Tag: death

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Letting the Heart Fill Back Up

Last week I wrote about my project to fill a sketchbook with lists, for a local show. Well, I have filled up my sketchbook but without a single list. Scrapped the whole idea after messing up a few pages with lists that I deemed “lame” and unworthy of hanging on a wall at the Columbia Art League.

I’ve completed the sketchbook way ahead of time, though, choosing to write about death, instead. I don’t see why I wouldn’t. Death is inevitable. Last week it came for a sweet, humble, warm-hearted artist here in our community, out of the blue and at the too young age of 64. He was a man who, because of his lovely nature, anyone who even barely knew him could call “friend.” Beloved by all, his death was unexpected and a blow.

So I’ve written about death–just my random thoughts, since I do ruminate on death quite a lot, anyway. At the same time I’ve made three happy paintings as an antidote to all the darkness. And I’m working on letting my heart fill back up, staying in the present, trying to focus on the moments when Miles is bouncy and lively, rather than when he’s struggling. I am working on accepting what is.

But the “what is” can be enormous and terrible, if I look beyond my own small life. “What is” includes suffering in many parts of the world and major disappointments here in the U.S. As to accepting all of that, I am baffled. I’m reminded of a line from the movie “Living Out Loud,” when Holly Hunter is watching the news on TV and says aloud, “What am I supposed to do with all of this information?”

What, indeed.

Today I took a walk from my house, down to the trail and back up again, while listening to a beautiful meditation. In my ear I heard, “How are you right now?” Well, right then I was looking at the beautiful early morning sunlight through the leaves, blue sky up above, and admittedly I felt lucky. Sometimes I find it hard to hold onto those moments, but again and again I will be asking myself, “How are you right now?” Right now I am fine.

“Emotions are like waves. Watch them disappear in the distance on the vast calm ocean.” ― Ram Dass, Be Here Now

“Instead of forcing yourself to feel positive, allow yourself to be present in the now.” ― Daniel Mangena, Stepping Beyond Intention

“Think about every good thing in your life right now. Free yourself of worrying. Let go of the anxiety, breathe. Stay positive, all is well.” ― Germany Kent

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. If you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. And if someone forwarded this one to you, you can sign up here to receive the letters right in your Inbox. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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82

My grandmother’s birthday falls today.

She would be 116 years old

a good long span of time for anyone.

As it was she died at 86, prompting

my own mother’s vow to surpass

her in age.  And that she did

by nearly a decade, prompting my

vow to go at 82, which leaves

(at this writing) twenty one years

to live fully and well, twenty one

years to figure out the basics of

happiness

forgiveness

compassion

fulfillment.

A tall order I realize but then maybe

I’ll be ready next go round

to tackle higher aims.

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The Pine Tree

The pin oak is finally turning red, red orange, burnt sienna

though the ginkgo is still quite green and that old pine tree

stands nearly bare when it should be green and full of needles.

Old age, vines and weather have finally defeated it

a tree my neighbor who lived to be a hundred planted

when she was young.  When she was old her neighbor

to the west climbed it every December to hang

a lit wreath high up in its topmost branches.

Both now gone from here, one to the country

a young wife and two little boys, one after those

last bitter years to death and whatever comes next.

So everything changes even those things we

imagine don’t matter that much nevertheless

adding to the humble landscape of a human life

for as I look now back there I recall a whole

other time left behind as my life goes on and on.

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Straight to Heaven

Streak of light slowly draws itself

up and up in the morning sky

an airplane gaining height

an odd sight here

no airport nearby.

Where has it come from

where is it going on its

glorious bright path?

Straight up to heaven

full with passengers

whose time has come

whose future now exists

only in the spirit realm

until next time around?

The pilot too I suppose

or do we go sans pilot

on such a journey

express flight

straight up

no navigator needed?

One could guess that yes

for such a destination

we’re free flying

like shooting stars

darting directly up

no looking back.

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Two Straight Arrows

That woman’s two sons died together in a car crash

two teenagers off on their way to work

two straight arrows she said they were

and when she told me tears sprang

as it is so often said right into my eyes.

How did she bear it? I wonder for

I have certainly imagined such a thing

many times when my own sons have

stayed gone longer than seemed

explainable in some other way.

I don’t know how she bore it or how

she bears it now, so many years later.

I hear these stories from strangers

who pass right along through my life

on their way to whatever private

challenges they face, these stories

that live someplace inside me, the

lovely and the terrible making a

kind of fierce patchwork I could

easily hide beneath.

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Poem

I wonder if I will always note that this was the date

upon which my friend died now two years ago.

The moon was full that night, there was no drought

and it was certainly not as hot then as it is now.

I saw a colleague of hers the other day

who said he’d thought of her recently.

I think of her every day,

I said and he looked rather startled.

Words and phrases that passed

from her everyday language into

mine and mine to hers I suppose

that is the biggest culprit as we

were both always keen on words.

I noted in my journal that in those last days

out of her head and drugged with morphine

the word poem popped into her ramblings

again and again not so surprising as she

was likely writing one in her head even then.

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Leaving the Nest

Young hawk has left the nest perhaps

only for a trial flight but I hear it crying

at the front of the house this morning.

When Peter stood for the first time

on his own clinging to the edge of the

toy box he turned to me with a look of

panic at what he had done.  What now?

his small face seemed to ask.

A writer I admire died last night

left this world I hope without panic

though she loved all that it held.

I hold now to her earlier advice

about knowing what you love so

that you can do a great deal of it.

Peter now moves easily through the world

India China Africa Iceland Europe.

The hawk will one day leave the nest forever

soar and wheel as its parents do now.

And I?  I will continue to write.

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Memorial

Rainy morning following a rainy night

and the little creek where my young sons

played recklessly rubber rafting after

a storm, shooting under the street

to come out on the other side

now rushes by without them.

In the woods lately my dogs

have been troubling the rotting

carcass of a snapping turtle caught

in the roots of a creek-bound tree.

I hope this steady rain has

whooshed it on downstream

making one less spot for me to avoid

out there where creatures lay just

as they’ve fallen

without ceremony

or marker.

For three weeks now in those woods

a cross, flowers and candles

have stood guard over the memory

of a young girl younger by far

than all my sons who seems

to have flung her life away

from atop the bluff

all her hope somehow

fallen to none.

And just that morning I

anticipating the return home

of my two far-flung sons

had wandered with my dogs

in our carefree way

those very woods

where that girl sought

solace by choosing

an end to the only thing

we ever truly own.

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My Mother’s Room

Tucson and last I was here was the day my mother died.

Coming down the steps in the airport I rush back

to that night tumbling into the arms of my three sisters

I’d cried afresh. How would it feel to sleep in her room?

To be here, even, after two years away

two years without our mother?

The room is surprisingly peaceful.

The angel’s foot hovers above the bed

my mother’s Tiffany lamp sits beside

for the reading of a good book.

Whatever becomes of us when we die

has become of her. All is as it must be.

We are all where we must be. We are all safe.

I am safe, after all, in this room.