Natalie Goldberg teaches that when you read, you are actually connecting to the author’s breath at the moment of inspiration. In essence, there is a passing of the breath as you let the words of another settle into your own psyche. Their moment becomes your moment. Their insights enter your body as you breathe in their writing.
On the anniversary of John’s death, I turn to my best friend for guidance: poetry. Allen Ginsberg said “The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.”
Taking key lines from the poem, Gratitude, by Mary Oliver, I pondered my brother’s passing during today’s writing practice.
What did you notice?
One hundred swans gathered at your last sunset;
My hands clenching when reaching and re-reaching for that perfect can of sliced mandarin oranges;
The beige walls coming down like clam shells;
The half moon hanging in a night sky void of stars;
Your lips fading from cherry to plum;
Your skin gaining a yellow glow;
The contrast between your bulging belly and loss of appetite.
What did you hear?
Your last dinner was an orange sliver;
After a slow slurp, you softly said, “there’s so much sweetness in just one bite.”
In the hallways of the hospice were heavy footsteps and helpless moans;
I heard an internal thump;
My heart had taken a free fall down to my guts.
Talking heads murmured the evening news;
The headline was this: July 6, 2009 would be our last waking moment together.
What did you admire?
It rained for an entire week when I bought Bob Dylan’s Life Together album;
The horizon broke into three pieces in my left, rear and right view mirrors on my drives to the hospital;
I watched the moonrise driving home one night when the highway was long and quiet;
The moon was full and filled the right corner window of your bedroom the night you died.
What astonished you?
The sitting buddha that our mother had become by your bedside;
Like a river she flowed;
Whispering mantras and uttering motherly love;
Where was this woman throughout our lives?
Breaking your coma;
She commanded the skies to become a new womb and to reach for you;
I pray that you witnessed this transformation too.
What would you like to see again?
You…
Digging, fertilizing, planting and watering;
You…
Taking me on a private garden tour;
You…
Talking sweetly to tea roses, papayas, mangos and grapefruit;
You…
Arranging stargazers, gladiolas, daisies and mums at my wedding.
Me…
Standing under an arbor adorned of ferns;
Vowing to remember you always.
What was most tender?
Your smile stretched into a foot long hoagie;
When the nurse rubbed your arm and said, “how soft!”
I remembered seeing a bottle of baby oil on your bathroom counter;
I winked, knowing your secret.
Your skin was soft, even your toes;
Every body part, perhaps, was melting down;
Becoming one big heart.
What was most wonderful?
The peace that permeated the dining room the afternoon we painted together;
The heady freedom from lying on the living room carpet listening to Melissa playing piano;
The breathing and meditation practices we performed together;
Reading Freedom in Exile together;
Eating take out sushi together;
Staring aimlessy out the window together;
The quietude that bonded us forever.
What did you think was happening?
I don’t know anything about wormholes, but I think we were sucked into one;
It was an indescribable place where time both stood and flew;
Death was a doorway, another dimension;
The combustion of anger and acceptance; fear and freedom;
Created big sparks causing my brain to short circuit and my heart to enlargen;
Humans are not wired for such science.
Death shook our shoulders;
Wake up from your deep slumber!
Chintana: This is an amazing piece. I feel it a great privilege that I was present at its birth. I love what you’ve done to the section “What would you like to see again.” I also love, “Death shook our shoulders.”
Wow!
Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist
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