Walking Corpses

My wish, indeed my continuing passion, would be not to point the finger in judgment but to part a curtain, that invisible shadow that falls between people, the veil of indifference to each other’s presence, each other’s wonder, each other’s human plight.

Eudora Welty.                                                

When I saw Eudora's beautiful thoughts and grace filled metaphors, I realized that my blessed Lord had indeed given me the grace to finally understand one of the most profound of his teachings.  Last night, when I couldn't sleep again, it came to me that so many people who do hurtful and downright cruel things to others are destroying their humanity.  Without humanity, the soul dies before the body does.  All that is left is the false ego, the shadow self as Carl Jung described it.  It is a magnet for negativity, attracting all of our worst desires and the means to fulfill them.  How did the human race develop this corrosive amnesia regarding the 'golden' rule?  More and more accretions of inhumane actions over eons has spiraled us into an immeasurable dystonian abyss.  Is there a way out?  As both the Buddha and Christ taught, it is compassion for those offenders.  I recently was attended by a physician who implied I was a self-centered neurotic, gave me no treatment and said he was 'kicking me out of the ER.'  He insisted that I leave at once even though I have Parkinson's disease and was in the midst of an acute anxiety attack, unable to walk. I started thinking of him today and it came to me.  Is there anything  worse than losing one's humanity?  I think not.  I felt such compassion for this man, a construct of highly sophisticated tools absent a healer and labelled MD.

On a Midwinter's Walk

Frigid winter air as penetrating as glass shards,
aura of  implacability
Snow transformed into encasing ice, 
rigid and unyielding 
I walk on a small path through  my beloved trees 
Even they look adamantine and lifeless
Yet, under my foot, a green pine sprig
Perhaps a metaphor for new beginnings, 
closer examination of that many faceted 
jewel, our life
Layers of detritus removed in pain reveal
the blinding light

Note: We are now in the ancient Celtic season of Samhein.  To them it was a time of expectation.  They had no doubt that the earth, and they as part of it, would be renewed.

My Blue Angel

While looking  for the MRI unit on the large hospital directory,

a middle aged black man with grizzled beard and hair and

a smile as radiant as a summer's sunrise, 

asked if he could show me a shortcut.   

He had on a well worn housekeeping uniform and 

was pushing a large pail and mop.    

He led me down a dark passage and then up several steps.  

Directly facing  us was a large silver elevator with a 'to MRI' sign.  

He put his arm around me and said  gently 

"everything's going to be alright, you'll see."  

I gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.  

Then I saw a woman, obviously on chemotherapy, on her way up too.  

His blessing, though given to me, 

enfolded her more deeply still.

There have been a number of angels in my life. 

It's only now with the infirmities of age gathering round  that

I have the vision to recognize them.  

Note: dedicated to Jerry Dworkin, didgeridoo master and kindred spirit.  Given your recent successful renal transplant, you obviously know more angels then I, Jerry!  May the Lord continue to enfold you in His loving protective care and keep you safe.

Ruminations on Samhain

I haven't posted anything since mid July.  Two rejection letters of a submission including a deeply felt poem about my deceased mother, " Pantoum for an Apple Tree," had a depressive effect.  Doubts about my poetic abilities followed me around like a rain cloud.  But, recent happenings have led me to believe that I still have many poems within me and an ideal place to write them.  My brother, Jim, and I moved to an independent  / assisted living facility.  We have a lovely small cottage surrounded by many mature trees.  In the meantime, I was prodded to share the following sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay and some thoughts it induced in me.

I came across an essay on Edna St.Vincent Millay by my "Writing the Spiritual  Journey" workshop leader, Randon Noble.  Randon is a kindrid spirit in spite of being years younger than I.  Her teaching style is a gentle and sympathetic drawing out from the often murky depths of the proverbial well.  It enabled me to discern the trajectory of my life which proved to be a revelation; so many moments of grace which were finally recognizable in the crazy quilt patterns of living.  I love this particular excerpt:

"The apples were small and hard and each the size of a small plum.  They were crisp and tart but sweet enough to enjoy – much like Millay, perhaps.  While the playwright finely sliced them, making little armadillo humps in the crust, I read from a collection of Millay’s poems.  They were a little rough to take all at once, and none had anything to do with apples or tarts (not in the culinary sense, anyway).  But I had been working on an essay that explores hauntedness, and it was my last night at the Colony, and I still felt vaguely unsettled by the shrine-like quality of Steepletop.

Sonnet XLIII deeply impressed me:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply …
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what rickbirds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more."

I have always loved this particular poem -  even more so now that my long summer has passed.  Millay's images are so achingly true.  Yet, I find them strangely comforting.  The listening ghosts and the lonely tree, who knows her boughs are empty now, are still seeking; they haven't given up.  Rather, they are waiting.  Samhain, the Celtic winter, draws me in now as age and progressing Parkinsonism slow my pace.  It's a time for ruminating, but in a larger sense it's a time for looking forward, no matter how near one's physical end may be.  Now my body is like the stark winter landscape with its skeletal trees and mouldering leaves.  But, within the frozen earth that gave them birth lies the dormant potency of their resurrection and mine as well.  Who knows what form it will take?  What a wondrous question to ponder on a snowy afternoon.

I love the Celtic cycle of the year because of its closeness to the earth and all its creatures.  To the ancient ones it was a sacred place.  I find it so also.

The Outcast

Like the lepers of old

he shuffles along  alone

mumbling to himself

His  dissheveled aura is

his warning bell 

A head too large, a deep

scar gouging  his neck,

Multiple  tumors cover his body like 

misshapen mushrooms on a tree trunk

NF1 they called it and walked away

Betrayed by his father, his body,

thoughtless others

Those authority figures who

ignored his impairments or

used them against him

Still he persisted,

two college degrees but

low level employment for years

He kept on trying until

the final rejection proved too much

Over the years  he drew more deeply

into his own private fortress like

an ancient mummy interred

in a hidden tomb

His funerary items include 

a lifetime of pent up hurt and

rage at the world and God, if

there was one, which

he very much doubted

The chamber is almost

sealed now 

I, his sister, watch and stop trying

to redeem him because 

this unbeliever and his Calvary 

of a life has always been

one of the Lord's uniquely beloved

A Very Unusual Visitor

I stepped away from my favorite reading perch

for a moment when

my cat snuggle buddy found

a tiny fly-like insect 

His body was almost transparent except

for tiny bulging black eyes

I saved him from the feline menace and

he spent several hours with me

exploring my surface anatomy

extensively and finally

jumped onto the page I was reading

He remained there almost motionless for

nearly twenty minutes

I believe as the ancient Hindu texts teach

that the small creature has a soul like mine

Perhaps he was aware of it too

In any event I relished reading with this

miniscule companion

Rabbit in the Grass

An early morning in summer

Sky clear but air heavy

In the dewy grass a lone rabbit feeds slowly, contentedly

in my back yard

My hunter cat notified me of his presence

I sipped my tea inside so as not to disturb him

I remembered when he was so small

he could fit into my tea cup

Now he is full grown, about the size

of a cat with beautiful light brown fur, large black eyes  and

ears so large they would give a hare pause

As I gazed at him, I recalled a similar morning 

some years ago when I was able to walk

I  was ambling along a nature trail when

I heard a piercing scream nearby

As I reached the area a falcon

was tearing apart a freshly caught rabbit 

Such things are part of nature's balancing act,

but they never cease to cut me to the heart 

Back in the kitchen I slowly pushed myself up

and began my small unsteady steps into

the living room, picked up purse and

car keys, and left for still another doctor's visit

A quick brutal death versus a painful lingering one 

If I had a choice, I think I would choose the former

No, I must take that back

Watching my body deteriorate slowly has

yielded priceless gifts of spirit

I now see with different eyes formed by 

suffering

It tore away at my ego, my false self, and

gave me a glimpse of my pristine true self 

My new eyes discerned  what the rest of my

life will entail,  despite the pain and myriad losses

Acceptance, compassion, and  the deep knowledge 

that I am truly loved