Güd wrtr

When someone says in hindsight,
you know there’s going to come
a list of woulda coulda shouldas,

as if looking back over a
metaphorical shoulder means
a critical review of a play

that was still in previews,
when the actors hadn’t found
their feet yet, could barely

remember their lines, and
already people are ready
with judgments, layering

them like fondant on
a three-tier cake. What if,
instead, we consider

the tiniest winks of light
caught out of the corner
of an eye? The moments

of grace when a spill was
avoided, or better yet, when
we were caught and held.

When the bad thing didn’t
happen, or when we extended
kindness to a stranger

without thinking of potential
consequences. If we connect
the dots of those brilliant

specks, they add up to, say,
a year of undeserved gifts
mixed with disappointments,

tiny antidotes to despair,
our sacred story. Then,
ignoring the critics,

let us leap to our feet,
applaud wildly, pat ourselves
on the backs with a hearty

bravo! and keep moving
forward—the only way,
truly, we can go.

(adj.) exhausted
from Middle English “forswinke” (to overwork) and “forswink” (to exhaust)

Dying is hard work,
as anyone watching knows,

but so’s the watching,
the tending, the waiting,

the all-encompassing
all of it

when you both wish
the ending date was

marked on some cosmic
calendar while

dreading the ending
because, well, it’s the end.

What you forget is
that it leaves you

forswunk, that aftermath
is exhausting work, too,

that you need to make
yourself a nice cuppa

and tuck yourself in
with a good book

and a warm binkit
and there, there

yourself… as you did for
the one you companioned

to the end. And if
that feels too hard,

I’m here with tea
and book and binkit,

ready to tuck you in
and stroke your head.

There, there, dear one.
There, there.

Have pity on my lonely state,
I am an orphan boy!

How sad, an orphan boy!

—Pirate King in “Pirates of Penzance,” Gilbert and Sullivan

•••

He is an orphan boy now,
Maxi cat, and, two days
after Mom’s departure,

I drive him to my house
in his carrier, poor carsick kitty,
and set him gently into

the back bedroom that has
sheltered many a guest—
some of them for longer stays

than others. He strolls into
his new life, which neither of us
can possibly envision,

with a little kittenish mew!
and begins, like Pooh, to
have a little explore,

while outside the door, old
Poki cat sits with narrowed eyes.
She is not the most generous hostess,

but I emerge into her space and tell her,
He needs us, sweetie.
He’s an orphan.

It takes me a few minutes
to realize, So am I.
And does this make Maxi

my brother? He’s certainly family,
and as he turns to look at me,
I sink down onto the floor,

reach out a hand to his big
furry face, and say,
Welcome home, big guy.

So glad you’re here.

(for Donna)

Not waiting exactly,
but keeping an eye out

for the glimmer, the wink
of light that says she’s

still here in spirit, one we
asked her for before she left.

Like two days after her
departure when I smoothed

a clean towel into the open
cat carrier, preparing to move

the big guy who adored
her, the one who, as she took

her final breaths, flipped
onto his back under her

hospital bed, balancing on
the keel of his flexible spine,

all four paws paused in air
like becalmed furry flags.

Maxi walked into the box that
would take him forever from

her home to mine, then turned
and calmly settled his big self.

They never do that,
we said, closing the door

and latching it. We blinked
and one of us said,

Thanks, Mom, as Maxi
mewed in what we hoped

was agreement.

•••

Top photo: Kat Fleming (thanks, Kat!)

Go on, take a piece of mine.
Turns out, the heart regenerates

even after we give a bit away,
even when bits are taken.

They’re not so much broken
as nipped at, though some chunks

are larger, and heaven knows,
we feel deep cracks of sorrow

arrow through them like lightning.
But as our hearts endure so much

pain, they also swell with joy
as love born this day fills

those chunks and cracks with
slender ribbons of gold that

remind me to say, even now:
Have a heart, dear one,

a bit of mine to tuck into yours,
perhaps now, maybe later,

whenever you need it most.

Don’t be surprised if even on the darkest night
a new, holy light shines.
—Steve Garnaas-Holmes, from “Leveling”

Wholly light,
entirely, comprising all,
we find ourselves

humbled by the dark,
craving the sublime
glimmer that comes

with every shy dawn,
as we listen for each
breath of one

sliding away from
us, as the space
around us expands

like the universe,
cosmic acceleration
that we can’t see

but feel deep in our
cells—we tiny particles
of something

so much larger, so infinite,
the barest whisper
of the holy.

•••

(For this season of light in the dark that is Hanukkah and Christmas)

(in memory of Mom
July 6, 1931 – Dec. 21, 2024)

Driving home at noon, coming down
what was in our day a two-lane
road with a stop sign, I was
compelled to halt by a trio of lights
on a tall standard leaning over
the road like a leafless tree.

And there, next to a median,
lay a furry black-and-white
creature who had likely waddled
across the now four-lane road
when its luck ran out.

I had Strauss’ majestic tone poem
playing on my phone, knowing
that death and transfiguration
were imminent in the house
I had just left, too.

And with the scent of onions,
rotten eggs and burnt rubber
reaching me through the window
on that foggy, foggy day, I felt
my eyes cloud, then moisten,
releasing their brand of rain.

I didn’t know if they were for
the dead skunk or the beauty
of the music swelling to its
majestic peak, then gently
drifting upward, like fog lifting,
as I hoped she might ascend,

which she did several days later,
rising above it all into two
of her favorite elements—
pure light and limitless blue.

•••

You can listen (as I have been) to the finale of Richard Strauss’ “Tod und Verklärung” (“Death and Transfiguration”), a tone poem for orchestra written when Strauss was 25 years old—this moving version performed by the U.S. Marine Band.

What will survive of us is love.
—Philip Larkin, from “An Arundel Tomb”

Even if you feel that you didn’t get enough.

Even if you feel that you didn’t get enough
from the people you thought should have.

Even if you felt about half-full all your life,
that the tank, quite honestly, was running dry.

Even as you consider the woulda coulda shoulda
times you’d reached out a hand of compassion.

Even as you wish that you’d said the words
out loud to your dear ones,

that you’d given them a chance to lob them
back at you like a swift tennis ball.

What will survive of us is love.

What they will remember are the ways
you showed it—in the I’m proud of yous,

in the late-in-life thank yous,
in all that you did to feed, clothe, support,

encourage, cheer on, assist, educate
illuminate and provide.

Love survives in the DNA of those you
created and those who they created.

You did good. You did well.
Even as you fade, as they stand over you

whispering what they couldn’t tell you,
what you always longed to hear:

We love you, we love you, we love you.

•••

In memory of my mother, Dorothy (Darlene) Haag
July 6, 1931 – Dec. 21, 2024

In Utquigvik, Alaska, the sun does not rise
from mid-November until late January.

In Northern Norway the polar night
takes over from November through

the end of January, the sun lingering
a mere six degrees below the horizon.

And at the north pole, by the winter
solstice, they’ve not seen sunlight

or even twilight since early October.
But every afternoon the residual light

reflects off the sea, drenching the
shrouded landscape in ultramarine,

the blue hour arriving later each day
as the sun gains strength in a new year.

May we keep that in mind as we head
into the dark—our light shining warmth

when and where it’s coldest, sapphire
hope reflected in our damp eyes.

We are the light, the bringers of peace,
your hand reaching for mine,

mine reaching for yours, as we wait
together for the sun to rise again.

•••

You might also enjoy this: A Winter Solstice Song—“Find Our Way Home” by Lea Morris
(with thanks to Phyllis Cole-Dai for sharing it)

What if, even as we die,
we find that this time of advent,
of waiting, this in between
here and gone, is not
to be feared?

That each slowing exhale,
breath to breath to breath,
is a kind of bardo, the liminal state
between death and rebirth,
an outstretched hand between
generations, offering us a chance
to dance in this sacred moment.

That rather than resisting
this moment of finite existence,
we unfold with each exhale,
feel our joints loosen, too,
as hers let go.

That, of course, the unknown
end date to a lifetime is what
makes each one precious.

That this is an awakening,
this space of uncertainty,
that witnessing this undoing
is a portal into understanding.
That we are meant to be here
for this passage. That this
transition is an awakening,
for her, for us.

That as we orbit her dying star,
loosely tethered by DNA
and gravitational pull through
these long nights, all we can do
is hold each other with kindness.

That, even now—
in this moment-to-moment practice
of in-breath and out,
of opening and releasing,
of holding joy and sorrow in our arms—
we move through this graceful dance
into mystery.

As we return to presence.
As we return.