Andrew’s Journal

Death is such a hard thing. It forces us to look at our own mortality and take measure of our life. These feelings have filled me today since attending a Memorial Mass for a close friend this morning. I say ’close’ though I had not seen her for almost 20 years, yet she and her whole family are an intrinsic part of who I am.

Mrs. B. was the mother of three beautiful children and wife to a loving husband. As much of my youth was spent playing with her family as it was with mine. They were good people, the type stories are written about. Mrs. B. baked goodies for us kids, talked to us, played with us, and made us feel special and a part of her life. She welcomed every new family to the neighborhood with her cooking, her conversation, and her warm heart. She and my mother would spend countless hours talking and laughing. When the mold for the ideal neighbor was made, she and her family were the design from which it was modeled.

She died suddenly. Complaining of back pain, her husband took her to the hospital. While tests were being performed on her to determine the problem, she just quit breathing. The whole world gently shuddered at the loss.

Attending her Mass, seeing the familiar faces of childhood friends, gazing upon my old school with the playground filled with young children wearing uniforms seemingly identical to the one I wore decades ago, it was impossible not to cry.

I look back at my life and wonder how it would have been different if certain choices were made. I look to the future knowing the choices I make today will be an important part of who I am tomorrow. Here is a wish that we all make smart choices… and, to Mrs. B. the world was better for the choices you made. Thank you for being a part of my life.

The lesson I take away from death is to live, and to live well.

As I often do, I will leave you with a poem. This one has been a favorite of mine for many years. Dylan Thomas wrote this near his father’s death. It was surely a wish for his father to fight for life, but there is no historical evidence he ever showed the poem to his father. It may have been something the poet needed to think and write for himself in the face of the inevitable.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Spring is in full swing here and life is mirroring the season.

Cincinnati holds an annual festival called, The Taste of Cincinnati, at which many of the eateries within the city have a booth and serve samples of their food. Cincinnati has a strong German heritage which is reflected in the types of food offered. A few concert stages are erected, several blocks of the downtown area are blocked off, and bands play late into the evening while people mill about eating and drinking.

Krohn Conservatory is another local attraction that also holds an annual event at this time of year. For a month the Conservatory is filled with butterflies. Tens of thousands of them are flown in and released for guests to see and hold.

Today I visited both events during my daily walk of many miles.

I also recently purchased a guitar. I am taking lessons and finding it a great joy, though the tips of my fingers are sore! I have not played the guitar before, so it is a new experience. I did play the trumpet for many years when young and became very proficient. I am scheduled to go see a used one for purchase next week.

I will leave you with a poem. I love poetry and find some parallels between it and art/photography. They are both a means of communicating the infinite.

Invictus
By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
   Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
   For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
   I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
   My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
   Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
   Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
   How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
   I am the captain of my soul.

I always stay up too late. I am sure it is because I don’t want to confess that another day of life has passed and that I have not gotten everything I want from it.

Tonight’s bedtime avoidance was a movie titled, “In Her Shoes”. It is a movie about the relationship between two sisters. I won’t go into the details; I never like knowing much about a movie before I see it, so I won’t spoil it for you. Suffice it to say I was pleasantly surprised how good it was, I cried several times.

Of particular note were two poems read in the movie. They were wonderful and I can share them with you without spoiling any of the movie.

The first was a poem about loss by Elizabeth Bishop…

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

– Elizabeth Bishop

The second poem was about love by e.e. cummings…

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it

(anywhere i go you go,my dear;
and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate

(for you are my fate,my sweet)
i want no world
(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart
(i carry it in my heart)

You can find commentary and analysis about them on the web, but is it really needed? Whatever the words say to you are valid and true enough. I hope they touch you and that you enjoy them as much as I did this evening.

Now I go to bed. 

Literature can be similar to music. It can change your mood, provide an escape from reality, amplify reality, and provide insight and new thoughts.

One of my favorite authors has always been Charles Dickens. With Christmas music playing daily on my radio, his classic A Christmas Carol would be the expected writings to reflect upon, and while it is a special story to me, it is not the piece that crosses my mind this evening.

My life has been wonderful even though it has been punctuated with tragedy and change. Often in times of turmoil and change I reflect upon, A Tale of Two Cities. I frequently find solace from the first and the last paragraphs of the book, and tonight is one of those times.

The first paragraph reads…

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of the noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

To me this typifies pivotal points in our lives. We are excited about the new paths in front of us, and we have hope for a better future. Life is vibrant and our senses are heightened. Colors are more vivid; aromas are stronger. We can feel each tick of the clock, though the minutes are passing too quickly for comfort because change is upon us and we worry about what is the right direction.

We fear the unknown that lies ahead, we lament leaving the comfort of our current situation, and we wonder if life will be the same, and wish time would pass more quickly so we can be out of our current period of discomfort.

This very real paradox is what the first paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities captures incomparably well. You know you are on the precipice of great change.

The last paragraph succinctly defines our final hope for the future…

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

In one sentence it completely embodies the confidence and faith we want to have in our hearts at the end of our lives when all those decisive moments are tallied.

Next time you feel life is chaotic and you are unsure of your future, I hope these two paragraphs give you some comfort. You are not alone in your hopes and fears, and may you find that far better rest than you have ever known.

The following poem touched me the moment I read it. At the time I had recently fallen in love with English Wife, and while it definitely harmonized with my feelings at that time, it also strikes a chord with something deep, timeless and independent of anyone else. It describes the personal visions and feelings of a soul that has lived as well as loved.

This is a truly great piece of writing. It impressed me enough that I read it at my wedding to English Wife. The poet, Nancy Delaney, is relatively unknown, but with a bit of effort I was able to track her down and correspond with her briefly. Sadly I got the impression she felt this piece was her greatest work and she would never create anything equal to it. I hope she is wrong; we need to hear more from this voice. With Nancy Delaney’s permission, I now share her poem with you.

Untitled
By Nancy Delaney

There are seasons, deep and splendid,
when each heart sees where it flows,
estimates the time for leaving,
tells the distance, then it goes;
does not hesitate nor falter,
neither turns nor seeks reply
to the hundred unasked questions;
wipes no tear, bids no good-bye;
sings the chilly breath of morning,
sings the silent silver rain,
sings itself in perfect cadence:
endless joy to ceaseless pain;
knows the price of freedom’s vision,
keeps no treasure on the shelf,
hobbled by the need for comfort,
pushes hard against itself;
sees the once familiar sunrise,
smells the storm upon the wind,
wild and free and now unbounded
tastes the salted air again.

Such sweet moments! I have known them.
lying wakeful waiting where
they might find me, recognize the
tired step upon the stair,
take my hand, release the spirit,
let the blood of life’s regret,
there in silence learned forgiveness,
sorrows I could not forget,
and my heart, a winter sparrow,
shivering but glad of snow,
humbled by the cold rejoinder,
stumbled but did not let go.

Minutes savored, felt, remembered,
like a fabric sewn and torn,
life becomes a coat of hours
huddled into, through a storm,
folded for a handy pillow,
tossed upon a chair in haste,
then, regarded from a distance,
sought, desired, longed for, chased –
then the seasons mend the fabric,
fortify, delight, renew…
yet I’d trade them all and gladly
for one moment close to you.

I have heard the magic echo,
incantation, perfect hymn
singing soft of steel gray winter,
autumn reaching from within,

celebrating songs of seasons,
spring in sparkling painted skies,
the shuddering release of summer;
mysteries written in your eyes…

But I’ve not found in all the miles,
in all the seasons I have known,
words to tell how deep or why…

The heart has reasons of its own.

_______________________________________

Photo: Unknown mountains in the Romanian countryside taken by me in July 2006.