Monday, October 22, 2012


Dog woke me up today, before 5 am. Outside, even with my grumbling, the sky is beautiful. Venus rising bright over the water, Jupiter up there somewhere I know. A few nights ago, another dog-induced morning, I caught my first ever glimpse of the space station as it zipped by, a million miles from nowhere close to here. I think of the sky over Wyoming, the borderlands of Utah, wondering what the sky is like right now, out there, what the sky would be like if we were out there again, 8 degrees, campfire, a whole landscape unknown and unseen.

I like to keep monks' hours, the darkness my favorite time of day. The sky lightens and Venus fades, and I have work to do. And oh, it reminds me of the poem I told him those last days Before. The day I picked him up from the airport, while we drove to dinner talking of Rumi, of arbitrary suffering, of my wanting to be in the business of joy, rather than this business of pain. He talked of Rumi and Shams, how there is no model of that kind of love these days; and I recited these lines to him:

a night full of talking that hurts
my worst held back secrets
everything has to do
with loving and not loving
this night will pass
and then we have work to do.

And with that, I have work to do.


Saturday, October 20, 2012

friends and allies

it was a dark morning
a really dark one
hurled notebooks and spilled cups of tea

in response,
instead of prayer books and breathing calm
(who the hell can breathe calm when what's wanted it hurling a cup of tea
you know you are the only one here to pick up afterwards, and therefore,
you know that you can't)
instead of breathing calm
I go to the screen and find people, my people.
And words I needed to hear.

thank you.
I feel so much better now
I can even consider eating pancakes.


and if you don't know her yet:


Monday, October 15, 2012

43, and not 43

It snuck up on me. Knew it was coming, but hadn't named it as sad. Maybe it is more than sad, sad is more than this. Certainly many things going on, many things that contribute to this - emotionality. But you should be 43 today. You should be 43 and we should be teasing you about being an old man. You should be 43, and you are not, and you are.

It's raining again. Last year, I think, I was out slaughtering pigs. Yeah, sure, you read that right. This year though, in the rain, I am thinking of the birthday song from the homeless man, the gift of your second birthday-without-form. So I'm bringing it back, below, for you, and for me.

Happy birthday babe. I know you here with me.


Honoria turned from her contemplation of the ocean. "Miss Mado, she got through the darkness. She knowed love has to work itself all the way through the dark feelings; you can't go round them they has to be gone through, all the way through." ~ The Other Side of the Sun

It was pouring. The dog did not want to go out. We drove the tiny eighth of a mile to the dog park instead of walking, because it was so windy and he hates to get his feet wet in puddles. A man opened the gate for us, a very sweet man, who had apparently spent the night in the shelter at the dog park. He talked to me about his dogs, how much he loved them, how he was with them when they died. He asked about our dog, and I told him how Matt had crouched down in front of his kennel at the shelter and told me, "he's the only dog in here." I told him how we wanted an older dog, in order to give him a good last few years. The man said how important and kind that was, how special it was to adopt a creature knowing you are facing the end sooner than you'd like. He said, "you and your husband are good people." During all this, I managed to not cry at all. I was, however, trying to talk myself out of offering him a ride somewhere. I tend to pick up strays, and I've learned that a sweet, gentle homeless person is sweet and gentle until you get them in the car, when they become tenaciously resistant to getting Out of the car. Instead, I offered him the umbrella I had in my car, because he said he had to walk across town to meet his girlfriend. He said, "that's so kind of you. In return, I will sing you a song about your dog. I am really good at songs. I can make them up instantly." He told me that he would have a song by the time I came back from the car.

I came back. Handed him the umbrella. Left my rain-averse dog in the car. The man was standing inside the shelter. I was outside in the rain. He said, "so okay, tell me about your dog. What do you love? What makes him special to you and your husband?" I stopped. I stared at our dog, standing on the driver's seat, looking at me. I started to cry. The man said quietly, "Oh. We are sharing a moment here. Okay. You don't have to say anything. No. Tell me what it is about your dog." I didn't even think. I just blurted. "He is who is left. My husband died. And it is his birthday today."

The homeless man was quiet. He turned away, he turned back. He put his hand on my shoulder, "I mean this is all honesty: god bless you." He continued to say, crying now himself, "I am trainwrecked. How long has it been? How long ago?" He asked for Matt's name. He said, "Okay. I will mention the pup in your song, but this one is for Matthew. This song is for him, and for his wife."

He stood there, composing himself, steadying himself. He pulled a harmonica out of his bag. He started wailing away. Then his voice, clear and loud, as thunder started rumbling at the tree line, and the winds picked up. Man, he had an incredible voice, a raspy, blues voice. He sang a song for my love, directed to the clouds, to the heavens. He spoke for me. "Matthew, thank you for your life. Thank you for the love you brought to me. Thank you for being here. I know you are gone, but you are not. I know you wipe the tears from my face while I sleep. I know you are here, and you're gone. You are holding me, I know you are. You are gone, and you're not. Remember all the trips, and the days in the sun? We had such a good life, I will always be your wife. It is so hard for me here, but I will not go out, I will not let my light go out. I will try. The puppy and I will try. I am out here in the rain with him, for you. Thank you thank you for your life. I will always be your wife. This is hard and I love you, and I know you are free. I know I will be with you again. This life may be long, but I will see you. I will see you soon."

He sent up his words for me, words I could not sing, and I whispered, "Happy birthday babe. Happy birthday."

There were several verses. The song wiped him out. After he was finished, he told me that his best friend drowned 8 weeks ago. I'd read that story - "transient man found in the water off the docks." I had not, and did not, tell him how matt died. He talked about the shock, and how he found himself losing time, blanking out. He asked me to keep him, and his dear friend, in my prayers, and he would keep Matt and me in his. Then, taking the pause in the rain as his opportunity, he walked off for his morning coffee. I sat in the car with our dog, and sobbed.

Happy birthday, babe. Can you believe that man's voice?!


Sunday, October 14, 2012

old friends

I saw
an old friend of yours
at the butcher shop today
I knew him by his voice
a cadence like yours
responding to his son
the way you did
the way I still do

it was his face that had me confused
once I turned around to look.
he brushed by
and I circled around again
to look
to see if I could match
the voice to the face, to the eyes

it was him
but I didn't ask. I didn't stop,
my hand on his arm, gentle,
saying his name
imagining he would know
just by touch

He looked past me
not only not recognizing me as me,
but not registering another person at all.
Game face. City face.
"typical," you'd say. "a little arrogant."

It shook me a little, in a nice way, almost.
to be so close to someone who knew you so well
and I regret now
that I didn't stop
didn't stop
to put my hand gently on his arm
and call you close to us again,
to me.


happy birthday babe. we miss you. we all miss you.
a whole lot of us silent and silently
we all miss you
together, apart.