Healing, one’s healing, doesn’t come from fiat, i.e., from declaration.
Nor does it come from deletion, i.e., from living as if events in your past
never took place.
Healing comes from abreaction and merger, from engagement, even the ‘clash by night’, with the past and with your hurt, rejection and pain.
I saw this recently “up close and personal”
during a visit to my old college.
It was the centennial of my final club (i.e., fraternity), and the whole world
had returned to show good faith and loyalty. Suddenly I became witness to an ancient institution that is throbbing with life. It is permeated with vitality, esprit, and hopefulness. And yet it’s also keeping faith with tradition — with the customs and delightful amenities that so beguiled us in the ’70s. (As ‘Yes’ beguiled us, with “I’ve Seen All Good People” and “Roundabout” — just to name two.)
In a way, I saw the secret of institutional endurance — as opposed to institutional entropy. You keep up with the present people you serve or are intended to serve, and you keep faith with … the shoulders on which you stand. I beheld my old final club: the perfect instance of doing both, and with humor, delight, affection, and warm-heartedness.
But there was one more thing.
I needed some healing, at least a little, as there was always something that wasn’t quite right or about which I had regrets — loose ends, you might say. And Lo and Behold!: Healing came on that front, too. A breach or two was closed, a tear or two mended. “Euripides?” “Eumenides?”
Come Fly with Me (1957), and, then again, with ‘Yes’, make “Your Move” (1971).