Psychedelic Pstarfish
Seems sillier than psyllium to sing of starry seas,
Yet so the ocean’s silken shore’s sufficient proof of these
That sparkling in such shady deep, something is sure to gleam
In stunning stellar specks and sparks in that submergèd stream,
So sing we sweet and shining songs of starfish as we wish
Upon the evening star to see a firmament of fish
Some things simply can’t be planned, foreseen, or avoided. The impossible is surely one of those things, and I happen to know that the impossible happens amazingly often. At least, in my part of the universe.
Under the Willow Tree
Under the willow tree, her shade my calm,
I see so bent by storms her trunk, how far
The winds have twisted every limb, each scar
Where lightning struck; yet there’s a quiet psalm
Of gratitude that whispers in her leaves
Each time another rainfall comes to spend
Its quenching kindness on her and to send
New hope down deep—for anyone who grieves
Or wonders how to pass through life’s travail
Finds shelter in her shadow—knows the limbs
That seem to weep are only singing hymns,
Embracing in their gentle sway the frail.
So one fine sapling, tended with such care,
Becomes the home for all who shelter there.
And now her roots are deep, her branches wide
Enough to draw more birds to them to nest,
Assured, secure and loved, and full at rest,
No matter what the world is like outside—
Just as I am, beneath the willow’s arm
Of graceful comfort, grateful for her wise,
Kind lesson to look upward to the skies
For blessed rain, and sun to keep us warm,
For sweet reminders of the Gardener
Who made the willow grow, and gave her strength
To nurture others in her shade, at length,
Upon the graces planted there in her:
So one fine sapling, tended with such care,
Becomes the home for all who shelter there.
Thank you, Mom, for the nurturing, the love, and the will to live as an example of bending but not breaking in the storms. Happy 80th Birthday!
Just because there are designated days (All Saints, Memorial Day, Defence Day, Anzac Day, Volkstrauertag, Poppy Day) for recalling those we’ve lost doesn’t mean in any way that we restrict our respectful, loving and admiring remembrances to those days. Those whom we hold in our hearts remain there, living or not, forever. That’s our path to peace.
The guarantee that we will die, and that all of those we hold dear will die too, means we will do best by finding ways to embrace and recall, most of all, the good and the uplifting things from their lives and ours, and expand on such things for the sake of our finest predecessors’ honor, if not our own.
This is a day designated by the Christian church for the remembrance of all the good, fine people who have lived, illuminated our lives, led the way for the rest of us, and now are also gone before us in death. Recollection, commemoration and admiration of those who have lived as great-hearted souls on the earth and set an example, large or small, of excellence for those of us who follow is, I think, a practice that anyone of any stripe, religious or not, can embrace; we are certainly all made better by such meditations, especially if and when we are made stronger by their guidance to follow in our honored loves’ radiant footsteps.
Spending a day in remembrance of loves lost is bound to be bittersweet, of course. When the bond has been close in life, it remains so in death, and however the pangs of loss may subside over time, on a day devoted to thoughtful recognition of our trusted and beloved friends, mentors and avatars of all things great and good, the pain can be as sharply new again as in the first sweep of sorrow. But if I am genuinely mindful and respectful of their gifts in life, I think that this can be transformational and healing and comforting, too.
Can I live as a reflection of my most-admired angels? It’s too tall an order for any ordinary mortal, I know. But that’s exactly why I think we have these living and loving models among us: to show that in community and mutual, loving support and with determined and patient growth on our own, greater things can happen than if we try to do significant and meaningful things independently. We are raised up by the waves of support around us. How can I not be grateful for that! This realization sweetens the day perceptibly. Do I wish that I could have my lost loves back again? Who would not! But I wouldn’t trade one tear, one iota of the hurt and anger and grief I’ve felt over any of their losses, to miss out on recognizing the beauty and joy and brilliance that they brought to this world in their too-short tenure here, and I know that some lights seem so bright in life that they can blind me at close range to what’s more easily discerned, when seen from this greater distance, as having the distinctive shape of an excellent soul.
The spookiest thing about Halloween? That its frights and frissons are based on a simple and scary truth: we humans are the source of the villainies that pose the gravest dangers to us, as well as being the easiest mark for them. Be very afraid!
Art-Colored Glasses 