Tag Archives: death

Love Lessons: A talk with Dr. Bernie S. Siegel and Cynthia J. Hurn


Continue reading

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Announcements, Editorial, Non-Fiction, Spiritual wisdom, Uncategorized

The One Reality


As she drew the curtains to let the sun in, her Big Ben door chimes rang out. The bay window afforded a view of her front door, but no one was there. The bell rang again, this time, with a strikingly sweet diinnnng! She entered the hall to find that her roof …was gone! The sky seemed to envelop her, sucking her in; no boundaries, no past, no future, no time – just – unfolding present. The deepest blue she had ever experienced evolved into a permeating nurturing pink – a conscious intelligence that knew every moment of her and it loved her without limit, without judgment, without expectation of any kind.

Behind her hundreds of “her” people had gathered, and their arms thrust her with such enormous speed – Whoooosh! Like child on a swing – it took her breath away, though she had no sense of breathing, only of the white light – closer and closer – it should have blinded her eyes with searing pain, but didn’t. She couldn’t look away. It, too, knew her with complete, perfect, and even amused love.

All too soon, from light years away, a pin prick voice called her name. Immediately she began to fall and the light, still brilliant, grew smaller and more distant, and she knew it was consciously letting her go.

“Don’t send me back! Please,” she cried. A sound – a loud, sharp CLAP dropped her and she was back, standing at her open front door where a ragged stranger was asking for a glass of water.

“Of course, come in,” she said and gently ushered him to a chair. At long last, she truly understood: the only reality and the only real choice is love.

Last May on Whidbey 062

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction, Flash & Micro Fiction, Spiritual wisdom, Uncategorized

Resurrection


As she waited to hear back from the hospital she found herself thinking about her brother’s bedroom – magical, mysterious, and strictly off limits unless she knocked and received permission to enter. A rare treat that he gave only when she promised not to ask too many questions….

“Brucie, what’s this?” she asked, fingering a fishhook from the tin box on her brother’s workbench.

“Put it down. If that gets stuck in your thumb, I’ll have to push it all the way through and you’ll cry like a girl.”

She examined the sharp point and barb, then dropped the hook and picked up another one. “What’s it for?”

“Fly fishing.” Her brother set a small hook in the workbench clamp. Taking two scarlet feather fronds from a cardboard container he placed them against the hook and spiraled golden silk thread round and round the ends, flush to the base of the curved steel, transforming the hook into an alluring winged insect.

“Wow, that’s pretty. What do you do with it?”

“You tie it on your rod like this…” Retrieving a spool from his tackle box, Bruce threaded nylon through the fishhook loop, then tied a knot and cut the line in one deft movement. He tossed the hook into the air and flicked the line back and forth. Light from his workbench lamp glinted against the shimmering gold and scarlet.

She forgot it was merely feather and steel and sat mesmerized by the dancing insect that responded to her brother’s hand.

“When this lure strikes the water,” he said, “the trout thinks Supper! He leaps to the surface, gulps the insect, and snap!” Bruce jerked his wrist. “That’s when the fish becomes my supper,” he said with a laugh.

~ * ~

It was the jangling telephone that dragged her back to the here and now. After the call she sat in stunned silence. “He’s gone,” was all her sister could say.

She imagined the neurosurgeon tying silk stitches, closing the hole where the tumor had been. The surgeon’s thread was shimmering gold.

At the corner of her vision, something flickered past the window drawing her attention outside. There an incredibly beautiful, scarlet dragonfly danced in the morning sun.

“Hi Bruce,” she whispered. “How did you do that?”

dragonfly2

8 Comments

Filed under biographical, Fiction, Flash & Micro Fiction, Non-Fiction

A Good Passing


Image

Sonny’s gone, Jim wrote.

The scribed message, so simple and stark

lacked the sound of his voice, but I heard

Jim’s pause-filled sigh in those uncountable seconds

when truth hits hard

and words, mere symbols of our reality

let us down.

3-D memories flooded my mind

tactile visions of spring-born colt

chestnut legs like flying buttresses, ungainly and long

and wonder-filled days ahead with happy destiny

carved by DNA and sweet mare’s milk

and sun, those glorious summer rays…

Galloping grows from sunshine and meadows

hooves drumming the bodhran ground

chastising squeals and mother-love neighs…

All the while, as I dream of the child horse who’d been,

Sonny’s lifeless body, a silent shadow of himself

draping earth – an old sleeping giant – awaits

Jim prepares the tractor-dug coffin

a deep, soft space, gentle rest place

of honor for his friend, nestled beside beloved bones

And beyond the invisible curtain of light and love

Sonny’s spirit dances, chestnut shimmering, cavorting again

for there, waiting to greet him, stands Sur

shaking his noble head, calling

Welcome home, Sonny.

It was a good passing

Submitted to:

http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Poetry%20Pantry%20Revisited

18 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

This Is Who I Am


To be a writer

is like being two atoms that dance with one

Hydrogen playing with Oxygen

moving with scintillating, procreating fluidity

a disciplined yet unchained pattern

until the quadrille

slows down

and stands

with hardly a breath

transforming into crystals,

each one a unique expression

of water being frost

rock being mountain

or wind being ripples on river’s skin

like human being body, emotion and thought

like me, turning molecules of mind into words

dancing the rounds and rhythms,

pulling sounds and meanings like taffy;

stretching, tempting, and loving the sweetness

of post-rain petrichor, poetry and story-being-born.

Discipline is all it takes;

it’s only a matter of focused attention.

All the while my faucet drips

a metronome playing Chopin’s Funeral March.

It echoes against the cold hard tub: Dum Dum da Dum,

Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum…

A suitable march for somber scenes

or penned phrases that smirk.

Do you remember Mommy’s funeral?

When we weren’t supposed to laugh?

Suddenly, simple things such as a lady’s hat

black and wide

a saucer-shaped ride for snow,

turned resignation and sorrow into nonsense,

amplified our sighs into unstoppable giggles,

and hoots escaped from our throats

bouncing off gravestones

and falling like stars of grief-relief.

We stood there, two children hugging themselves

trying to appear with socially-acceptable sadness

behavior more suited to the tragic event.

We failed.

Laughter, glorious laughter

like a toad released in a classroom of nuns

shocked the mourners and freed us.

Mourners shifted in confusion

at our emancipation.

Surely we weren’t glad that Mommy died?

No more bed pans

No more sheets and laundry

Not one more morning of waking up wondering

if she’s dead

or still dying…

Is that faucet still dripping?

It is.

Handel’s Water Suite No 2

now skipping like tigger in my tub

bouncy, boisterous and… happy.

In the yellow pages under Plumbers, I find Scotty.

I call and ask him for a quote.

He knows my rented cottage

I forgot that this is an island,

a community of small and intimate

where no sparrow falls without everyone knowing

just as no bath leaks

nor pipes crack

nor drain becomes clogged

without Scottie fixing it

I need more than a washer, he says,

to stop this rhythmic dripping that disturbs my work.

Receiving his quote, I discover that words come cheap

but plumbing doesn’t.

His repair will cost me a whole chapter

including the edits.

Handel’s happy notes begin to grow on me.

Staying in the moment, I hear another pattern

an attitude – a practice of choice – an epiphany.

A drip or a sound need not be my nemesis

instead it is a setting; fire and fuel for my work.

I listen to the rhythms, inhale them, accept them into my being

Words commune and bond with water

dancing the dance of intention

while I, in glorious birth,

exist again and again and again

bonder of sights, sounds, heart and soul

in crystal-forming discipline

becoming what I already am

and so

I write

~

Submitted to Poetry Palace’s Thursday Rally:

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/01/agreement-for-poets-rally-week-60.html

13 Comments

Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized

First Death


 

Do you remember

the first time

you and Death

met?

I do.

You were seven

 We moved to Wiltshire farmland

an old stone and brick house

built upon an underground river

a seventeeth century pub

and the river ran

through the cellar

to keep the spirits cool

but it kept us cold and damp

 No heaters, just coal grates

one in each of the two

ground floor rooms

no fires to warm the upstairs

where we slept

where icicles gathered

on your father’s whiskers

in those long winter nights

and where oil lamps

gave more heat than light

The wind always whistled

across the chimneys

and through our bones

even in the midst of summer

~ * ~ 

Just over the rise,

on Lord Bath’s park estate,

animals roamed free,

outside the tunnel cages

built for people

Here a baby elephant,

named Zola Bud

an Ethiopian famine-rescue

brought to a queen’s land

lived amongst giraffes,

one-hump camels

and a little girl of seven

 

Zola and the child,

sisters at play

one carried the bucket

the other trotted behind

trunk on shoulder

like a child’s extended arm

elephant shadowing

everywhere the child went

 

One warm spring day

released to the sun

and allowed to play

she fell into the bog

her heart, still frail

scarred from starvation

stopped its sweet beating

 Do you remember?

The only shadow

that followed you then

was Death

your first one

an Ethiopian elephant

silent and spent

 

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ Mag 34  The Oil Lamp

Photos courtesy of google images

33 Comments

Filed under Poetry

Broken Shield


My friend, Sebastian, told me in one of our discussions, that he uses his imminent death as a barricade – a shield.

How so? I asked. Please explain.

Sebastian said that it wasn’t until he knew he that he could die – and, in fact, was dying – that he began to live. The pettiness, annoyances and inconveniences that plague us all; these, he thinks of as arrows, and he bounces them off his barricade shield. Death protects him therefore, encouraging him to grasp instead the positive gifts of kindness, compassion, generosity and time – precious time – given to him by the people he calls his angels – nurses, hospice staff, visitors, student volunteers and friends who didn’t say, “I’m sorry to hear,” and then stayed away in fear or helplessness, but who came to sit, watch, listen, laugh and cry, and who placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, or gently stroked his cheek when it all seemed too overwhelming. For these precious things, the barricade shield comes down and the love of angels goes pouring in.

Researchers in gerontology and social sciences have reported that, unlike younger generations, people in their senior years, have a greater tendency to avoid things that disturb, and they tend to focus much more on positive, happy and comforting people, things, situations and environments. Perhaps seniors, approaching the end of their life, feel more vulnerable, or powerless to change the big negatives. Maybe years of life-experience have proven at some unconscious level, that what they focus on, is what expands. Why waste precious energy on people, places and situations that drain them, frighten them and make them feel uncomfortable?  It’s understandable.

In my youth, I was always ready to join the fight against establishment and injustice, actively working to make things better, to change people’s attitudes and behaviors, including my own. Yet now, in my sixth decade of life, I sit here horrified by what I see, but do nothing. Oil gushes through the ocean like an arterial disaster; armies of trucks carry deadly chemicals across our country – liquids that are pumped down holes bored deep into the earth, poisoning rivers, land, animals and people – killing America; all this for the sake of fuel for our cars and factories, and for ‘clean’ natural gas for electricity; for corporate profits that allow people to retire in their senior years, live off dividends, and drive their houses-on-wheels until they’re too old or too sick to discover America anymore.

I acknowledge my deplorable lack of action to fight our current attitudes of profit-priority, mindless greed and acceptance of earth-rape. I admit that now in my older years, I lack the passion, energy and naivety of youth to believe that I can do anything to change this world. As the earth bursts and bleeds, casting arrows of blame, I raise my own barrier shield of senior age against it, and I look away. I focus instead on using what time I have left for enjoying the beauty around me; for kindness, empathy, humor, patience and compassion. 

Today, as I sought to focus on those positive things, my comfort was torn, shattered in shame. No shield – no barrier – not even death – could spare the cold realization, that the place where I find the most beauty – the most comfort and peace – is right here, in my grandchildren’s faces – in all of our grandchildren’s faces.

My barrier is breached.  My shield lies broken, crushed on the truth-flooded floor, staining it with a desire to stand up and do something…

 

Does your tap water ignite?  Gasland is an urgent, cautionary and sometimes darkly comic look at the largest domestic natural gas drilling campaign in history. Part of the HBO Documentary Films Series.  WATCH: Gasland: Trailer  http://www.hbo.com

Leave a comment

Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized

Grizzly Remains


 

I once heard Dad say that the bear who ate my mother did him a favor by saving us the cost of her burial. Perhaps, in a strange way, Dad did me a favor, providing some image, at least, of the woman who gave me life. You see, I never got a chance to know her, so I make her up. The black and white photo, hidden in Dad’s desk drawer – the drawer where he keeps his whiskey shows a woman with short dark hair and freckled arms. I never saw anyone like her until that day at the Stop & Shop.

She bought something small enough to fit into a quart-sized, paper bag. It wasn’t heavy; it swung in her fingers as she walked.  I decided it was a birthday card; a special one – for me.  In fact, there were ten birthday cards in that bag; one for each of the birthdays I had celebrated without her. I wondered what she would write on the cards.

“To my dearest daughter… Love, Mommy.” I couldn’t imagine what would go in the middle, between dearest daughter and love. That was why I followed her; so I could watch her write the messages in beautiful long-hand script, slide each card into its envelope, lick the shiny glue edges, seal them, and drop them into the mailbox, kissing each one before she slipped it through the slot.

She walked fast. I had to skip to keep up.  Her skirt swayed left, right; swing, swoosh; it was a very pretty skirt with wide pleats of brown, beige, charcoal and gold – earthy, autumn colors. Her blouse, short-sleeved and crisp, with no wrinkles bunched at the edges of the collar, revealed her skill with an iron. 

When she stopped at a corner to look for passing cars, I waited a few yards behind. I didn’t want to stand next to her just yet. She crossed the street. Two blocks down, I crossed as well, and skipping fast, caught up to her shadow. It stretched grotesque and crooked, while skimming over sidewalk cracks in the afternoon sun.  I carefully avoided the cracks.

I wondered if she kept lipstick and powder in the handbag that slung over her shoulder. I decided the lipstick was called Romance. I imagined her removing the tortoise-shell cap, twisting the gold tube, and a rising bullet of smooth dark crimson appeared. She would apply it to her lips with skill, and finish by pressing her mouth on a tissue, leaving a paper smile behind, cracked with tiny rivulet patterns in a passionate, blood-stain kiss.  I would ask if I could keep the tissue.

She turned up a drive and walked to the side of a clapboard house, removing a key from her purse. She stopped, pulled open a steel-framed, screen door, and hesitated, with the door resting on her back as she inserted her key into the lock. All I could see was her screened silhouette, except her ankles – clearly exposed, in brown leather pumps, beneath the door frame. Before I memorized the density and curves of those ankles, one by one, each foot stepped up, and forward, and out of sight, until nothing was left, except the sound – a screen door – slammed – like the slap of a grizzly’s paw.

4 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Flash & Micro Fiction, Uncategorized