Nothing Was the Same by Kay Redfield Jamison Page A

thinking about despair and insanity. It was not California that was wanting, it was me. Robert Frost wrote that when those who withhold themselves from the land yield to it, they find salvation in the surrender. This was true for me. I took a different view of the West Coast, more generous and circumspect; old discontents slipped away.
    Richard did not need to surrender. He did not take on unnecessary battles in life, and this gave to him a strength in character I did not have. We loved our long days in California; we took them in and kept them close, wrapped our life in the June sun and the odd scents and surreal colors of the land around us. Richard had a way of giving back to me important things I had lost along the way.
    One afternoon he and I sat on a bench overlooking the Pacific, lizardlike in the sun, talking about not much of anything important, only small and binding things. After a while he said, in an even voice, “We should talk about the funeral.” I tried to keep my voice steady, which was impossible.
    “Yes, of course,” I said.
    Richard’s suggestion was not entirely out of the blue, although in the sun and the quiet it felt that way. Earlier in the day, we had been to see Clarke Oler, an Episcopal priest who had been the rector of my church when I lived in Los Angeles. I had known and been close to Clarke for twenty-five years, and Richard was particularly fond of him. He had officiated at the religious service for our marriage at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Westwood, held some time after our civil ceremony in the Shenandoah Valley. We had turned to him to talk about the things we would have to do in the months to come. We talked specifically, at Richard’s request, about possible music and readings for his funeral. Later , as Richard and I sat on the bench overlooking the ocean, on an impossibly beautiful day, we continued our discussion of hymns and pallbearers and the ancient rites of final passage. No amount of God’s sun could take the chill from what we were doing.
    We went as far as we could and then, thankfully, Richard said, “Enough of this. Let’s go shop for your birthday.” He suggested a store on San Vincente Boulevard we had been to before and, once there, asked to speak with the jewelry designer. “She likes moonstones and aquamarines,” he told her. “She’s a bit like them: moody and lovely. More moonstone than aquamarine.” He smiled his wonderful smile and caught the designer in his net of charm. And me, as always, all over again. He then traced out the design of the bracelet he wanted for me, one he must have been planning for a while. It was to be alternating cabochon aquamarines and moonstones, strung together by delicate links of gold. He wanted the aquamarines to be oval and the moonstones round; it was to be one of a kind.
    The bracelet arrived in Washington several weeks later, a strikingly beautiful strand of mutable gray and pale blue stones. It was indeed moody, and it was stunning. Richard tried to fasten the bracelet on my wrist but could not; the clasp was too fine and his hand shook too much. So we christened it instead, continuing Richard’s tradition of dipping newly gotten jewelry in Italian fountains, gin fizzes, or the North Sea. This time he dipped it in a shot of Dalwhinnie, a single-malt whiskey we were partial to. “For us,” he said, christening the bracelet. “For you. For love.” I could not put the bracelet on then, or ever, without the help of someone else. It was an elegant string of stones, brought into existence by love, but it was not easy to wear. It was our life.
    Our last summer was a good one. We returned from Los Angeles to find our garden lit up with a wild proliferation of fireflies at night and the Washington skies lit up with summer thunderstorms reminiscent of the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Requiem . Richard was able to eat steak and corn and peach cobbler, which gave us the illusion of greater health than he had, and we had