Check out my new 'World Reflections" Section
Interesting stories and anecdotes that reach into insights I have gained abroad.
Healing Grief, On-line Course, by Terry Douglas.
You are invited to participate in an 8-
week, on-line course, entitled
Healing Grief Page that captures a journey of healing following deep loss.
Unseen Rain
Posted on Monday, April 16th, 2007
Recently, I was reading some of the quatrains of Rumi translated by John Moyne and
Coleman Barks. The edition is entitled “Unseen Rain.”
In the introduction, I came upon this line: “Like grief, [these quatrains] flip normal, rational perspective to sudden mystery and clarity.”
Allow me to give you a sample of one of Rumi’s quatrains:
Some nights stay up till dawn,
as the moon sometimes does for the sun.
Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way
of a well, then lifted out into light.
I wrote the following poem as an attempt to break out of the routine –
someone would say the orthodox — approaches to violence we all face in this 21st Century
and to discover a clarity that seems to have eluded us.
“Old Men”
Early morning sun glaring,
Old man sips pensive dark roast,
While scramble light outlines patrons
Bustling in and out – eyes tight.
A second far distant sits in early afternoon
Before blue harbor awaiting tourists,
Gazing in a white cup of thick liquid,
Worry-beads dangle idle from gnarled fingers.
A third further still strokes gray stubble pensive,
Hisses inward steaming sweet strong chai,
Reverencing snow-covered peaks above,
A weapon cradled close in fading light.
All inner peer together now in this instant –
Honor family, children, grandchildren,
Those to follow, as those who’ve past –
A moment anointed in enlightened slumber.
Spirit warriors as one they shatter
Flaunted boundaries of beliefs and differences;
Joined together in soul-touch prayer with confidence,
Dispelling anger, doubt, hopelessness, and despair
Fashionable leaders seem determined to promote
Without the vision, courage, willingness to pursue,
Even hear much less listen to alternatives that
War-weary grandfathers discover deep within.
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Last Supper
Posted on Friday, April 6th, 2007
Recently, I was discussing with a friend the death of my father in my arms,
just weeks before the loss of my spouse. My friend suggested that I consider
composing a poem to capture the significance of a son feeding a father his last meal.
What follows is my effort, completed in the very early hours of Good Friday.
“Last Supper”
Too weak I let him
Feed me as he wraps
An arm around
My shoulder.
I feel his strength,
His warmth thru hands
That cradle me
As I once did him,
New born
Swaddled tight
Against the bitter cold
Six decades long ago.
No words exchanged
Then or now, only regret
Lingers on dry lips
For my too cautious acts of love.
Though love there was
And is in whatever flicker
I can manage that
He might yet detect.
As my breath shallows,
So touch fails,
Attention turns to Light, or
Is it Presence?
With effort that in youth
Would have easily heaved
My weight upon my back,
I turn my eyes toward his,
And in that instant,
Our eyes lock.
He smiles and I know
He knows my love.
I let his hold release me
To a warm embrace
That encompasses all
My cares in silence.
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