Saturday, October 3, 2015

Reflections on the lateness of being

Facing the ebb of life as you know it.  What life do you know?  I know I love the forest and flowers and

especially you.  Who will take it away?  Time maybe.  When joints are not able to be commandeered to do

what you command them to do.  I think of my groin tear.  Unable to walk.  Unable to hoe my garden or

cut wood to keep us warm for winter.  Oh, get a heat pump--not.  Unless I can't do all of the above, you say

that is not enough to cry about--I say it is enough to grieve deeply as a life loved was life lost.   I sat on the

couch; looked out into the forest and flowers and cried.  Big crocodile tears!  I'm no baby--physical pain

does not make me cry; although this groin injury did.   Normally, I cry like my dad did in the movie Old

 Yeller when I found out that roaring lion, my dad,  was really a softy pussy cat or when he saw me

  graduate  from high school.  A happy crier.  But this couch cry was grief.  Wet tears I could not see a

  future through.  Grieving for what I  thought I could no longer do.  Go sailing to Alaska with Aurelia Eco

Tour charters.  Luckily my old classmate said he could accommodate my handicapped state.  No cry there.

I am now better 2 months later but the doctor tells me it will be a while until I am back to full range of motion

in exercising.  Still, mortality raised its rattlesnake warning rattle.  Today I wait for our good friend, father-

like-friend, neighbor of some 30 years, principled, stubborn friend, to let go of his earthly spirit.  For some of

 us it is a battle to let go of what we called ownership of our life.  But then I write this to try and place myself

on my own death bed.  How will I react?  You cannot own what has been a gift.  You can be thankful for a

gift. But a gift is a gift.  Grace is free.  I am brought to another person's dying.  All of the possessions he has

amassed, the fat bank account, the  big Chrysler 300, the antique guns, cannot be held in his withering

spindle arms.  Lost control.  Clutching his stuff--no longer able.  That is his life story.  What will his obituary

say?  How will mine read.  A-hole finally dead--God, I hope not.  66 and 6 months.  Nooooo!  The

mystery unlocked.  How brave will I be?

                                    Dont weep for me
                                    Ive already cried a sea
                                    Looked into a crystal ball
                                    Seen everything in the future
                                    This is a preview
                                    I heard about old man Caldwell
                                    13 strokes crying on the porch
                                    In his rocking chair they carried him off
                                    Used up by the trees and farm
                                    Said he withered up in the city
                                    I hope I will be brave
                                    I hope my darling wont let them carry me off
                                    Cant I die here
                                    In the shady cathedral of fir and cedar
                                    Pile the Dido pyre wide and towering
                                    Let me take one last look from on high
                                    And as the smoke rises
                                    Carrying me through the boughs to the tree tops
                                    Let the needles feed on the CO2
                                    So that I may eternally
                                    Live on Sacred Ground

           Reflections was written after a conversation I had with Allen while his beautiful little girl,Una, was flitting around.  The epitome of genius & athlete gone; waiting for his fragile health & mind to be totally gone.  My hope for him is that he lives long.  I hope we all do.                                           

                                Reflections on the Lateness of Being

The body in the bathroom mirror

Looked a little like me

Thank God it was fogged a bit

I recognized the person sort of

Like an old high school friend changed

Conversations with frontal lobe impaired Allen

We heard together ticking ticking ticking

Better get the house in order

The inevitable visit is coming

Could be any day

Could be years we both hope

100 not looking to good

Who knows when

Perhaps I hope with him not today

                                    I know Im always late

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