“He makes me to lie down in green pastures: he leads me beside the still waters” Psalm 23
They say only the good die young, but I don’t believe that, I have known some pretty awesome 89 year olds. I think it’s easier to die young because we don’t have to face the aches and pains of old age, and maybe even the loss of our facilities. My Dad used to say that three score years and 10 was good enough for him, he made it to 75.
I remember when the nurse called us to the hospital to say that my Mother was dying, she said my Mother had opened her eyes for a bit and she had the most beautiful eyes, the color of the sky on a cloudless day. I stood at her bedside and begged her to stay, I wanted her to see my babies grow up.
At first she seemed agitated as if she was trying to hold on for us. We asked a priest in the hospital to pray for her and I saw something change in her countenance. She became peaceful, as though there was an angelic presence in the room. It seemed that something irresistibly beautiful was calling her back to the light. She was only 61. My Mother had known mental anguish, she had understood abandonment, and I think in that moment she let go of all her suffering, and went home. I think a table had been prepared for her, and she was ready to sup with the Divine. She was and still is one of the bright lights of my life, and whenever I look up at the pale blue skies I think of her…
Mother’s day is hard for me and I kind of go into a bit of a decline just before the day. My son’s friend invited us over to his house. It looks over Lake Pleasant and we ate Bass and reminisced about my son. These are the things that get me through the hard times!
In the stillness at the end of day I brightened with each golden ray, and basked in the fading light, and watched the stars impress the night!
The dark stirred me into feelings of bliss, bringing rhythm to the tenderness of being clothed in forgiving breath, from the deep wounds of sudden death. I revisited light and thankfulness, in hideaways of thoughts confessed…
A dusty road took me there, to a tin house, unmistakably shanty in appearance, it still had a certain appeal-standing out in the parched scrubland. Its blushing red roof caught my attention. There’s no one home now, the shutters are firmly closed and a deep silence rings through the rooftops. Stillness lies on the soft dune-like earth, where once it bore unrefined food. A shadowed porch is cool in the summer heat and I can almost hear the echo of Father’s tall tales and the reek of his tobacco. The outhouse has run dry. The hallway still remembers the laughter of children and the cockerel crowing in the backyard at dawn. There’s a chimney blackened with soot from an old woodstove.
We had so much time on our hands back then, Mother would peel potatoes to roast with a topside of beef and sip sherry at the kitchen table. I reached into my memories and remembered when days were simple, waters were sweet, and the sun sank into my cheeks with no regret. No-one knew about global warming or ice caps melting then, the TV was black and white, and scratchy records played melodic tunes on the turntable. The earth was still a wholesome place to live or so I thought as a naïve child.
I played barefoot in the garden, doing ballet on the front lawn as my brother took snaps. I watched tiny buds push their way up through the cracked ground in celebration of a summer downpour. I’ve reimagined my life that way again, a gaggle of hens and a flock of ducks clucking away, scratching the earth for tasty morsels, pitching their story to me in the late afternoon, finding a perch before the sun went down, my own little piece of paradise.
I’m ever hopeful of returning to the simple construct of an uncomplicated life, filled with home-grown vegetables, nourishment for the soul, both mental and physical-to a time when we exchanged pleasantries, perhaps even a little gossip with the neighbors and sometimes a cup of sugar or a few eggs.
We have a popular car-boot sale here every month where you can sell junk, it’s like a yard sale and a whole lot of us get together, and people come and buy our pre-loved stuff.
I have been clearing out and it is more than just dust and papers, it’s my heart. I find photos of Steve and his twelve-step books, a valentine card he gave me, his writings, and the Egyptian cotton sheets he slept on, it’s excruciating! Some things I still hold onto for dear life, his cricket bat and his last box of cigarettes.
I know it seems strange but those were the things he touched they connect me to him they are his beloved things, earthly possessions that brought him happiness!
raw hurts like crazy raw breaks me I clean out these closets of my sorrow again and again but they still find me in the dust in the tears disguised as hay-fever trickling down my face.
they can’t wash me out
I look through old photographs and fragments of him and I am destroyed, I don’t know if I will survive, but I hear his voice through the piles of papers his favorite books, study notes, poems he wrote, through the terrible suffering he endured and he always forgave and he still forgives…
and he tells me to do the same!
he lives on in my everyday dreams, he is the voice in my head reminding me that everything will be okay, he’s my teacher, a guardian of my secrets freed now from his Earthly pain…
the car boot sale isn’t big enough to hold my baggage, to sell it to the next poor unassuming soul. I am a hoarder of memories selling them doesn’t feel like a betrayal, it’s more like the gradual letting go of indescribable pain, a catharsis, or maybe it’s just to forget….
these are the things I must do to survive I will hold this connection in my heart forever and we will meet again, face to face, it’s the sacred vow we made together once long before my memories began…
There’s a buzz in the house and constant chatter, it distracts me momentarily, But sorrow lurks like a raw ache inside me wanting expression. I push it down again for the tenth time!
I don’t want anyone to see my pain, and I’m hoping that the grief that has risen to my eyes will go unnoticed…
I need only a few short days to feel the depth of this pain and wallow in it just a little.
It’s as though my body wants unbearable sorrow to sear my flesh again and again so that I can die to all these fears.
Memories bump together, the “what ifs” raise their ugly heads, and I crash!
I’m biting my lip, the lump in my throat rises and I choke back the tears.
These are my sacred memories they stay alive in me, reminding me that he once lived on this earth plain. I cannot forget a single part of him, I will not! I want this to be known, I want it to hurt me to the point of ruin so that I can melt into the ether and burn with the sun.
It’s hard to share pain, when the fear of being misunderstood is so real, and after all who wants a death’s head at a feast?
So I wait until I can settle into my sanctuary of holy tears. In the quietness I am not ashamed, there are no prying eyes reading me swallowing me in self-doubt!
I stop questioning my beliefs in this holy city and I accept that I now live in two worlds…
I rejoice in the knowledge that death cannot separate us, and I am freed from the abstraction of doubt.
I will make it to the other side of sorrow, because his voice in my head tells me he is always with me…
I’ve had a few hard days, and some have bumped into each other and I lost track of time. Today I commemorate three years since I saw my son in physical form…
CS Lewis said “her absence is like the sky spread over everything” and yet I still look for you in a knowing way, and you are still here! What should I believe in times like these, when fear is rampant on the earth? Should I believe that death is the end and you are far from me across a chasm somewhere? Or should that part deep inside of me recognize that you still exist in a higher vibration?
And yes they look at me funny when I say such things, but how do they suggest I survive without you? Should I go into the void and shut myself down and be ground into the hard unforgiving soil of life, or should I embrace the knowing?
I live here on the earth plain with humans, in my physical body a lower vibration state, it’s uncomfortable it sometimes hurts like crazy! They don’t want to talk about death and I’m trying to understand, in times like these when death is all around why not?
I’ve tried to make them understand, that it’s only in the knowing that I can breathe, it’s in the acceptance of death that I have survived… How else would they suggest I live? Gone is not a word I use to describe you, absence would be devastation. It really doesn’t feel that way!
My mother feels so far from me right now because I once believed the lies. I was never allowed to explore those unseen, mystical realms where dead people walk and fly and dance and where they are more alive than they’ve ever been…
And yet the one they follow came alive on the third day He rose from the dead, and he said we will do so much more than he did!
Nothing makes sense to me, if we are just human flesh in dense form, let’s transcend, and see ourselves as spiritual beings. That way we will be able to drink in this holy love soup that is all around us, we’ll swim in it and float in its pleasure. We’ll become ambassadors of love when we begin to see the bright light on the other side…
Why can’t I talk to the dead? When the dead are part of me, my ancestors DNA brought to life in me, yet scattered on the oceans for eternity….
I must survive, I must let the wind take me to where you are, the currents will shift me and alchemize my form into light. I will see you and you will see me through butterfly’s eyes and I will recognize you in the colors that are spread across the skies, as I pick up heart shaped pebbles sent by you. Messengers from the other side to reassure me that I am never alone…
Oh to catch sunlight that has no density, yet to feel it, to smell fragrances but not to hold them in my hand. How can they believe you’re not with me? Do they not know it would be the most unbearable suffering, if I did not believe that you are still here with me guiding me, watching over me?