The Rules of Engaging Grief

On the bumpy ride in the back of a pick-up truck driving on roads of sand in Corova, NC, I thought of the first stanza as I viewed homes built by those who are my age vintage.

Corova

As we age we seek
To realize dreams
Reserved for youth
Too busy to dream.

We plant fruit trees
Not anxious for harvest,
Build deep foundations
To refuge those in need.

Still we travel now
Beneath pounding surf
To wisdom love
In glistening light.

Is this our legacy?
A testament profound
For those that follow close
In awaking consciousness.

A walk on the beach at dawn prompted this reflection.

“Heard”

Did sun below
A cloud bank at dawn
Notice him direct
On the beach alone?

Is that why it tipped
Gold-leaf light forward
To form a narrow path
On glitter-flat water,

For a dolphin pod
To approach so close
As if to hear distinct
Soft murmurings of a soul?

I still remember fifty years ago seeing the three questions carved above the altars of a Jesuit seminary — where did I come from, why am I here, and where am I going. These last few days, I have been thinking again about the answers. Perhaps, a rereading — there have been several — of Kazantzakis’ Zorba The Greek influenced my reflection. Here is the poem:

“Recognized”

Whither is a region
Shadow dark where hardly
Distinguishable we roam
Unknown — one without another.

Here consciousness seeds us
Awash in soul-color splash,
Life-light dazzles blazes
That radiate – beckon

Through a portal spiral
Swirl dance melody love
Amidst eternal pulsing time,
Now recognized yet one.

I just returned from Sedona, AZ. While there, I visited the site where our family gathered to scatter the ashes of my spouse five years ago.  Here is the poem I wrote to commemorate this occasion.

“New Beginnings”

Alone he walks a path –
Dusty red rock
Through Juniper pine
Winding upward for a mile,

Blast furnace heat envelops
As he ascends further
White rose tipped-red in hand
Where Kachina Woman* waits

In supplication and prayer,
Standing upon burnt shale,
A carpet of tears it seems;
He sits in her shadow

Recalls years ago
When he let loose in sadness
Love’s ashes to the breeze
To honor life’s transition.

Now upon a gnarled mesquite
Clinging tenaciously
To the barren surface
Patient for the rain,

He releases rose petals
With care – deliberately
In reflection of life –
A  love now passed.

After a time he rises
Retraces his steps
Returns to where it began –
A place of new beginnings.

  
*A red rock spire so named near Boynton Canyon outside of Sedona, AZ

I was discussing mortality with a friend and described how for me it was like walking
through a subway car in New York without being distracted as to your stop.

“Times Square Next”

The old man dressed in tatters walks
The subway car with purpose,
Pausing for support between lurches.

He sings softly Celtic ballads;
A scuffed violin he carries
To synchronize his spirit.

Confounded commuters look up,
Furtively at first from news print past,
Confronting presence in his blaze smile.

No beggar he – an intent seeker,
Oblivious to how long he yet must travel,
He seeks to stir those who linger – sleep.

Some ask – what is his purpose, his stop?
He’s a footfall in a flood of light;
Then absent – in exit, in transfer, who knows.

Most remaining sit unaware – unconscious really,
His song and music linger high above drone slumber.
Then brakes begin to squeal – what stop is next?