A PERSONAL AUDITION

How do we know when we are truly interacting in a "spiritual" world.  I like this explanation:  Knowing you are no longer expressing yourself but feeling one with yourself.  For it is a longing to be united within that drives us forward.  But what mask do we wear?

The spiritual fulfillment of a man depends on how he is able to project himself into the spiritual world as he performs.  He really doesn't perform for the third parties who form the audience.  Rather the audience becomes his personal self.  He tries to express to himself his own conceptions about the spiritual ideals that he sees...  He is able to do so behind the (his) mask because he has lost his personal identity.


Sam Gill on the use of the mask in Native American ceremony

STRANGER

A stranger walked into our garden a few days ago.  That evening I was reading Sophie's World (by Jostein Gaarder) and I came across this passage: "Life is both sad and solemn.  We are let into a wonderful world, we meet one another here, greet each other - and wander together for a brief moment.  Then we lose each other and disappear as suddenly and unreasonably as we arrived."  Later in bed I could not help but reflect....

She asked me about the stone in the garden.  She smiled and said she liked the painting of you in my studio.  But I couldn't tell her about your death, for I have learned what it does, this terrible truth.  I could have said my daughter is dead.  I could have said, "My daughter was killed."  I could have said my daughter was beautiful in every way, for these were all true for a brief moment in time.  And yes, this stone bears her picture and her words.  But no it does not contain her ashes.  She walked these garden stones, she watered these plants...sometimes with her tears, but also with her laughter.  She was here one day and now only as a thought.

Thank you for thinking of her.  I have only gratitude.  Tears are not enough.

BROKEN CROWN

My hands are dusty and white
as I sift through the dark blue box 
holding your ashes 


They are heavy and gritty
as I look for a piece of you
scraping the ashes free


A small metal cup 
it's the lining of your new crown
The one I worried about


I tried to get you to go back
to have it done again
I thought it would cause you pain


I am typing these lines
thinking of your broken teeth
my fingers covered in you

MARSH MELLOW ENVY

Yesterday I cleaned your room.  Seems like just the other day we sat on your bed talking.  Traces of you still remain.  An ear plug, a barrette, a smudge on the wall.  But my heart smiled when I moved your dresser and saw one lone marsh mellow gathering dust.

Instantly you were standing over the stove roasting your booty.  You craved marsh mellows and I tried to make sure I had a generous supply at all times. That impish grin was on your face.  Your treasure was golden brown and oozing around your fingers as you popped it in your mouth.  Somehow this lone marsh mellow escaped....and you would have been the last to touch it.

Envious, I picked it up and felt it's softness.

BITTER AFTER TASTE

I am so used to this feeling.  A deep well of loneliness where I try to tread water.  Sometimes I give in and feel myself descending.  The cold watery hands are always buoyant and gentle....I am floating.  But the primal urge to breathe always interferes without my consent and I am at the surface again...gasping.  Ready for another try at release.  That short pause after descent yet before ascent is my salvation.  I can't bring her back but I can dream her face and for an instant forget.  She can still run, she can still fly, she can still shine.  Yet she can still die....over and over.

Two years ago when you died I became a different person.  It was a way to survive I think.  I was broken open - my old self shattered into a million pieces.  I will never be able to get them back.  And I don't want to.  Slowly I am examining my life.  I am so used to walking around with tears in my eyes and feeling invisible. For the first year I thought if I exhausted myself through running everyday it would make life bearable.  It did.  my mind let go while I was running and I was able to feel again.  When I stopped running and stood still I found the same questions were there.  Where did she go? Will I ever be with her again?  How do I go on?

So far the greatest peace I have achieved has been while sharing with others who have lost their own loved one. It's good to know others have survived having their hearts ripped out.  And yes, they do grieve just as much as I. Why is this comforting?  I don't want others to suffer.  What I think is that trying to comfort another actually comforts yourself.  It's what your heart is secretly trying to achieve in the back ground while you are busy grieving.  I have heard myself saying things to someone else which have totally surprised me.

I have cried for hours alone in my room.  Cries which were really screams. Primal screams - urgent - rasping - desperate.  I have screamed until my throat has pounded raw and beaten within my core. Somewhere inside me I thought it would make a difference.  Maybe it did, but it didn't make me feel any better.  What it showed me was a depth of desperation so full and terrible that I knew there were parts of me I have never seen  before.

Today my mind recreates images of Kristy all the time.  When I least expect it.  A few days ago I was dazzled by the bright sun light and a girl stepping into my presence.  Her silouette was so familiar.  The same strong legs, confident stride...same hair pulled back right to the nape of her neck.  She was graceful and assured.  That moment exploded in my mind.  The joy of being in Kristy's presence was so over whelming.  The after taste so bitter, I burst into sobs. Why can't I come to accept your death?  What part of me am I giving up if I do?  What part of me am I giving up if I don't?

MY GENTLE GENIE

You are my secret love
like a stone in my pocket
I take you out to see your beauty
Sometimes at night
I feel quickly to see if you're still there

Always on my lips and in my heart
you live steady and silent
like the smooth caress of a worry stone
Your touch is cool
reminding me to breathe

You can soothe me
the invisible touch is our secret
we walk hand in hand
My gentle genie
and I am ready to dream again

BEAUTY AND DEATH

The desert was shockingly cold.  The wind scraped at my face as I propped myself up and rested my elbows on the back of the pickup truck.  The camera lens was nearly frozen shut. Rocks everywhere covered in a light blue frosting of snow.  The only glimmer of warmth was a fleeting orange gap in the slowly dissolving clouds.  The shutter made a crisp sound as I took the last photo. The day ended and I thought of you.  I am back inside the truck now and we continue our trip home.

More photos of the desert

DEVOURED

The air was heavy giving birth to your memory
A hackneyed hope, a seminal sign, a righteous rebellion.

Born anew a brilliant beggar reaching to inhale

I wait to soak in their bloated beams 

Yet in the end 

I am deliciously

dependably

devoured.

KNOWING PICASSO

Today I was at our lake, Kristy.  My new friend Cindy and I were walking with Jack and talking about you.  I told her stories about our trips to the lake.  How you ran while I rode the bike.  How you pushed me up the hill when I finally said I had to get off the bike to walk.  I told her stories about you and Clas, your boyfriend.  How when he was not feeling very strong you would take him on short walks to the lake and take me along for good measure.  Of course Jack came along as well.

I was smiling when I got home and realized Cindy has never met you. All she knows about you lives in my memory. But through my memories you have come alive. You have become a real person to her.  She asks questions about you and you come alive in all your glory. And this is the truth of it, even though I have never met Shakespeare, Lincoln, Picasso or even Amy Tan I feel as if I know them.

During these long walks I have also met Cindy's mother.  I can feel her mother's love as Cindy talks about her.  I too can see her through Cindy's eyes. Even though Cindy's mother is no longer alive.  Cindy and I have both shared our loves with each other and in so doing have received comfort in the reliving.  For you are alive in these moments.  It is as if you have never left me.  There is a gentle comfort in talking about you, my darling. There is so much to tell.

Yes.  In these moments it is as if you have never left. And someone whom you have never met knows you and carries your memory with them.

THE SHAMAN'S CIRCLE

A year ago I wrote to a Pueblo Shaman about you.

I asked the Shaman

why you died

He said you went

so another could enter

my life, my love

I am waiting with tears

with outstretched hands

I open my heart

expanding the circle

Ever present and changing

Just how many are needed?

When is the circle full?

It is ever turning,

ever mine