GHOST PRESENCE

The whole
neighbourhood
has fallen
eerily silent.
No black dog
barking importantly
in the yard.
You left a silence
as vast as Siberia
behind you.

You had
such a large
Presence
that your absence
feels as expansive
as a crater
on the moon,
and as lonely.

I've been
looking for you
everywhere,
and couldnt find you.
I've been listening
for your wolf-call
on the air.

The prayer-flags
have been flying
at half-mast
on Plested Road.

Then,
only this morning,
I heard you
breathing
right beside
my bed,
felt your nose
resting
on the edge
of the mattress,
the way it always did
when I stayed in bed
too long
and you
wanted Out.

It made me cry
with missing you,
but I am grateful
your spirit
has found
its way
home.

The hard work
of living:
I must learn
to walk
with your spirit, now,
the way,
for fourteen years,
you walked
with mine.
So grateful,
I am so grateful,
for your
unwavering
presence
in my life.

A Spirit Too Big to Kill

Ms. Jasmine, lonely without Pup

With thanks to Annell at Somethings I Think About

http://somethingsithinkabout-annell-annell.blogspot.com/

for the line "Spirit too big to kill",

which she wrote for Pup.

The neighbourhood

has gone eerily silent.

The neighborhood dogs

are spooked,

the neighbors, too.

When I pull

into the driveway,

now -

no   barking -

no big old snout

poked

in the bags,

to see if there's

something there

for you.

The house is empty.

Ms. Jasmine

is sad

and quiet,

while through

the empty rooms

she and I roam,

looking at

your stuffed boars,

your big soft bed of foam,

the space waiting for

your ashes,

when you

finally

come home.

Where are you now?

Where did

your large

and noisy spirit go?

This silence

is one I

simply cant

get used to;

it's too quiet,

and that makes me

miss you so.

You had such a big

and luminescent

Presence,

It makes

your absence

all the more

profound.

I didnt want

to let you go,

my wolf-pup,

and you didnt want

to leave me;

that I know.

You stayed longer

than your body

thought was wise.

But your spirit

kept  light

smiling

to the end

within your eyes.

The morning

of the day

you died,

I saw you rolling

like a young pup,

on your back and

wriggling in the snow.

I hoped it meant that

you were getting better.

I wasnt ready

-ever-

to let you go.

But your hind end has

been giving out

for years.

Every time

that you went down,

you got back up.

Even when it failed,

that night,

completely,

still you tried

to rise,

my ever-faithful

Pup.

You barked to go out,

and then it happened:

your rear was gone.

You needed

to be set free.

The decision

was made,

the moment I had

so dreaded,

heartbreakingly

had finally

come to be.

When we prepared the car,

you thought

that it meant

Walkies.

Your excitement 

at going 

got you  on your feet.

You barked

the whole way

as you have,

for fourteen years,

day after day.

Who could have thought

how much I'd miss

your barking,

how loud the silence

once you went

away?

This afternoon

the sun beamed

shafts of brightness

all across

your bare, deserted yard.

It is so empty now

without you in it.

Being without you

is so very hard.

There's a full round

yellow moon

atop the cedars,

rising across the

early evening sky.

The kind of moon

that makes

a wolf pup howl.

For so long,

we've walked together,

you and I.

You refused to get out

at the vet's.

I had to drag you.

You didnt want

to leave me

it was clear.

You fought the

sedation

for a long time.

I fought my tears,

so you would

feel no fear.

Then finally,

and slowly,

it was over.

You succumbed.

I know your spirit

never will.

You  were yourself,

right to the end,

black wolf who

loved me,

who lived

all his life

with a

Spirit

too big to kill.

Your empty yard.

Being of Earth, Being of Sky

[Damian and Great-Gramma]

I am the plodding matriarch,

bowed down under the weight

of my decades,

the weight

of those who press me

to carry the burdens

they don't want to carry.

I am the vast and unrestricted

being of light,

born in a thousand galaxies,

made up of particles of stardust,

strong with the wisdom of the ages,

and able to bear all burdens.

I am tired

with the accumulation

of decades of unremitting effort

gone largely unnoticed.

My body falters

on unsteady legs

that collapse

under me

when I walk too far.

I need a cane and,

on some days,

a scooter.

I refuse both.

Determinedly,

I keep on walking.

I am alive with

the energy of the sun,

fanned by the wings

of a thousand fairies.

In the light of the morning,

I rise and traverse the heavens,

like an orb,

like a daytime moon,

like a trajectory

of shimmering radiance,

a prism refracting

incandescence

through the everness of time.

I climb into bed each night

grateful for rest.

I climb out each morning

alive with

the possibilities

of the day.

I keep breathing.

Each breath,

each new morning,

is a gift

for which

I stay

immensely grateful.

The burdens

are not the journey,

just the accessories

to the journey.

The journey is

the Keeping On.

The journey is the

Staying Grateful.

The journey is

Being Alive.

The body

houses the spirit.

The spirit

fuels the body.

The body walks;

the spirit flies Above.

It flies Beyond.

Spirit knows

where we are going.

Nothing earthbound

can stop its flight

except

our refusal

to fly.

A Gift For You

[image from fromdamascustoemmaus.com]

[This is my fictionalized account of an event that really happened. I read about it somewhere, in a magazine where a mother had written a letter to the editor, and I decided to turn it into a story.]

She was sitting, at two p.m. on that Thursday afternoon, in the high-backed dusty blue armchair, looking out the picture window at the March rain lashing down. The trees were whipping back and forth, the sound of the gale battering against the roof. Branches were crashing to the ground. The lawn was littered with short lengths of pine and fir.

She was a small woman,  hunched dismally in rumpled pajamas she had not changed for days. Her short hair, which she had always kept curled neatly, was straight and lank, sticking out at odd angles, from tossing and turning in bed all night. She felt utterly bleak and hopeless, without the strength or motivation to even shower. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen. She could not stop crying, sniffling endlessly, the tears running down her face in tandem with the raindrops pouring in rivulets down the windowpane. Wadded up tissues were heaped on the end table, beside the Kleenex box proferring fresh replacements. Since her sixteen year old son Luke's death from a brain tumor six months ago, the light had gone out of the world. There wasn't any point, really, in getting up in the morning, in dressing, in going through all the old routines which had had purpose when she was joyously watching her son growing, living his life. And then, her purpose had been to see him through his illness and, unbelievably, his death.  Without him, the house - and her life - was too empty to be borne. At first she had waited, expecting at some point her grief would lessen, things would improve. But it hadn't gotten any better. She didn't see how it ever could.

Luke had been a tall, lanky, laughing boy with messy blonde hair, smiling blue eyes, all knees and elbows, flushed cheeks  and happy grins, until he got sick. When he burst in the door after school with his friends, the house had come alive with rough, shoving, tumbling boys on colt-like legs, scooping up great handfuls of cookies on their way downstairs to the family room.

Now the house was lifeless; it was empty space. Her heart, too, felt dead inside her body. There was no point, there was no point in continuing to wake up each morning. She had been here to be Luke's mother, and Luke was gone.

She turned her eyes from the window and the storm, absently shaking ther pill bottle in her left hand. She assessed its contents. It was two-thirds full. There should be enough pills to do the job. She just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up, to be out of the pain of this existence and with her son, wherever he was.

She stood up with purpose and moved to the kitchen. Standing at the sink, she drew a tall glass of cold water, setting it on the counter while she removed the lid from the pill bottle.

Suddenly the bottle flew from her hand as if it had been slapped out, the pills scattering all over the floor.

Distinctly, she felt her son's presence, she heard his voice inside her head. It was chiding, admonishing, yet full of love. "Mom, no! It's not your time. You have to keep on. And, Mom. My life was meant as a gift for you."

Then he was gone.

She stood in shock, trying to process what had just happened. She had been drawing the water, readying the pills. She had not dropped the bottle, it had been slapped out of her hand. The voice came from within her. Not her thoughts, his voice inside her head, as clearly as if he stood beside her. Strong, explaining with conviction, trying to make her understand. So Luke was still around, he was nearby, still concerned about her. He must have been worrying about her these past months, must have seen the depth of her suffering, the times she couldn't get out of bed, the turning away from life, from people, reclusive in her misery. It must have been hard on him.

"My life was meant as a gift for you, a gift for you....."

A gift. A gift given, then taken away. That pain was unbearable. But......a gift nevertheless. To have never had sixteen years with Luke at all? A small shift occurred inside her, a small window of understanding beginning to open.

She had been focussing on his death, his absence, rather than celebrating the incredible blessing his sixteen years had been in her life. And now she knew that, while he was no longer physically present, still his spirit was near, close enough that she could talk to him. This gave her great comfort and, finally, hope.

Slowly, she knelt down and began to gather the pills. She returned them to the bottle, decisively snapped the lid back on and threw it in the garbage.

"Thank you, Luke," she murmured. "I'm sorry. I'll.....I'll do better now."

Being of Earth, Being of Sky

Wow - this almost never happens. I was going through some papers and found a poem of mine I dont remember writing and had forgotten all about. I wrote it for my writers' group. Here it is:

January 15, 2007

I am the plodding matriarch,
bowed down under the weight
of my decades,
the weight
of those who need me to carry
burdens they are not up to carrying.

I am the vast and unrestricted being of light,
born in a thousand galaxies,
made up of particles of stardust,
strong with the wisdom of the ages,
and able to bear all burdens.

I am tired with the accumulation
of decades
of unremitting effort
gone largely unnoticed.
My body falters on unsteady legs that collapse under me
when I walk too far.
I need a cane, some days and, some days
could use a scooter :)
I refuse both.
Determinedly, I keep on walking.

I am alive with the energy of the sun,
fanned by the wings of a thousand fairies.
In the light of the morning, I rise and traverse the heavens
like an orb, like a daytime moon,
like a trajectory of shimmering radiance,
a prism refracting
incandescence through the everness of time.

I climb into bed each night grateful for rest.
I climb out each morning
alive with the possibilities of the day.
I keep breathing.
Each breath, each new morning, is a gift
for which
I stay immensely grateful.
The burdens are not the journey,
just the accessories
to the journey.
The journey is the
Keeping On.
The journey is the
Staying Grateful.
The journey is
Being Alive.

The body houses the spirit.
The spirit fuels the body.
The body walks;
the spirit Flies Above.
It flies Beyond.
Spirit knows
where we are going.
Nothing earthbound
can stop its flight
except our refusal
to fly.

SPIRIT

photo credit: NASA
August 9, 1997

We're all made up of stardust
and of dreams
our souls roamed
light years through the everness of time
from galaxy to distant galaxy
before we found our planetary home


we think that we are bodies
until the day we understand
that we are air and spirit
the stuff of stars
with heaven close at hand
our mortal struggles mask
the inner light
that tries so hard to shine
through our dark night
until finally we discover
that all along
we have had
perfect sight


we vainly
search to win
love on the human plane
paying with tears
and solitary pain
for all our hopes and fears
while all the time
we are already One
the way we all breathe air
unseen, yet just as present,
is the spirit
we all share


one day we raise our eyes
beyond the worry and the pain
and find the way
we can be whole again
grateful each day
for the miracle of life
sky above
and earth below
the beauty of it all
a never-ending show
free for the taking
joy ours for the making
gratitude with each new dawn
fresh-breaking
no more lonely aching
one heart
in all hearts -
our sudden waking


planetary pilgrims
on our journey
to the end of time
we only need to understand
that we alrady shine
and humbly share our love
in all the corners where we roam
knowing
in the soul's profound simplicity
with every soul we meet
we find our own way
home.


We take most of our lifetime
to shed the human limitations
we impose
we feel the pain
when from our loves we part,
until we learn
no love is ever really lost,
living forever in our heart
the secret's not in finding love
but in the giving
it's not in having the "perfect life"
it's in the living


our healing journey
lies far beyond our solitary pain
when we enter the All That Is
we are made new again


should we forget for a moment or two
the wonder we once knew
all we need to do
is look up at the sky
filled with a million stars
to remember just how beautiful
we are