Where the Quiet Lives

Deep
Beneath the forms and shapes
No, deeper still.

Listen for the silence
Beneath the noisiness
Can you hear it now?

As if the whole world stops
Even the drippy faucet
In my chatty head.

Just the breathing sound
The heartbeat in my ear
And frogs.

The pause between each breath
Just let the next one come
And rest upon the middle.

Quiet of the late late night
Not a creature stirs about 
But the refrigerator.

Pain and a Pen, Part 4: Barbed-wire Sunset

This is the fourth in a series of poems written at my Grandma’s dying bedside. Barbed Wire lives in frustration and, almost, resentment toward the universe for what seemed like an unnecessary dragging on of my Grandmother’s suffering. It was written late at night, just a couple hours before she died. She appeared to be totally unconscious by now, but still responded with a squeeze of the hand when people would talk to her or a new hand would hold hers.

She was on regular doses of morphine to control her pain, but the almost constant quiet, agonizing moans and clinching of her entire body told us it wasn’t doing the trick. Her blood oxygen saturation had dipped below 65%, and her breaths had fallen to 4 or 5 per minute for several hours. I was sad, helpless and begging her tired body to let go. We had all said our final goodbyes, prayed together around her, and had a good hard cry together as a family. And the agony drug on for her, though we knew th end was very near.

Barbed-wire Sunset

soft darkness,
warm chills,
a bead runs down my face
love will wipe my brow.

parched lips and sunken eyes
no voice left of mine,
turn me here to there
this stubborn stregnth of ox.

another dose
to dull the pain,
to find for me some rest.

each breath, a thousand pounds
upon my chest,
weight of this mortal life
I will to drop behind.

furrowed brow
determined to break the armor
of this resilient vessel,
death prevail in time.

who hears my cry
and opens now the gate?
who holds my hand
hour upon hour?

I go into the next
foggy and unknown
and beautiful.

Pain and a Pen, Part 3: Home

This is part 3 in a series of poems written at my Grandma’s dying bedside. Home was written on the third evening after the stroke, when Grandma could make brief eye contact with us, and was in obvious agony. She’d told my Mom earlier in the day she wanted to go home, and we knew what she meant. By this time, she could no longer find the energy to speak, and breathing took every ounce of energy and concentration from her. She would only open her eyes occasionally. These verses came to me while contemplating her suffering, and were inspired by things I heard others in the room say and ask about what might be going through her mind now. Home is written from Grandma’s perspective.

Home.

eyes gaze deep
my love’s embrace,
words are no more found

look into my journey long
ending as it was born
presence dwells within

let resilient spirit rest
take me home
where peace lives now,
take me home

every breath
a mountain climb
every hour
eternity forelorn

sent off by love,
love waiting still
on the other side

take me home
so ready now
take me home.

Pain and a Pen, Part 2: Onward

This is the second installment in a series of poems written at my Grandma’s dying bedside. Onward was written shortly after Love Note, when I was alone with Grandma. It came from a place of really surrendering to true presence of being there with her, and felt as though she was writing it through me, for the family she loves so much. Her children (my aunts, uncles and mom)  later found it in the journal and selected it as the verse to print on the memorial program for her wake and funeral.

Onward.

gone, not lost,
for she lives on
in me, in you,
in the spirit of life.

every end
is a new beginning
we mourn, not for her
but for our own loss,
our love, our emptiness.

celebrate beloved memories
and tears.
death is life, another step
along a miraculous journey
find joy in letting go.

cherish and keep
each moment we shared
and hug the now,
love never ends.

Pain and a Pen: Love Note

Sometime on the morning of October 3, my grandmother had a stroke. Grandma Knox had been in poor health for a while, and the stroke was more than even her resilient, stubborn body could take. She went home early Tuesday morning, surrounded by sons and daughters and grand kids. I know it’s hard for most everyone to loose a grandparent, even when they’ve lived a long life and we know the end is right around the corner.

I love Grandma very much. And this was a pretty difficult ordeal for me, just as it was for the rest of the family. Difficult because I love her, difficult because I watched her suffer through her final days–days where every breath was a painful marathon for her, and difficult because I promised my Grandpa just before his own death that I’d care for her when he was gone. Mostly, though, it was tough because I didn’t want to let go.

During the three days where so many were gathered at her bedside, day and night, to comfort her as she walked into the next journey, I found myself tuned in with a pen. It was an outlet for the myriad of emotions I was experiencing, and it gave Grandma one final voice–at least through my perspective. So, I committed to opening up and being an instrument for the words that seemed to want to be born through me. I captured most of them in the back of Grandma’s last journal, a spiral notebook with a blue and brown floral pattern hardcover.

Circles

The moon is most happy
When it is full.
And the sun always looks
Like a perfectly minted gold coin

That was just Polished
And placed in flight
By God’s playful Kiss.

And so many varieties of fruit
Hang plump and round
From branches that seem like a Sculptor’s hands.

I see the beautiful curve of a pregnant belly
Shaped by a soul within,

And the Earth itself,
And the planets and the Spheres—

I have gotten the hint:
There is something about circles
The Beloved likes.

–Hafiz,
Within the Circle of a Perfect One
There is an Infinite Community
Of Light.

Empty Spaces of Life

Two wonderful poems to share today about the emptiness where life lives. Sometimes we feel saddened by the empty spaces–a sense of loss takes hold, whether the loss is about things or opportunities or ideas or loved ones. If we can be with that feeling long enough, without judging it and hating it, even letting it go, we let the magic and wonder emerge from the emptiness.

____
Thirty spokes are joined together in a wheel,
But it is the center hole
That allows the wheel to function.

We mold clay into a pot,
But it is the emptiness inside
That makes the vessel useful.

We fashion wood for a house,
But it is the emptiness inside
That makes it livable.

We work with the substantial,
But the emptiness is what we use.
— Lao Tzu
______

And, shared with me by a dear friend recently:

Fire

What makes a fire burn
is space between the logs,
a breathing space.

Too much of a good thing,
too many logs
packed in too tight
can douse the flames
almost as surely
as a pail of water would. 

So building fires
requires attention
to the spaces in between,
as much as to the wood. 

When we are able to build
open spaces
in the same way
we have learned to pile on the logs,
then we can come to see how
it is fuel, and absence of the fuel
together, that makes the fire possible. 

We only need to lay a log
lightly from time to time.
A fire grows
simply because the space is there,
with openings
in which the flame
that knows just how it wants to burn
can find its own way.
- Judy Brown

Garden Surprise at Dusk

Just before bedtime tonight, in between swing set play and  some left overs from the Methodist ice cream social, the girls discovered these yellow beans ready for picking. Then we remembered that the north half of our pea rows are snow peas–great for picking and eating the whole pod. Hope’s excited to pack her lunch tomorrow for Totus Tuus (whatever that is).

Another surprise at dusk for me: an awesome half moon seemed to suddenly appear against the pale blue sky. So I wrote this spontaneous haiku. I guess most all of my haikus are spontaneous–my friend Tim might call it slam haiku. Just whatever words are given.

half moon rises in still blue
solo artist on shy dusk
floating pearl sends rest

One beat

A friend just shared this verse with me. It echos my heart, so I share it with you…

This harsh and splendid land

With snow-covered rock mountains, cold-crystal streams,

Deep forests of cypress, juniper and ash

Is as much my body as what you see before you here.

I cannot be separated from this or from you.

Our many hearts have only a single beat.

-from The Warrior Song of King Gezar

Sleep Walking and a Cottonwood

The Cottonwood is probably my favorite tree of all, even though I’m quite allergic to them. The majesty and dance of a mature Cottonwood just makes my soul smile–maybe a remnant of childhood evenings at Grandma and Grandpa Knox’s. So, for some strange reason I got up this morning and jumped on my bike without a plan (since Anne says I’m getting fat).  I pedaled up the Valley Road, past many young and old Cottonwoods, singing and dancing their soft song in the light morning current. I’ll share this haiku in their honor:

restless in soft breeze
song of the cottonwood tree
catching low sun's glow

Sleep Walking

We need new locks on our doors. The kind that are really high up and can’t be unlocked by a child. A child who is sleeping, and walking about the house (and who knows where else).

Imagine my mixture of surprise, fear and anxiety as I’m rushing toward our kitchen Sunday night, right after my wife shakes me awake with a terrified look on her face. “Joe. Someone’s coming in our house!” She heard the door handle shake, and then the deadbolt unlock. As I was stumbling my way to the kitchen in my underwear, I heard the door swing open and someone walk in. “Hello. Who’s there?!” I demanded (it was the only thing I could think of on the spot, OK). As I came around the corner, ready to bust out some ninja skills I was sure were inside me somewhere, I saw my middle daughter looking at me with a blank stare. When I asked what she was doing, she suddenly got angry and stomped off to her bedroom saying “leave me alone!”

Who knows how long she was in the garage. Or what she was doing. The lights were all on, the big door open to the summer night outside, and the door to the van left open. After she stomped off, Mesa came back into the living room confused and wondering what her parents were doing. She said she had to go out to the garage to get a bucket for her feet. (!?) Then she laid down on the couch with me and went right to sleep. She remembered none of it by morning.

Until we get some new locks, I’ll keep propping a chair against both doors so at least we’ll hear her moving them before she takes another midnight vacation. Any tips for newly discovered sleepwalking parents?