Yesterday morning, over a breakfast quesadilla and too hot hot sauce– a discussion took place on sadness, particularly how it looked on my face. 2018 was particularly sad year in terms of loss. So I turned to one of my favorite sages on this and other wisdom– Kahlil Gibran in his seminal work: The Prophet. Thus his writing on joy and sorrow:
“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain”.
I confess to really not understanding this. How can sadness be contingent on joy or vice versa? And yet I do understand–the greater the love–the deeper its response (sorrow) when that joyful love is perceptively lost. Perception is the key.
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
The takeaway here is that sadness is truly an act of love–damn that it just doesn’t feel that way. So I’m learning not to push it away, and instead invite it in for conversation.
walking with sorrow
around the corner
a begrudging friendship
if not for sorrow
Wet With Rain
My heart mourns
the loss of words
once ribboned into poems
now empty – a clothesline
between two poles.
My throat lumps
at the muddle of notes
no longer giving voice
to windstorms or the sky
holding its breath.
My eyes mist over
when twilight offers its nakedness
on a purple breeze
and wild bergamot wet with rain.
And my lonely heart,
lost in a mulberry thicket,
longs for the night when the moon’s halo
no longer lingers, long and sweet
on your lips.
Can it ever be too warm in January? Yesterday, it got close to 70 degrees in town. Really? It made striding a loop around Bamboo Brook Park a very comfortable no-brainer, and I even spotted two bluebirds – symbols of spring, happiness and transition. A nice thought, but I’m not ready to relinquish winter’s introspective and quiet beauty just yet. Today was not as warm, however we had the windows open in the studio. Some like hot – some not. I worry about polar bears and polar poles’ rising temperatures and melting icebergs. Is it just about our expectations or is it about loss? Not quite sure. Snow in the forecast tomorrow.
no wolves howling last night their full moon lost in its lore
The garden is glorious. More so as
early clouds pearl the earthy color.
Hummingbirds, butterflies and all sorts
of winged and waddling critters
are hard at work on the Sage, Snapdragon and Angelica
that gently ripple and titter in conversation.
Such a poppy of delight! I do my best to savor
what we shared in the garden, and it helps to remember
that your hands and fairy blue eyes
also loved to caress the Calendula, Cleome, Rue
and sweet September mornings
such as this.
We often give very little consideration to those people who live toward the edge of our lives. They’re not part of our inner circle but orbit somewhere on the far circumference – so much so that we hardly pay attention to them until they disappear. Usually for me this means they move out of my figurative or literal neighborhood. When this happens, their presence comes into sharp focus because of their new or pending absence. It does not matter how little contact I really have with them – it’s always more than enough for some tearful grief.
news of her moving flashbacks to winter in fourth grade
ag ~ 2015
Yesterday our haiku circle on Facebook received the abrupt news that one of our fellow poets passed suddenly of natural causes. It was as incredible as it was very sad. She was a friendly, supportive and welcome voice in our haiku community that is close despite worldwide presence. What was once a far-flung network now becomes implausibly narrow and closer with each loss of a distinct poet’s voice. It’s happened before, albeit not as unexpected as this one, and will happen again and again. When it does, despite life’s fragility, we can choose to remember all the beauty that poetry and a poet’s voice add to all our lives.
Rest in peace Kat.
every once in a while
the tide tosses
a real keeper
ag ~ 2014
Space For The Pain.
Funny thing how the heart works. And how the mind works to “protect” the heart from pain and in doing so – damages at the same time. We fight against heartbreak even on the most simple levels, and yet in the healing of inevitable heartache, if we allow it, there is a new space – a space for the pain. Not the searing knife-like spasms of grief, but the more nuanced pangs of loss and letting go. The mind no longer fights the pain, and thus releases the need for an ever open wound.
“What you resist persists.” “When you yield you heal.”
That’s what I mean by “space for the pain.” The pain does not go away completely, however it is like a wise elder who nods with a knowing that it’s all part of the plan. It’s all for the good.
nature’s window into
a knowing heart
ag ~ 2014