first child, he began to add red to his canvasses, initiating the Rose Period, which, in turn, gave way to the African Period, to Cubism, Classicism, Surrealism, and Neo-Expressionism.

Picasso died on April 8, 1973 at the age of 92, having produced over 50,000 paintings, sculptures, ceramics, drawings, prints, tapestries and rugs. He remained lucid until the end—his last words at a dinner party that he and his third wife, Jacqueline Roque, hosted at their château in the south of France were, “Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can’t drink any more.”

His astonishing productivity was stunningly evident in “The Last Years, 1963-1973” at the Guggenheim Museum in the winter of 1984. My first husband, Len, and I were among the crowds jostling for spaces to view the exhibit of paintings, drawings, etchings, and sculpture, which filled most of the museum. In my memory the date feels several years earlier, 1978 or 1979, but perhaps this is because Len and I were both so lighthearted afterward, shedding our cares like winter coats as we bopped down Fifth Avenue to catch the bus to our studio apartment in Greenwich Village, where we stayed in town during the week. (If anyone had said, “In two months, Len will be diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor and by the end of December, he’ll be dead, I would have thought they were joking.)

As we dodged patches of snow and ice on that darkening February afternoon, Len and I talked animatedly about what we had seen: the cartoonish line drawings of huge figures with massive breasts and swollen penises engaged in all manner of transgressive activity: peeing, shitting, and copulating. In another era, they would have been branded pornographic, the demented effluvia of a dirty old man, and yet the work had a childlike playfulness that compelled us, energized us. We were amazed that a man in his eighties and nineties still possessed this kind of creative urgency. But maybe not so surprising, Len observed, when you consider what Picasso said after observing a group of schoolchildren in 1956: “When I was as old as these children, I could draw like Raphael, but it took me a lifetime to learn to draw like them.”

As I meditate upon that winter afternoon twenty-five years ago, I keep thinking of Bob Dylan’s lines, “Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” Could it be that just as youth is wasted on the young, so depression is mostly a younger person’s affliction, a monochromatic, cyan-colored cloak that the very old, facing the prospect of losing everything including the memory of loss, cannot afford to wear?

Awake for the Blue Hour

One of the curses of middle life is sleeplessness. The brain produces less melatonin, breathing is shallower, dreams are fitful, the bladder cannot hold. One wakes many times, shuffling to the bathroom, or to the kitchen for a midnight snack (sleep experts say that a man of 50 wakes 20 times in the night; a man of 25 only 10 times). Delta sleep (the deepest level of non rapid-eye-movement sleep, where the sleeper cannot be easily roused) becomes as rare as a remembered dream. One turns off the light, and prays for sleep like a child hoping to be visited by the tooth fairy.

But every curse carries its own blessing (at last the midlife mind gets that nothing is ever one thing, that contradiction suffuses every enterprise): one of insomnia’s gifts is the reverie of the blue hour. The blue hour is that time which belongs neither to the night nor to the day; it is when the sky is born again into soft pinks and blues, when the light in the east is as clear as a baby’s urine, when flowers, moist with dew, are said to be at their most fragrant. The French call this time L’Heure Bleue, and even created, in 1912, a perfume called L’Heure Bleue by Guerlain. (Odd to think of this legendary perfume, which is still available at $68 for a 1.7 ounce bottle, being created just two years before the outbreak of World War I, when Europe would stink with corpses rotting in the trenches in The Ardennes, Mons, and The Somme.)

Sylvia Plath loved this part of the day, “that blue, almost eternal hour,” as she put it in an interview with the BBC a few months before her death, “before cock crow, before the baby’s cry, before the glassy music of the milkman, settling his bottles.” Plath was writing some of the best poems of her short life during this time. She was living with her children in a flat in London (after Ted Hughes had left her for Assia Wevill) in the house where William Butler Yeats had once lived. There was a blue plaque to mark the spot, a detail Plath records with great excitement in a letter home to her mother, Aurelia, in Massachusetts. Sylvia, who had never failed at anything in her life, was trying to be upbeat, even though her heart was broken. The poems came fast as Plath’s horse, Ariel, and Plath knew they were good, as good as anything by Yeats, but that certitude wasn’t enough to keep her tethered to this world.

She killed herself very early on the morning of February 11, 1963, thrusting her head in an oven, while her two young children slept. History repeated itself forty-six years later during the afternoon of March 23, 2009 with the suicide of her son, Nicholas Hughes, an accomplished fisheries biologist who hung himself with a rope in his home in Fairbanks, Alaska. Hughes was 47, outliving his mother by 17 years. In her announcement to the press, Frieda Hughes said that her brother had been battling depression for many years.

On a memorial website page that the University of Alaska created, one of Nick Hughes’ students recalls how her professor would go out with his students at three in the morning during the summer solstice to observe the salmon and grayling fish in the Chena River.

It is twilight now, evensong instead of matins, the return of the blue hour. The sky is slightly darker like the inside of a mussel shell, the bare branches of the trees wispy as an old woman’s hair, the light clear as a glass of white wine. I say a prayer for Sylvia Plath and her son, Nicholas Hughes, who might still be with us, had they received proper treatment for their depression, whose love for the blue hour endures.

Blue Meds

In the mornings, I swallow pills that cover nearly every hue in the color spectrum: there are oyster shell calcium tablets (green), fish oil supplements (yellow), a multivitamin/multimineral (indigo), a probiotic acidophilus capsule with “14 billion good bacteria” (speckled white, like an egg from a free-range hen).

And let’s not forget the meds: one half-tab of Adderall (cyan blue) and one half-tab of the antidepressant Citalopram (coral pink). The blue meds are a mixture of four amphetamine salts, which I take for attention deficit disorder. (I can be as hyper as a horse that’s been left in the barn all winter, as distractible as a two-year-old motoring from block to block.) ADD is probably the reason I haven’t been able to settle on a career—one week, I contemplate starting a dog-walking business (I’d call it “Who Let the Dogs Out”), and the next I fantasize about working as a clown in a hospital.

But ever since I started taking my precious blue meds (about a year ago), I’ve made steady progress in my off-again-on-again career as a writer. I haven’t earned a dime recently, which makes me worry that I will end up with no teeth living under a bridge, but until then, I’m a happy graphophiliac, writing for my local paper on topics ranging from AIG (where I used to work in corporate communications, years before AIG was called a P.I.G. by the New York Daily News) to the inauguration of Barack Obama to the 123rd anniversary of Emily Dickinson’s death (which, if you’re dying to know, is May 15th, 2009).

I looked up Amphetamine on Wikipedia and found that it was first synthesized by a Romanian, Lazar Edeleannu, in Berlin, Germany in 1887. He called it phenylisopropylamine (don’t ask how to pronounce that); apparently, it was one of a series of compounds from the plant derivative ephedrine, which the Chinese had been using for five millennia to treat a host of ailments. (I always knew that the Chinese were smarter than us westerners.) Amphetamines didn’t come into common use until 1929 when American pharmacologist Gordon Alles was searching for an artificial replacement for ephedrine, and tested it on himself. Then the drug company, Smith, Kline and French, got into the game in the mid-1930s and made a bundle marketing it under the trade name Benzedrine.

Amphetamines were the drug of choice for the military during World War II (both the Allies and the Germans liked how the drug lessened combat fatigue as well as increased alertness). It was also the favorite substance of Adolph Hitler, who received daily shots from his doctor of “vitamultine” a combination of methamphetamine and essential vitamins. (I was shocked to discover that der Furher and I liked the same drug; it’s creepy to think that he, too, might have had ADD…)

For nearly the past four decades, amphetamines have been a controlled substance in the United States, which means that my doctor can’t call or fax in the prescription to the pharmacy, but must sign a specially designated form which I must personally surrender to the pharmacist each time I renew the prescription, all of which makes me feel like a Nazi war criminal at Nuremberg whenever I slink into my local CVS.

Sometimes I cut the pills in quarters to make them last longer as well as to reduce their nasty side effects (tachycardia, diarrhea, dizziness, palpitations, arrhythmia--if you read everything on the print outs that accompany each orange vial, you’d be tempted to flush the pills down the toilet). But I am willing to shoulder the risks because my cyan-blue, double-scored meds make me feel, for the first time in my life, confident and hopeful. My blue meds make me believe, in the words of George Eliot (who did not have ADD), that “it’s never too late to be what you might have been.”

The Blue Doors

Depressed people tend not to notice details; for us, the season is always deep winter; the hour groggily post-prandial. We don’t “see a world in a grain of sand,” as William Blake rhapsodized, but simply sand, about which—whether it contains mica or feldspar or bits of broken shells--we are incurious. Which brings me to confess something I noticed as I walked into the red brick Greek Revival Unitarian Church on Main Street in Northampton this past Sunday morning. I had just removed my bike helmet (when the weather is good, I ride my ten-speed to the services, which reduces my carbon footprint, and allows me to repair my body’s temple) and was hurrying up the stone steps when, perhaps because it was spring or maybe because I was uncharacteristically early, I looked up. Then I saw what I had never noticed before: The big double front doors are blue, each paneled door topped with a square window of leaded glass divided into eight, fan-like triangular sections. The blue is a lovely azure color, Virgin Mary blue, Saint-Denis Blue, Chartres Blue, the blue that for centuries--from the late Middle Ages to the Renaissance to the Reformation and beyond--has been one of God’s favorite colors.

I have been going to UU services for over a year; I have sipped coffee in the parlor, praised the organist, shaken the hand of the interim minister, and used the transgender bathroom in the basement; I have belted out my favorite African-American hymn, “This Little Light of Mine,” with the other white, mostly gray-haired congregants, spaced out during readings of "Frog and Toad" for the children before they leave for their RE classes, brought visiting guests and friends to the services (though I have never been able to convince my husband or teenaged son to attend, as my husband contends that religion is a “crutch” and my son would prefer to sleep); I even have my own name tag, which hangs on a ribbon in the entryway, which I sometimes remember to pin to my jacket…I have faithfully performed all these acts, but I have never noticed that the front doors are blue.