There will be more
swells of grief that tug
me into their gray embrace,
and swirls of lament,
and great rollers of loss,
and rising waves of ache.
But for now,
the morning sun
slips low through the window
in a major key
and the cat finds a home
in my lap and purrs
and the tea in my cup
is warm and full of bright notes
and I’m here, in this
peace, in this sunlit
octave, I’m here.
Archive for November, 2021
Trough
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, grief, music on November 10, 2021| 8 Comments »
Condition
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, gratitude, grief, mother on November 8, 2021| 10 Comments »
My body, thank you for carrying this ache,
for carrying it not like a burden, but like a baby—
like a gift, like something that will
change you and keep changing you forever.
Of course, you would want to shut down,
to close, to contract,
but I see how the grief grows you.
Though it shreds your sleep,
though it drops you to the floor,
you learn what it is to be a mother.
Through no effort of your own,
you are on board for a miracle.
So big, this invitation to love. Oh body,
you would never ask for this, and yet
you meet this grief every moment.
You find inner doors you never knew were there
and you swing them open, not to rid yourself
of the ache, but to grant it full access,
to know the grief completely,
to let it rewrite you, remake you, rebirth you,
to let it teach you what it means
be alive.
Is
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged is, koan, opening, service, treasure on November 7, 2021| 2 Comments »
The storehouse of treasures opens by itself. You can take them and use them any way you wish.
—from Pacific Zen’s Miscellaneous Koan Collection
Even in deepest sorrow,
the storehouse of treasures
opens inside each moment—
I needn’t even knock on the door.
Nothing is asked of me.
I come to the storehouse
pockets empty, but feel
no need to fill my pockets.
All I want is to live in the opening.
All I want is to be used
by the treasure.
I want to be the treasure.
An Inside Job
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, inside job, love, presence on November 6, 2021| 8 Comments »
Do you feel his presence
all the time now? she said,
and I imagined she meant
do I find signs of you
in spilled salt, in the background
of my reflection, in the light
behind the trees, in the color
of the sky, in the shape of clouds.
No, I scoffed.
And then I thought of how,
in every moment
I beam love to you,
and how I feel you
receive it, how I feel you
send love back.
Yes, I said. Yes,
I feel his presence
all the time. Not some
abstract experience, but
something vital as blood,
something integral as breath,
no longer separate—
you the love that fuels me
from the inside.
Tannins of Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cranberries, love, trees on November 6, 2021| 7 Comments »
He loved the bitter tastes—
thrilled at what happened to the mouth
without sugar. So tonight,
staring at the fresh cranberries,
I feel the now familiar twist
of deep love laced with sour.
How many pots of cranberry sauce
did we make out of season,
boiling down the hard red fruits
with as little sugar as we could manage?
I remember the way he poured cranberries
into the pot, not with grace,
but with enthusiasm. The way he waited
for the berries to meld before adding
sugar, clove and orange peel.
The way he thrilled in the sharp red tang—
his pucker trailed by a grin.
The cranberries spark in me a brighter
love for that boy. Even as I wince.
While I Could
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hands, holding, transience on November 5, 2021| 8 Comments »
We arrive empty handed, and leave empty handed. So then, how do we want to spend the time in between?
—Nimo, Empty Hands Music
For a time, I held
him. Before he
could walk, before
he could stand,
before he could
speak, I held
his full weight
in my hands.
Day became night
became day became
night became day
and I held him
and rocked him
and soothed him
and bathed him
and cradled
his beautiful face.
It didn’t last.
It never lasts.
But before he could run,
before he could
fall, before
he could choose
what I never
would have chosen for him,
I held him.
Oh, this gift,
to know the heft
of his life, to have been
the one—though
never again—
to have been the one
for a time, sweet time,
to hold him.
Out of Season
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged autumn, grief, loss, spring on November 3, 2021| 6 Comments »
Autumn is, perhaps, befitting
for heartache—everywhere you look,
loss. Loss of leaves, loss of color,
loss of warmth, loss of light.
If you are grieving,
the barren world seems to mirror
what’s happening inside you.
Everything seems to say,
See, you can’t hold on.
So how to explain this explosion
of beauty, this unexpected spring of grace—
how to explain the way generosity
pushes through what’s dead
like apple trees in first pink,
how gratitude flourishes, enormous
invisible blooms, and though
you can’t see them, everywhere,
everywhere in this heart of autumn,
you smell the insistent green of springtide,
the astonishing perfume of love.
Talking with My Daughter about Grief
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, daughter, grief, light, mother on November 2, 2021| 8 Comments »
We lie in the dark
and speak about anything
but what I ache to speak about.
Some part of me longs
to find the words like search lights
that will help us find
what we don’t yet know
we are looking for.
Or a black light
that might help us see
what is valuable right here,
but invisible to our ordinary eyes.
I try to infuse my words
with candlelight, but somehow
even this feels too brash,
too aggressive, and so
we lie in the dark
and I let the moon
do all the talking,
oh waning crescent,
you know when to shine,
when to simply be held
by the dark.
The Naked Heart Goes into Town
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, heart, loss, naked, raw on November 2, 2021| 10 Comments »
The heart walks down the street
with its big brim hat, its sunglasses,
its four chambers stepping up
onto the curb. It hopes it doesn’t
run into anyone it knows.
It’s hard enough to keep pumping,
pumping, one hundred thousand times
a day. That’s all the heart can manage right now.
No conversation. No small talk.
No big talk. The heart has nothing to say—
a heart is made to feel,
and feel it does as it makes its way
to the post office, stops at the crosswalk,
feels it all.
Feels the cool breeze that buffets it.
Feels love for the scent of autumn,
love for the low-glancing light.
And it grieves for the loss
of what once it pumped for.
Grieves for the boy who still
lives in its walls. Grieves for
all who grieve, who weep.
Oh the heart, it feels so exposed
as it stands at the door of the coffee shop,
wonders if it can go in.
The other hearts in the coffee shop
wear so much skin.
The heart sniffs at the dark and bitter scent,
remembers what it was like
to go inside, sip a latte, talk about weather.
It pounds against itself,
walks on down the road.
Letter to Finn on Halloween
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, halloween, loss, masks on November 1, 2021| 5 Comments »
That was the year you were Santa.
Your sister was a Christmas tree,
and your dad and I were reindeer.
I remember how much I loved you
that night with your big white beard
falling off your face, how I giggled
with your high-pitched ho ho ho
right before you’d say trick or treat.
I miss you. Every day accordions
with missing you. Every hour
comes to the door, sack in hand,
wondering what I have to offer it.
Sometimes I want to turn off the lights,
pretend I’m not home. But not tonight.
Tonight I hand out memories of you—
you dressed as blue crane, as red ninja,
as a giant cardboard skyscraper,
as a tall green firework made of felt,
and as Santa with a big black belt—
each memory sweeter than the other
until the hour is weighted with unbearable
sweetness, not the kind I can eat,
but the kind that consumes me.
This is the year I dress as myself
for Halloween—some version of me
who has lost all her masks—and you,
you are the one I keep wishing
could still knock on the door.