The Rules of Engaging Grief

Recently, I was unloading a dishwasher late in the evening. In my rush I inadvertently plunged
a knife into my wrist! A couple of stiches later, I was on the way to recovery. The next morning
I reflected upon pain — both the physical and emotional variety. I wrote the following poem to
capture the experience, using something “inconvenient” to lead me to a deeper truth.

Pain

Pain sits astride
Eternity’s threshold,
Busying us deep
As mantras do.

In pain we detach,
Search deep,
Beyond glint surface
Of future illusion.

Pain creates stillness,
Patience, if we so will,
Where each moment
Cascades upon itself.

Pain invites communion
With those who suffer
Alone, aghast, rejected
In dismal shadows.

Pain soul-scours,
Clears tinsel distraction,
Welcomes in quiet praise
The uninvited Visitor.

I mentioned earlier of the influence Thomas Merton has had on my spiritual quest.
Recently, I came upon a compact volume entitled: “Thomas Merton - A Book Of Hours,”
edited by Kathleen Deignan, CND, that I heartily recommend both for Merton’s spiritual
wisdom and for her introductory comments.

See if you agree:

“Time no longer means anything in such prayer, which is carried on in instants of its own,
instants that can last a second or an hour without our being able to distinguish one from another.
For this prayer belongs less to time than to eternity.” (No Man Is An Island by Merton)

[Merton] learned that now is eternity’s nearest station, a threshold to the living presence where God
is found by sinking into the heart of the moment as it is. He wondered at the grip the present had on him:
the reality of now, the unreality of all the rest, held in the folds of conscious wakefulness. (A Book Of Hours, page 34.)

As I have written previously, I set aside some time each day for meditation.
The following poem paints with brief brush strokes how rich that experience is for me.

“Some Nod”

Black-scuffed metal balls,
Pomegranate sized,
Filled with grape shot,
Belt-leather bound,

Once strung donkey necks
For smugglers traversing
Tibetan mountain routes
In snow and mountain fog,

Now aloft my secret
Garden sanctuary where
I steal early King’s ransom,
Whisper distant from the surf.

Each morning sound them softly
Not to waken slumber-ers,
Who complacent remain unconscious
To this Presence dawning.

Instead, I summon a band of thieves
Determined as I am to descend
Along darkened corridors rough hewn
To the treasure vault carved deep within.

Asked later where we’ve been,
Aglow we are in splendor-radiant
From our early stilled adventure,
We tell them – some nod.