Or trying to leave, at least. It keeps asking for my password and rejecting whatever I type in, but when I request a new password, no email arrives. Anyway, I gave Instagram a try. I would be fine with it if it weren’t for the “stories.” They are like Facebook stories, but much more imposing, a key part of the Instagram experience. What’s more, they are fake, not because of the people who post them, not because of their content (which can be interesting, moving, beautiful, funny, etc.), but because of the way they work. They go by much too fast. And then you’re given just a handful of “reactions” to choose from. You can also type in a comment, but that seems like an imposition somehow. Probably no one cares what you do. But I would rather live in a world where things matter at least a little, and where I offer more than just a flame or handclap emoji.

I feel similarly about Facebook, but at least on Facebook I can get links, event information, etc. and leave a real comment now and then. Instagram is set up to look glamorous and ephemeral: hints flash by, and if you don’t get them, you’re the one at fault. I think I can miss out on that party. Enough good things will still come my way.

“El na refa na la,” “O God, please heal her.” It’s striking how much of the Bible has to do with illness and healing. Today we’re under pressure to present ourselves as omnipotent, invulnerable, immortal, but that’s ridiculous; that’s not who or what we are. So many of us have illnesses of one kind or another, or at least have had them at some point. We cope with them in different ways, but they’re there. Some people need to talk about them; some do not. Some want companionship during and around the doctor visits; others would rather handle them alone. But the truth persists. No one is invulnerable, and it’s better that way. An illness can teach us a little bit about ourselves and what we have in common with others. It’s no accident that Chekhov was a doctor.

About twenty-four years ago I was diagnosed with Gorlin Syndrome, an inherited condition with multiple and varying symptoms, particularly basal cell carcinoma tumors. I had my first surgery for basal cell carcinoma more than thirty years ago. So many surgeries followed over the years that I lose count. It has been essential to me, all this time, to keep on going with my life, to avoid absence from work if at all possible, and to deal with it quietly. I don’t like being fussed over; it adds to the stress. Or rather, the fuss, no matter how kindly intended, can be more stressful than the surgeries themselves, since it carries the expectation that I keep people updated, tell them how I am, take care of their feelings and worries, etc. I am not secretive about my surgeries, but I like to treat them with simplicity, as just another thing I have to do.

So why am I writing about it now? I think many others, young, old, and in between, may be in a similar position, dealing with conditions that don’t just go away, be they panic attacks, cancer, liver problems, allergies, or something else. There’s no need to pretend that these things don’t exist.

Also, I had surgery today, my fourth this fall. Two were very small; I was able to have both lesions removed in one evening, in less than half an hour. One was larger, but the surgeon removed it completely in one pass (on a day when we didn’t have any classes). This last one—in the conchal bowl of the ear—has required six doctor’s appointments (two at the G1 Intézet and four at the Semmelweis Klinika) and will require two more followups. Fortunately there won’t be any damage to my hearing, and any cosmetic damage will be minimal and barely visible—but it has required more appointments than most. I think I’ll be all set after the followups, but today I was embarrassed to realize that I wouldn’t be teaching any classes at all. I originally thought I’d just zip in there, zip out again, head back to Szolnok, and catch the second half of the day. But the surgery started later than I expected, and the anesthesia left my face partly numb, so that it would have been hard to teach anyway. I sent my students classwork assignments, which they received and completed.

Doctors both here and in the U.S. have gone out of their way to help me. My followup appointments will both be during the winter break, so I won’t have to miss classes. I trust in the quality of care that I have been receiving in Budapest. And it’s affordable, too; for the most part, everything here has been covered by my health insurance. The exception is when I go to a private doctor or clinic. But the fees there are reasonable, and some of them offer evening appointments, so it’s worth it.

The doctors do something similar to Mohs surgery here, just as in the U.S. The main difference is that there’s no way to get lab results on the spot, so we have to wait about ten days for them. If it then turns out that not everything was removed, I have to return for another pass. Because of this, the surgeons generally take out a slightly larger piece initially than they would in the U.S., to increase the chances of getting it all. (In the U.S., I have had Mohs surgeries where the doctors cut pieces out of me five times in a single day, with an hour or two in between. While the idea is to minimize the cosmetic damage, this can turn into a grueling day. Both approaches have their advantages and disadvantages.) The lab reports here are extremely detailed and descriptive, and get added to my medical records, so I learn about what was going on at the site of the lesion. I can see them online as soon as they become available.

As I mentioned, the doctors have been flexible with me, doing their best to make appointments that will work for me. One of them was exchanging texts with me for several weeks, trying to find an appointment that would cause me the least possible disruption. Another one let me come to the G1 Intézet (in the evening) to have my stitches removed, even though the surgery itself was at the Szent Imre Kórház.

My school has been very understanding too. Fortunately I’ve been absent very little, and they know I am doing all I can to keep it this way. But they also believe in taking care of yourself. The principal has told me repeatedly that health comes first, and he means it.

But back to the larger topic. No human escapes illness. Some have it worse than others, but we all come down with something at some point. The people who dedicate their lives to healing—doctors, nurses, therapists, counselors, and others—are doing holy work. It doesn’t end, since no one becomes completely immune to disease or distress, ever. Instead, we become more vulnerable over time. And stronger too. Stronger and weaker at once.

Illness isn’t a contained phenomenon that comes and goes. It affects your life. The surgeries have affected my face and other body parts over time. My nose was once symmetrical; it isn’t now. But that, too, is something people have in common. (I don’t mean the nose in particular; I mean anything that sets you apart a little bit.) It isn’t a cause for shame.

To everyone dealing with a health problem, I would say: you are not alone, and you have many possibilities. You can find a way to handle this and also make the most of your life, while also allowing life to make the most of you, imperfections included. Not being perfect is a gift in itself, to yourself and others.

I made a few edits and additions to this piece after posting it, most recently on December 23.

We change gradually and abruptly, often without realizing it; we wake up to find out that we are not who we were ten years ago, or even yesterday. So steadfastness—not just habit and routine, but commitment—offers a counterpoint to the changes. Having something that you return to again and again, that you practice over time, does not make you redundant, dull, or repetitive. Rather, the repetition set against the changes allows you to see and hear familiar things in new ways. Endless novelty would just be exhausting and confusing. Practice doesn’t make perfect (nothing does), but it does make life more interesting, and it allows you to build things.

I sometimes don’t notice the steadfastness, because I am so caught up in meeting the next deadline, getting through the next day. But there have been some long projects and gestures.

In December I will have been Szim Salom’s cantor for four years. Four years! This morning I let the rabbi know which verses I would be leyning on December 4—that is, chanting for the Torah reading—and as I read them again, they rose up. They are some of the most beautiful verses in the entire Bible: when Joseph sees his brother Benjamin and has to go to his room to weep in private (because he does not want to reveal himself yet). I have had doubts and questions about my Jewish practice: what I mean with it, how strict I want it to be, and whether I want to be part of an organized religion, period. But when it comes to the texts and liturgy, there’s no doubt. I know that I want to be with these verses and melodies.

Teaching has been steadfast too. Even though I left it twice to write a book, I came back. Yesterday I woke up with a puffy face and swollen eye, and imagined a rough day ahead. But it got better and better as the day went on. It even started out well. The first two classes were devoted to caroling rehearsal; the students had a full plan worked out and accomplished just about everything they set out to do. They were appreciative of the time that had been allotted for this. Later, in one of my classes, most of the students were out at a competition, so the few of us who were there talked about various things: first sports, then education, then my experience in Hungary. I got to know these students a little bit better, and was happy for that. And in between and afterwards (I teach seven classes on Wednesdays), each hour had something memorable. That doesn’t mean I’ll remember it, but if I do, so much the better. And this morning I woke up thoroughly rested after a thick sleep.

And then there’s the writing, translating, and music. Too much to talk about, but these things persevere too. The photo at the top is of a concert I attended on Monday, a solo concert by Gergely Balla of Platon Karataev. I was hesitant to take a picture at all, and took just one, quickly. It came out blurry and abstract, but I think that’s how it was supposed to be. The concert doesn’t translate into descriptions. Some do, a little bit, but this one doesn’t. The picture reminds me of the hush in the room, the absorption in the songs.

I will be taking part in a literary evening, with cello—more about that soon! The timing is just right, since this weekend I am finishing up a big translation (the first draft, that is) as well as the autumn issue of Folyosó, and will have time to practice and prepare after that, and even before and during.

The Pilinszky event in March is sooner than it may seem, so mark your calendars and spread the word! Also, this very morning at 7:55 we will be having a short commemoration at school, in honor of the 100th anniversary of Pilinszky’s birth (he was born on November 27, 1821). I will give a brief introduction, and then three students will recite four Pilinszky poems: “Egy szép napon,” “Kráter,” “Egy szenvedély margójára,” and “Átváltozás.” If we record it, and if the participating students give permission, I’ll post the recording here later. And now I must start to get ready.

Update: Here is the video!

Each of us, I imagine, has something, or maybe several things, that others don’t readily understand. We know what they are, because we keep coming up against them. The reason this happens is that no one can step into another’s manifold. It might seem to overlap with our own, but it really doesn’t. “I know what you mean” is one of the most common falsehoods in the world. These misunderstood things, far from being hindrances or flaws, help form the basic compass of who we are.

I can think of three such things on the spot. One is my need for solitude. It doesn’t mean I always like to be alone. But I need room, even among others, to think things out, to take my own directions. And at this point in life, I not only enjoy living alone but need it too, to the extent that it is possible. Hungarians frown upon this somewhat—not all Hungarians, but many. (To a great extent, Judaism frowns on it too.) But solitude and company are always affecting and interchanging with each other, so a person who desires solitude will also desire company. It is a great joy when something feels kindred, something “clicks,” or even when it doesn’t but the conversation or common project fills me with thoughts.

The second point of difference is that I have plenty to do and am not looking for additional work or projects, with very few exceptions. It took a long time to get across that I do not want to give private English lessons; now the same applies to other things as well. My time outside of teaching is scarce and precious, and I need the freedom to spend it as I choose, to the extent possible. I say “to the extent possible” because things come up over which I have little or no control, and it’s good to give in to them at times. But I am not happy when rushing from one task to the next, especially when these tasks come from others. I need, to some extent, to set my own terms. Those terms are my happy terrain, which continually changes and opens: projects come into being, associations form, I find music that I love. I can’t explain this to anyone else, but I won’t give it up either. In short, I have plenty to do, and it’s important to me to do it slowly and thoughtfully instead of cramming my days with more and more. The stretches of time, and relative freedom within them, are much more important to me than money or fame.

The third is that I find politics not only boring, but superficial. Most political arguments, whether on the right or the left, only scrape the surface of things. Some do go deeper, but only when they deal with structures of human relation. Then fundamental questions come up: Who are we, and what are we capable of deciding and accomplishing together for the common good? Where does the common good conflict with individual good? These questions do not run dry, but parlor-talk does. I feel as uncomfortable with left-wing talk as with right-wing talk; and moderates often fall into traps of compromise and equivocation. Most of the time I am left wondering: why so much talk about this stuff? Why the need to have and proclaim an opinion about every current issue? Sure, I have my opinions too, and at times I make them known. But then I get sick of them. Other things I don’t get sick of, no matter how many times I return to them. Why not focus on those? Yes, politics are important; someone has to figure out how our systems will work and who will lead them. But they are not the only important actions, thoughts, or creations.

But these are just some of mine, and I know I am not alone; we all have prickliness of one kind or another, things that stick out, that aren’t exactly what others expect, approve of, or want. I say, live out that prickliness (without being obnoxious about it). Ruffle those feathers, be that jaunty, dreamy bird that struts through the day.

I edited this piece for clarity after posting it.

Many of us know how satisfying it can be to simplify things, to shed them down to the essential, be it a schedule, a song, a room, or a thought. But this work cannot be unidirectional. We muddle and clutter ourselves up, then let the dross drop. With good reason, too. we want to sweep up the abundance of life, we want to lose it. Again and again. Still, over the long term, a slow paring can happen.

I am going to fewer concerts and other events than I might otherwise this month, because I have so much else to do and want to do it well. I am also thinking more simply, focusing on what I have to do each day (because if I don’t, I am likely to forget something). I have also been thinking of paring down as a principle of poetry—not in the obvious ways (poetry is known for its conciseness) but for the internal shedding that often takes place in a poem, the simplification in motion. A poem is not static. While writing it, you simplify it, but even in its final form it moves into its own kernel.