on illness and flowers

“...all the flowers, the voluptuous purple, the creamy, in whose waxen flesh the spoon has left a swirl of cherry juice; gladioli; dahlias; lilies, sacerdotal, ecclesiastical; flowers with prim cardboard col­ lars tinged apricot and amber, all gently incline their heads to the breeze-” —Virginia Woolf, On Being Ill (1930)

On illness and flowers, Amsterdam, October 2021. Photo by Canan Marasligil

“How could i forget that the body keeps her own track of our memories? ”

i stepped outside of my apartment for the first time in exactly a week, following the horrors of sinusitis, an acute infection following a cold. i didn’t expect this transformation —from Friday to Monday, i was rather proud that i managed my cold and kept it under control with rest, paracetamol and tea. On Monday night, i was forced back under covers for another three days. How could i forget that the body keeps her own track of our memories?

i am a chronic migraineur, i am used to managing excruciating pain piercing from the back of your neck onto one side of your face, looking for a way out of your skull. Following more than a decade living with migraines, i have learned to recognise its triggers, i know when she’ll show up, and even - thanks to powerful medicine - when i may expect her to go away. i am no longer lying in the dark for three or four days, but just one. The sinus infection was similar in some ways, knocking me completely down to the point that i had to dictate to my partner the messages i wanted to send my friends and colleagues, cancelling every single commitment i had: two speaking engagements, a programme i was hosting, meetings… and most importantly, working on my novel.

On illness and flowers, Amsterdam, October 2021. Photo by Canan Marasligil

“My body saw through me, we started communicating. ”

On illness and flowers, Amsterdam, October 2021. Photo by Canan Marasligil

My first novel. Years in the making (aren’t they all?), it has already shown itself in many forms, through a lot of the work that i have been doing for the past decade. Yet, it is the first time that i have decided to take on the form of the novel to tell this story centring a family whose immigration history from Turkey to various European cities spans six decades. The narrative is written in English, the dialogues are multilingual. The imaginary world of languages, to quote Édouard Glissant, is on every page.

The subject, the characters, the voice… are all coming from the inside - from my history, my emotions, my experiences… from my body. It is no surprise then that my sinus infection hit right at the moment when i received distressing news from my family. Empowered by therapy, my mind thought it was dealing decently with many past histories. My body saw through me, we started communicating.

On illness and flowers, Amsterdam, October 2021. Photo by Canan Marasligil

When i was able to finally do something else than lie down and sleep, i read Virginia Woolf’s essay “On Being Ill”. We have more literature on illness today than during Woolf’s time, yet her essay stroke a few cords - especially when she mentions “...all the flowers, […] gently incline their heads to the breeze-”. Illness has a way of reminding you to look for what comes beyond beauty. Which is what i have been doing in health through my obsession for flowers: photographing them, pressing them in an attempt to preserve their beauty as they naturally decay.

Illness has now reminded me: my happy memories are those flowers.

On illness and flowers, Amsterdam, October 2021. Photo by Canan Marasligil

Throughout these days in illness, i experienced flashbacks to the memories i buried within my body. Illness gave them a way through as they came in full bloom and stayed, waiting for me to collect them among the others. Illness was patient then. She knew better than rushing, and the more i resisted her presence the more she pressured my forehead through my right eye. Whether it was a choice or surrender, i let each memory pierce my flesh on its way into the old books where i press all the flowers i encounter in my walks.

Now that i can hold the phone, write messages and speak, i call my father to see if his surgery went well. i speak with my brother about our common wounds. Sinus hits again. This time i don’t fight her, my surrender is a choice, because i need this body, in all its flesh and memory, to write.

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