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..

August 18: "Morning Glories," Poet Friend, Hospice

Mary Oliver loves weeds . . . 

Morning Glories

by:  Mary Oliver

Blue and dark-blue

     rose and deepest rose

          white and pink they

are everywhere in the diligent

     cornfield rising and swaying

          in their reliable

finery in the little

     fling of their bodies their

          gear and tackle

all caught up in the cornstalks.

     The reaper's story is the story

          of endless work of

work careful and heavy but the

     reaper cannot

          separate them out there they

are in the story of his life

     bright random useless

          year after year

taken with the serious tons

     weeds without value humorous

          beautiful weeds.

Oliver sees worth in everything, including noxious weeds.  The morning glories in this poem are also called bindweed, and they are definitely not welcome additions to any farm field or garden.  Yet, they're vibrant and gorgeous.  As Oliver writes, blue and dark-blue, rose and deepest rose, pink and white, they are everywhere.  Common and beautiful.

I want to tell you about a poet friend of mine.  Her name is Rosalie.

I've known Rosalie for over 30 years.  We went to graduate school together.  At the time, I thought I was going to be the next Flannery O'Connor, studying fiction writing while Rosalie was already writing and publishing poems.  I never had a doubt that she was going to make a name for herself as a poet.  Her work was heartbreaking and beautiful even back then.

Being a graduate student is a strange experience--a mixture of attending Hogwarts and Crunchem Hall Primary School from Matilda.  There's magical moments (a class in Modern Women Poets, a poetry reading by Maya Angelou) and painful moments (postmodern literary theory, anyone?).  And you're part of a band of misfits.  Poets.  Novelists.  Short story writers.  Essayists.  If you survive, you're guaranteed to have PTDS--post-traumatic Derrida syndrome.  (That's a really funny joke if you are/were an English major.)

I found out this afternoon that Rosalie is currently in hospice care.  I'm not going to go into the details of her illness.  That's not my story to tell.  Her daughter, whom I've known since she was an infant, is caring for Rosalie at home.

So, I'm sitting here tonight, thinking of the classes I took with Rosalie.  The shared stress of teaching composition to groups of surly freshman who didn't know comma splices from comma faults.  (If you don't know, look it up.)  The laughter and tears we shared.  And, always, the writing.  Her poems.  My short stories.  

Tragedy is common as noxious weeds.  It's everywhere, sprouting and thriving.  Is there beauty in tragedy?  Perhaps.  Speaking from experience, having a loved one in hospice is like distilling life down to its most necessary and important elements.  I've had the privilege of being in the room when two of my sisters, my father, and my mother have died.  Yes, it was a privilege to be able to hold their hands, tell them how much they were loved, and witness those last breaths that seemed almost like sighs of relief after long and winding roads.  And then the peace that followed.

Of course, loss is painful, too.  Always.  Especially when it involves someone as relatively young as Rosalie.  It's not easy to find beauty when you are in the weeds of grief.  Yet, in Rosalie's final struggle, there is love.  Deep, abiding, multiplying love.

Tonight, I raise my poet friend up to all of you.  Remember her, if you have a moment.  Know that she is a beautiful soul, on the cusp of blossoming into eternity.  Say her name like a prayer.  Give it breath.  

Rosalie.

Saint Marty is going to let his friend have the last word tonight . . . 

Before Leaving

by:  Rosalie Sanara Petrouske

I climb black rocks with my daughter,

who scrambles ahead.

Close behind, I'm ready to reach out

should she stumble on the uneven surface.

At the top, we stare out at Superior,

breathing in the peace of lake and sky.

Below, a few waves crest white,

then lap

the million-year-old ledge beneath us.

On a far shore, sugar maple, hemlock, balsam fir

and white pine cover the island and grow down sides

of distant outcroppings.

Pairs of seagulls rise from the Bon Rocks.

They lift and circle,

           dip and glide.

To the West, I point out Hogsback

and Sugarloaf, remnants of ancient glaciers.

Near us, a group of college students gather.

We watch as they leap from the highest point

to plummet into icy water.

This ritual repeats year after year.

Perhaps, I think, one day my daughter will dive

from this cliff into Superior's silvery-blue.

Her breath will catch when she rises

and gulps warm air,

yet her heart will beat again

when she discovers

effortless, she can fall and still rise.

For now, we simply sit side by side.

Sun warms our shoulder blades

and dampness gathers in the hollows

of our necks

where tendrils of hair separate to expose

skin to mid-afternoon light.

I tell her this place, this moment will always be part of us--

its mantra will call to us when we close our eyes

and still hear lake sounds, as if someone placed

a seashell against our ears.

We will carry it inside.

"Inside here?" she asks.

She places a hand across her chest.

Reaching, I take her other hand.

I squeeze, but she pulls away.

            "Don't hold so tightly," she says.