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?
Injured
Dont
weep for me
Ive already cried a sea
Looked
into a crystal ball
Seen
everything in the future
All
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 GroundReflections 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
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