Light from Darkness

I thought of something funny today and went to call you.

Since you're so newly gone, abruptly gone, I forgot

for one gift of a minute, the way I can't in night's long hours.

It's new to me since you're the first of us to go. Dad, at 98, says 

you learn to handle it after more and more deaths of loved ones, but 

I haven't mastered that detachment that doesn't succumb to

grief, doesn't get squeezed by grief's tight band,

doesn't wish for one more chance to say what I worry 

you didn't know: that I love you and miss you. Just that. Instead, 
I must trust you have peace, that you've gone from the formless dark

of death to the light described by poets and saints.


For Open Link Monday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.

Fare Thee Well Love

 My brother's remains were laid to rest on Saturday, August 16, 2014 at a beach on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. The beach was a lovely, secluded spot near where our mother was born. She often talked of their family farm that ran from the mountains to the sea and this beautiful beach fit that description perfectly. When I saw it and remembered Don's desire to visit Mom's birth place, I knew it was the best place to release his ashes. As my Honey, our daughter and two grandchildren drove to the beach we were listening to a new CD, These Are The Moments by the Rankin Family, and the song below started to play as we crested the hill: "Fare Thee Well Love". It made me cry. It was written by Jimmy Rankin from nearby Mabou, Cape Breton and expressed my feelings well. 

 This trip started out to be a retracing of my roots with John, Kelly and the kids in Prince Edward Island, Cape Breton Island and Boston. Having Don's remains added a dimension to the agenda in an unexpected but meaningful way. It was like having him with me to find his final resting place. We found a good one. Nearby was a cemetery filled with familiar Scottish names of our childhood, including many graves with our mother's maiden name, in this the place where my mother, grandfather and his father were born. So Don is back where his namesake, our greatgrandfather, is buried. 

 The day was cloudy in that almost raining kind of way and the sea had small but strong waves to receive and scatter the urn. I like that the urn had footprints on it, the footprints we leave behind as markers of our presence, and was built to dissolve in the arms of the sea. The Atlantic recieved his ashes and blended them with the elements of all other life in this ancient place from which we came. He's home. May he rest in peace. 

Fare thee well love by Jimmy Rankin is on this video on YouTube:
 http://youtu.be/X6-mo4jS8VI

I feel honored to have had this hard task.

Further Travels and Travels of the Heart

Recent travels took me to Cheshire County in England for a short visit with friends highlighted by immersion into their everyday life - seeing where their kids go to school, what hobbies they enjoy, what their downtown offers, what restaurants are around (we ate at a delicious Syrian/Lebanese restaurant with lots of vegetarian options), what the surrounding areas look like and a wonderful walk through their neighborhood. Weather cooperated by being sunny and warm. Their hearts are, too.

And speaking of gorgeous weather, Ireland had it as well- 4 days in a row. Bluebells newly bloomed decorated a park near John's cousins' house in Lissycasey, County Clare. We enjoyed a lovely walk with his cousin and his cousin's grandson couldn't resist sitting among them.

An apple tree starting to bloom next to the lake in their backyard captured my eye. This is the view from their kitchen window.

Heather scattered throughout the grass on the cliffs of Kilkee by the sea. John's cousin's daughter and her son toured us through their favorite gradens and a sea hike.

A view from the cliff walk on a gorgeous day.

A scattering of ladybugs painted on stones in the enclosed garden of an old estate now revived for the public. They made me smile as did time with an energetic eight year old.

Me on a chair woven of branches and embellished by children in the same garden.

And a whole different sort of activity at a nearby pub listening to traditional Irish music with John's cousins. It's something we share in common and look forward to whenever we visit. The added bonus, of course, is relaxed time with extended family we've come to cherish.

Travels of the Heart:

Next was a trip last week to Jacksonville, Florida to be with my sister-in-law, Georganna, who lost her husband of 32 years although they've been divorced for ten years (my younger brother) and her Dad within three months of each other. We're good friends and we needed time together with no agenda other than to talk, share, reminisce and take solace in each other's company. That's just what happened and it felt good. The healing power of love.

And in a dear gesture of love, my niece, Colleen, my brother's youngest daughter (he has three), took some of his shirts and made aprons from them. She gave them to her Mom, her sisters and me. It's a clever idea and I felt his presence when I put it on. She's talented and thoughtful that way.

As is Danielle, his middle daughter, who came to her Mom's, planned the Memorial Day barbecue, hosted the guests, cooked the food with her husband, Ben, and cleaned up afterwards. What a class act. It was a wonderful day and I felt so proud of her. She's pictured below in the photo with her sister, AnneMarie. She has the same premature gray hair as my brother, her Dad.

I also had a wonderful time with my niece, AnneMarie, who is getting closer to her goal of walking again after a devastating closed head injury in a car accident ten years ago. She does regular water exercises in their pool to further this goal and walked 50 feet while I was there using a special walker  assisted by her personal trainer. She also works with therapists at Brooks Rehab. using a harness hung from the ceiling which gradually gives her have less and less aid in the process of walking. She has to qualify each month by making sufficient progress to receive more therapy the following month, so she's motivated! I was better able to understand her speech by the end of the week which was a bonus and thrilling for me. I'm proud of her efforts and her positive attitude despite her obstacles.

I wasn't able to write during all these travels. It seemed I could pay attention to the folks I was with and take care of myself or I could take quiet time apart to write but I wasn't able to master doing both during this stretch of time. Losing my brother took the wind out of my sails and left me with less energy. I can feel more of it returning after time with my sister-in-law. Bless her.

Brother

He always wore his Boston baseball cap,
loved the game from young,
liked going with friends to watch players lap
the bases as if they were a necklace strung

together, it was the thrill of it all, anthem sung,
hot dogs eaten slathered in mustard and relish,
guys gathered, burdens rested, every moment embellished.



In the last photo of my brother four days before he died two weeks ago, he was with his friends. He was smiling in his baseball cap after going to a game with them. Looking happy. He was on his way to met a friend for coffee when he died. Just living his life. The suddenness is hard on those who loved him but it seems a good way to go. I'm glad for him. Offered for the G-Man's Friday 55 (counting the title).

Rest in Peace, Brother

My younger brother (I have two) was killed in an auto accident over the weekend. I had to call my father (97 yrs.) to tell him his youngest child died. He cried. Seems so wrong to have it be this way. It feels strange. Sad.

From young, I was his protector, his big sister. His ears stuck out when he was little and kids called him Dumbo. Made me mad, so I stepped in and beat them up. Of course. No bullying my brother on my watch. Things got more complex later in life and I could no longer protect him from his destructive life choices. But in an act of grace, he finally took care of himself, got into recovery and worked hard to turn his life around and give back in an effort to re-balance things again.

I cheered him on, admired his constant vigilance and his willingness to live each day as best as he could. None of us know the struggles another faces even if he's a brother. That alone calls us to kindness and compassion. Last time I talked to him he said his life was good and he felt grateful. What I'm grateful for is that he died in recovery and not in the ugly tangle of addiction and the devastation that follows in its wake. There was hurt enough and I believe his regret for that.

Through it all I held the memory of him as a small boy- beautiful, sweet, pure and so much fun. His essence. It got lost for a while. In the process he lost most of what deeply mattered to him. He leaves three amazing daughters, a granddaughter and an ex-wife who is my dear friend. He fought the demons only he saw and re-built his life in an attempt to be of service to those in need. Bless him. I'll miss him. I celebrate him. I hope he is finally at peace.

That Was the Year

That was the year my brother 
got arrested. To say my brother's name 
and prison in the same sentence, other than

to say he was volunteering, was an impossible 
juxtaposition that destroyed my picture 
of our family, and took my breath away. 

That was the year my daughter left for college
and all I could do was cry. Not sweet motherly tears
but heaving sobs, running nose and swollen eyes
that embarrassed everyone around, including me. 
I went to a couple's workshop with my husband but 
all I could do was cry at the loss of Kelly.

That was the year my mother died
and there should never be a year when
a mother dies six weeks after being diagnosed with something
that had treatment protocols 
and a favorable prognosis but instead she died. 
I wasn't ready to not have her in my life,
in my daughter's life or to figure out what to do
with the hole in my heart for which they
had no treatment protocols. It felt
like this hole was the whole of me and it
was mother who always cared for our hearts
but she died and I had to figure out how to do it
by myself that year. In the many vivid dreams 
I had of mother after she died I was so relieved 
to see her I forgot to ask how she did this essential thing.

That was the year I got fired from my job but it wasn't a job
to me. It was my profession, all I wanted to do since I was three. 
They used euphemisms like downsizing 
or rightsizing but it wasn't right for me, although 
they did size me down alright, so down I was immobilized,
really, unable to move. 

I had to go to a healer that year to get healed
because I just couldn't move and I had a hole in my heart.
It wasn't the kind of healing to give me something
to chat about at a coffee klatch. It was the kind that got my
limbs moving, filled my heart, drove away evil,

brought back goodness and saved my life.

That year, that was the year.


This was posted first in May of 2012 in a different form in response to a stream-of-consciousness writing prompt and redone here for the Repeat Performances prompt by Karin (Manicddaily) encouraging repitition in our poetry over at dVerse Poets Pub. 

Now, many years later, I realize that that year became one of my great teachers and that the healer was one of my life's great gifts. 

Caiden

Loss stoops
his parents' backs,
hollows their hearts,
birth and death
on the same day
despite their longing.
Grief's cloud layer
decks their souls,
strength borrowed
until resilience returns.


Written for my niece and her husband. From Patricia's word list about good neighbors over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. I took a different tack to acknowledge the importance of loved ones to rely on when things become too difficult. Words chosen: borrow, return, parents, birth, death, stoop, deck.

To Joan Didion

I keep my distance from you
secure in the belief that distance
means my husband could not
be taken. Like yours. Not now,

too soon. Distance so there might be
advanced notice of loss. Must be.
For life can not include such a loss.
That you made tangible. Raw grief

kept your husband's shoes closeted for his
return. In case. Not to be caught
without what he needed. Though
you were. Buffeted by depth charges,

stunned by waves of grief. Best keep
distant lest bomb's edges spread
outward and encompass bystanders
unaware. I am aware, however,

admire your words: exact, specific,
true in such a way that I turned away,
stepped back. Until my love lay ill, serious words
whispered. Then I was like you- lost, unflinching.



This is in response to a prompt from Claudia over at dVerse Poets Pub writing about Poetics and urging us to have a conversation with a literary figure. I've been in Ireland for a week where my Honey was hospitalized for and very sick with pneumonia. We're home now and he's healing well. My imagined conversation is with Joan Didion who wrote the extraordinary and heartbreaking The Year of Magical Thinking about the death of her husband and their remarkable marriage.

What Role We Have

What role we grands should take fills mind and heart
these days, 'sides love them well, the roots of roots n' wings,
love fierce, connect to all who ancest'red them, bring
complete the circle with them the purpose, the art,
entire, achieved, concluded, free drawn, writ large,
us left breathless at the specter except to sing
our songs for them and attend to theirs gathering
pieces to swell the family trove with their charms.
It's not about them at all, of course, but us,
death's incursion that lies beneath all else
and stands in contrast to their upward slant,
throws us back to what we do with such
lives as we've been given in gen'rous grace, not false
striving to garner praise but pouring hearts 'till spent.



This poem actually was inspired by the dVerse Poets post of September 13 about sonnets. It was a generous and meaty article by Gay Reiser Cannon with lots of information about various kinds and structure of sonnets and splendid examples. I've been working on this since and finished it yesterday. I'm amazed that others wrote theirs so quickly. I post it tonight for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Claudia, an inspirational poet in her own right.
(photo taken on my recent trip to Ireland)

Unmoored

His sudden death sheered
her mooring, blew her
to a wholly foreign place, clipped
from self, trimmed
from all she knew
to somehow cut
a new path in some
unknown
unwanted way.

Posted in response to Karin's: Poetics: Tools of the Trade (Verbs- all) over at dVerse Poets Pub. Check it out.

Cemetery of Montparnasse

One day in Paris while strolling near my hotel, I unexpectedly came across the Montparnasse Cemetery with its many famous residents- writers, sculptors, architects, painters, composers, doctors, historians, comedians, musicians and more.

Jean Paul Sartre, the philosopher, and Simone de Beauvoir, the writer and Sartre's lover, buried together, for instance. Their grave is visited by young couples who kiss the tombstone at the same time for luck in love. Look closely and you'll see the lipstick imprints near their names as well as little mementos left by visitors.

 


Samuel Beckett, the writer, also receives tiny mementos, even notes. One read: "Still waiting?" and another: "I was here. Godot".

Charles Beaudelaire, the poet, is there as is Porfirio Diaz, a past president of Mexico.

There are so many untold stories in any cemetery and this one was no exception. The stories are hinted at   in word or sculpture, by fresh flowers or signs of obvious care.  One little girl's grave, with a child dropping a flower onto the grave, had a verse carved into it that ends: "The flower of your memory". My French isn't good enough to translate the rest. Even the juxtaposition of this young one frozen in time in 1817 now silhouetted by a modern skyscraper speaks to the finality of death.

Another grave documented a family killed in Auschwitz-Birkenau with only the mother surviving for another 14 years and the daughter or son who memorialized them all.

With the number of sculptors buried here, their various depictions of grief were remarkable and conveyed their powerful, poignant message.

Or some of the other headstone sculptures that told their own stories.

The couple separated and searching for one another.

The grandchild clambering for his grandfather.

Or this striking portrayal of palpable sadness.

This statue stands in the center of the cemetery with the word "souvenir" on it exhorting us
"to remember".

I spent a long time in this lovely place meditating on my ultimately short journey on planet earth and struck by the stories shared by my fellow travelers.

What's on your mind as the week starts?

An Irish Wake

Since the relatives that I was visiting in Ireland live in County Clare, a country area, the custom of a home wake still prevails. It was the wife's brother who died unexpectedly at age 64 while I was there. Since many of you asked, I would like to share about this wonderful custom.

The wake is a grand send-off for the loved one who has died, a time when the body of the deceased rests in the family home with family and close friends keeping vigil through the days and nights before the burial. It ends when the body is taken from the home for the last time and moved to the local Church for the funeral. People come from near and far to take part in celebrating the life of the departed and providing comfort to the family. There's laughter as people tell their favorite stories and share their best memories. There are tears for the loss of a family, friend or community member or in sorrow for those left behind.

The deceased is dressed in their best clothes, taken home, surrounded by candles, never left alone, remembered, celebrated and cherished. Food is dropped off by neighbors and friends for those who gather. Family, friends, relatives, neighbors and acquaintances come, offer their condolences, sit together, eat, drink and talk together. Music is played, the mirrors in the house are covered and the clocks are stopped at the time of the death. Close friends and neighbors volunteer to fix food and clean up in the kitchen, care for children if needed or run errands. The family is supported, the deceased is honored, it's done in company.

It seems like such a good way to grieve.

Loss

Pema Chodron:
"When you open yourself to the continually changing, impermanent, dying nature of your own being and of reality, you increase your capacity to love and care about other people and your capacity to not be afraid."

This trip to Ireland has turned into something very different than how it was planned. I'm staying with my husband's cousins who have become good friends over the 13 years since we met them. There has been an unexpected death in the family throwing every day life up in the air, the way death does. Thoughts and feelings are swirling, tears and stories are shared. I'm learning more family history. A home wake, the custom here in Count Clare, will be tomorrow and I'll attend. I'm letting it all in, being present, helping where possible. It's all I can do for now.