February 3: Cut the Line, Poetry Workshop, "Meditations on Goodbyes Before a Funeral"

Santiago has to lose some of his fishing lines . . . 

Some time before daylight something took one of the baits that were behind him. He heard the stick break and the line begin to rush out over the gunwale of the skiff. In the darkness he loosened his sheath knife and taking all the strain of the fish on his left shoulder he leaned back and cut the line against the wood of the gunwale. Then he cut the other line closest to him and in the dark made the loose ends of the reserve coils fast. He worked skillfully with the one hand and put his foot on the coils to hold them as he drew his knots tight. Now he had six reserve coils of line. There were two from each bait he had severed and the two from the bait the fish had taken and they were all connected.

Sometimes you have to let things go in life.  Santiago makes the choice to cut one of his fishing lines in order to land the big fish.

This evening, I led a poetry workshop with some wonderful writers.  I found myself writing a lot about loss and letting go.  No surprise there.  Those two subjects have been on my mind a lot recently.

Here's something Saint Marty wrote tonight about saying "goodbye."

Three Meditations on Goodbyes Before a Funeral

by:  Martin Achatz

1.

This morning, I dropped my son off at school, watched the parade of cars and trucks and buses, backpacked kids stumble out into the morning like smoke from chimneys.  And I imagined myself surrounded by all the goodbyes that were flying out of mouths at that very moment.  I could almost see them, beating against the windshield of my car like a swarm of hungry grasshoppers.

2.

This afternoon, as my coworker left for the weekend, she stood in our office door, tried to find words that might be salve or cool water.  She couldn't say anything that hinted at happiness.  Instead, she nodded goodbye.  I nodded back.  That was enough.  Like the last scrap of bacon on the breakfast table.

3.

Saturday morning, it will all be about goodbyes as I sit in church with her ashes.  I know this is natural and right.  Goodbyes are just a part of the order of the universe, like molecular bonds or orbits of comets.  Yet, I can't seem to say it.  Those two syllables.  They stick in my teeth.  I will be working on them for weeks with my tongue, trying to dislodge them like stubborn seeds.