Fear in a Handful of Dust

Ok, I just sort of realized that for the last couple of weeks, I've had all these lines from Eliot rolling around in my brain.  And I don't know what it all means.  I mean, I know what the individual lines mean, or at least I think I do.  But I don't know why I've been sort of non-consciously meditating on Eliot.  And it seems like maybe it is significant that here I am, a week before my birthday, contemplating Eliot's "handful of dust."  Anyhow, it seems like maybe I should throw out there the lines that have been popping in and out of my awareness.  And I should maybe preface this all by saying that I've been reading Dante pretty intensely lately; Eliot is certainly interested in Dante.

So clearly, "I will show you fear in a handful of dust" is striking a chord with me.  And as I've been walking around, breathing in and out, going to class, whatever, I find myself repeating over and over, "I will show you fear in a handful of dust.  I will show you fear in a handful of dust."  When I finally stopped and thought about it, I realized that this was a line from The Wasteland.  So here's the line in context:

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

So here I am, the week before my thirth-fourth birthday, thinking not about youth, the shadow at morning, nor old age, the shadow at evening, but death, that "handful of dust."  That makes it sound like I'm all depressed; I don't think that I am.  And yet, mortality is on my mind.  It's like a refrain in and out of days and over the weeks and through the years, this "fear in a handful of dust."  And yet, I'm believing more and more that death is but a "sea change."  Doesn't Eliot quote "those are pearls that were his eyes" in The Wasteland?

The other line, this one from Prufrock, that keeps playing in my head is the one about preparing "a face to meet the faces that you meet."  And I do so often think about all the energy, really, that I spend preparing that face; that is, I spend too much effort trying to present myself to the world in such a way as to demonstrate that everything is OK, trying to convince everyone (and maybe myself) that I'm just fine, that I'm getting through.  And I am getting through.  But so often, it's painful.  And just prepaing that face is hard some days.

I'm certainly no Eliot scholar, but I am finding myself drawn to Eliot.  And I've spent much of the afternoon reading and rereading The Wasteland, and Ash Wednesday, and the Four Quartets.  Eliot makes me want to pick up my John Donne.