August 23: "The Sun," Transition, Disciple's Comment

Mary Oliver worships the sun . . .

The Sun

by:  Mary Oliver

Have you ever seen

anything 

in your life

more wonderful

than the way the sun,

every evening,

relaxed and easy,

floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,

or the rumpled sea,

and is gone--

and how it slides again

out of the blackness,

every morning,

on the other side of the world,

like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,

say, on a morning in early summer,

at its perfect imperial distance--

and have you ever felt for anything

such wild love--

do you think there is anywhere, in any language,

a word billowing enough

for the pleasure

that fills you,

as the sun

reaches out,

as it warms you

as you stand there,

empty-handed--

or have you too

turned from this world--

or have you too

gone crazy

for power,

for things?

There wasn't a whole lot of sun today to feel that wild love Mary Oliver talks about.  But there was plenty of fog and mist.  I used to be a person who preferred dark days filled with rain or snow.  An endless winter of sheet metal clouds never bothered me.  Now, however, I prefer sun and the long hours of summer.

Yesterday, my friend, Rosalie, made her transition after being in hospice care for about a week.  I found out this morning and sat in my library office, staring out the window for a long while, thinking of her and her daughter.  

Grief is like some unwelcome cousin, the kind that shows up at your front door with a suitcase one day, moves in, and just won't leave.  Grief has been my houseguest since May, 2014, when my brother, Kevin, passed unexpectedly.  (That's not a euphemism for suicide.  It's simply the truth.  We didn't expect him to die.)  Since that time, grief has hung around, eating my food, taking long showers, sitting on my couch, watching bad Netflix movies.

A disciple wrote a comment on last night's blog post about Joseph, saying all I think about is death.  Granted, the last few posts have been about people I've lost/am losing in my life--a brother, two sisters, my parents, some best friends.  There's this mistaken perception that once the pageantry of death is over, the last casserole eaten, grief packs up and leaves for home, wherever that is.  I'm here to tell you that grief is a lifelong job, like breathing.  You don't get over loss.  You get used to it.  It becomes a part of your life, like the sun streaming upward every day on its heavenly oils.

And you can't have sunny days without rainy ones.  Or light without darkness.  And you can't have joy without sorrow.  That's the way the universe works.  Rain makes the sun brighter.  Darkness makes the light more blinding.  And sorrow makes joy even sweeter.

Saint Marty celebrates it all--clouds and rain, sun and sorrow, darkness and joy..