Category: spirituality

Wading

Published on by geriatric pilgrim8 Comments

~

The setting sun lays down a carpet on the bay.

A school of clouds across the skyline floats

over humpbacked islands of pointed firs.

Closer to shore, three skiffs face out to sea,

and closer still, silhouetted

against the light, my wife wades, 

legs cut off at the knee by undulating waters,

back straight, arms out to the side for balance

(always important as we get older),

testing each step, her face turned to the sea,

while on this shore of tide pools and broken shells,

I, who find the water too cold,

the stones too sharp for my old feet, 

lean against a barnacle-encrusted rock

watching, wading in gratitude.

~

To Friends who Tell me I Need to Lighten Up

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
What can I say? I like clouds in my sky.

~ ~

Thank you for your concern 

about my mental health, 

but I’d rather embrace 

my grief and fear

as if they were gassy grandparents 

who keep my school photographs 

on their refrigerator

to show my yearly growth

than banish the old farts 

to the basement 

and have them pound 

the floor under me 

with a broom handle.

~

Don’t get me wrong, friends, 

I do count my blessings, 

I am grateful for health, family, friends.

And I don’t pretend to understand 

what it’s like trying to stay afloat

in the black seas of chronic depression.

But happiness, I’ve discovered, 

can become complacency, 

which can be a stagnant pond 

swarming with blackflies.

~

I find more blessings to count, 

more for which to be grateful, 

after having been broken open 

by the deaths, destruction, decay around me, 

some of which I’ve caused, 

some of which I haven’t deserved, 

and some of which is just life.

~

Without looking at my grief, 

I’m not able to recognize my joy. 

And I don’t mean glancing at loss 

the way I rubberneck 

at an accident on the highway.

I mean reentering the suffering, 

scrutinizing the fears, 

which means talking 

and writing about them.

~

My urge to create begins in loss, 

my gratitude begins in fear, 

my compassion begins in pain, 

and my joy begins in sorrow.

~

All of which, I guess, is to say:

I’d rather be whole than happy.

~ ~

Scotty

Published on by geriatric pilgrim3 Comments
Thnx to Scotty’s daughter, Jeanie, for the photo

~

Served as Tail Twister of the Lions Club.

He liked his scotch and Camel cigarettes.

Cheered our team at high school basketball games.

Oh, and by the way, he was my pastor,

who, when he ascended to the pulpit,

his black cassock haloed by white candles,

showed me that even short men with bald spots

can be—if only for an hour—holy.

~

Sitting above me in his purple chair

he would sometimes just slightly turn his head,

look down at my family sitting in

the right front pew and give us all a wink.

God, I learned from Scotty, looks after us

with a neighborly twinkle in his eye.

~

Gazebo

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

~

“We are saved in the end by the things that ignore us.”— Andrew Harvey

~

At the Spiritual Renewal Center in Arizona

I’m not feeling renewed spiritually or otherwise.

Dusty desert wind sears my lungs as I sit in 90° heat,

stuck to a faded plastic chair in a rundown gazebo—

rotting floor…peeling paint… broken railings—

good place, I think, for an octogenarian

with COPD, a weak heart. and arthritic joints.

Just six years ago I walked the nearby desert trails 

for miles past petroglyphs and rattlesnakes,

up rocky canyons and down sandy washes.    

This morning, I reached for my inhaler after 20 minutes 

and turned back feeling old and dilapidated.

Now, I sit in this decaying gazebo awfulizing about my future:

a sudden heart attack that strikes me down

before I can say good-bye to those I’ve loved, 

or a stroke which leaves me paralyzed and drooling 

while others change their lives to look after me,

or worse, dementia, unable even to say thank you for caring.

Which leads me to wonder: Will I be missed when I’m gone?

Certainly not by the flat cumulous clouds 

floating over the hills on the horizon

 or the wind through the prickly pear, cholla, barrel,

organ pipe and ocotillo cactus,

 not to mention the saguaro standing

with arms raised to the heavens,

 and certainly not by the coyotes 

barking from the copper-colored hills behind me, 

or the doves or cardinals or flycatchers or thrashers 

or warblers or wrens or quails,

nor, come to think of it, by the yellow blossoms

from the palo verdi  blowing in the desert wind, gilding

the rotten gazebo floor and my decrepitude 

with the golden certainty of new life. 

~

Acceptance

Published on by geriatric pilgrim1 Comment
Arizona Sunrise

**

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…

*

When it comes, the clouds clear and the sun shines and you see things the way they are—

not perfect, certainly, maybe not even great, but all in all, not bad—

and you stop trying to change things and beating yourself up when you can’t.

*

The accusing voices in your head, the illusions of grandeur, the sirens’ songs of temptation

fade away and you find yourself singing an old Everly Brothers’ tune or a Christmas carol.

*

The gyre grows smaller, the falcon returns to the falconer, things come together,

the center holds, and serenity envelopes the world.

*

Don’t get me wrong, the clouds will return, more storms will come—

mistakes, injuries you’ll inflict (most of them upon yourself),

unrealistic expectations, failures, disappointments, defeats, deaths—

but maybe, next time, you’ll see rain, not Noah’s flood.

**

Somehow

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

…

Somehow, my parents from broken homes gave me a whole one.

Somehow, I met the right teachers at the right time.

Somehow, I fell into a vocation I loved instead of a job I endured.

Somehow, I survived my child’s death. 

Somehow, I stopped trying to drown my problems in cheap scotch.

Somehow, I learned to listen.

Somehow, I discovered joy.

Somehow, I no longer feel ashamed of being human.

Somehow, I’ve kept going even when I feel I’m walking in a circular trench.

Somehow, I’m still alive.

Somehow, I’ve not only survived, but grown.

Somehow, I remain hopeful.

Somehow, I believe, is another name for Grace.

…

Sanctuary

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
First Parish Church of Yarmouth, Maine 70 years later

~          

Now is the time to sit, be still, recall

those Saturdays at the First Parish Church,

where through stained glass, sun shines on empty pews,

and dust mots dance a silent jitterbug,

while I, at twelve years old, help out my dad, 

who moonlights as the sexton of our church. 

                                    ~

The great green doors shut out the noisy world—

my school with bells, droning voices, “Pipe Down!”

playground bullies’ intimidating threats;

my house with TV cowboys, Lawrence Welk,

and anxious voices trying to decide

what bills to pay and which to set aside—

as I collect last Sunday’s bulletins

from red pews tagged with names from long ago.

                                    ~

My corduroy trousers whistle as I walk.

I add my voice, which echoes off high walls

 just like Elvis singing, “Heartbreak Hotel”:

“Since my baby left me (whistle, whistle), …” 

Generations of church parishioners

like those in the old photos down the hall

silently applaud, and I feel at peace—

safe from strident voices, embraced, strengthened, 

supported by a Something I can’t name.

                                    ~

Now is the time, when storms of every kind

assault my brittle bones with screaming winds,

that I will sit, be still, watch those dancing

rainbows, sense kindly clouds of witnesses 

enfolding me as I lift soul in song

 in the sanctuary of memory. 

                                    ~

On Hope: an Admonition

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

#

Stop confusing it with expectation.

You’re going to be disappointed,

resentful, angry, pissed off at God

because the cancer didn’t disappear,

you didn’t get that new job you wanted,

Hurricane Hattie flooded your basement.

#

(Write this down: Don’t hope for anything

you can see, hear, touch, smell, or taste.)

#

And even if you do get to come home

from the hospital a day early,

or the car coming right at you swerves

away at the last saving second,

or your friend’s stock tip pays off enough

to finance an Aruba vacation,

please, please, please don’t proclaim to the world

how God in His goodness answered your prayers.

You’re only setting yourself up for

future resentment, not to mention

guilt and shame for having somehow displeased

His Royal Holy Hood.

#

Instead, divest, dismantle, ditch, doff, dump

expectations, anticipations, wishes.

Take a deep breath, and go for a walk

along that path you’ve been walking all

your life. Don’t worry about what’s ahead

—Here be dragons, right?—

but have a seat on this old tree stump.

Take more deep breaths, turn, look back

at all those times when, despite all your

mistakes, your blindness to injustice,

your embracing each Seven Deadly Sin

as if your happiness depended on it

while breaking all Ten Commandments

like you were making a hash omelet,

times when, despite your screwed-up family,

the hereditary overbite,

hip dysplasia, and weak heart,

times when despite the ugly divorce,

your daughter’s even uglier death,

all those goddamn operations,

the loss of lung capacity and libido,

you love the woman you wake up next to,

you sing to Sirius FM’s ‘Fifties Gold,’

you savor your morning hot chocolate,

you look forward to lunch with old classmates,

you feed the birds, play the banjo, plant

a garden, enjoy Wordle and Brit Box,

worshiping in silence, dabbling in poetry,

watching the grandchildren grow up.

#

Hope is not about getting what you want,

it’s about seeing what you already have,

the force that makes life worth living,

that same power that is pushing new growth

from this dead tree stump you’re sitting on.

#

Now, go get those dragons!

Welcome, November

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

#

As readers of this blog know, my daughter Laurie died at the age of 18 from a rare cancer. In November, seven months after the cancer was first diagnosed, she went into Eastern Maine Medical Center. Living 120 miles away, I took a leave of absence from my teaching job and moved into a Ronald McDonald House where I spent the next two months with my daughter until she died on December 23.

Since then, each November as the days grow darker and colder, I can feel my body chemistry change. I’ve coped in many ways, but the most helpful has been through writing. It’s no accident that the first Geriatric Pilgrim blog appeared in November 2015.

#

Sonnet for November

Novembers, I would drive my daughter past

Men in blaze-orange caps, crouched on a hill,

Their 30-30’s sighted, set to kill

Most anything, just so the gun would blast.

My heart began to flutter, then beat fast

As we drove by them—silent, savage, still—

And I could feel the air around us chill.

I’d think, how long, dear God, will this month last?

But I’ve since learned of other ways to die,

And russet hills now fill with memories:

Her gentle, kind, abbreviated life.

These days, I treasure the November sky

Which broadens once the leaves drop from the trees.

November wind is clean, a whetted knife.

#

Darkness

Now darkness begins:

light dimming after lunch,

long shadows on the lawn.

I curse the old lady

crossing the street

in front of my car,

lose gloves,

feel the familiar kick

to the heart. 

You’d think after all these years

I’d be over it,

but it’s always different…

this darkness…

Gone the murky numbness,

the black rages,

no more the dim corridors

of “if only” and “what if,”

lit up by Johnny Walker.

Now, who knows what waits 

in the darkness ?

Another old friend’s Christmas card

to bring me tears?

More recurrent dreams of stumbling

through stony landscapes?

Another season of bingeing bad TV?

Still, the waning light 

is clean and clear,

the view scoured of chewed leaves, 

dead flowers, black flies.

And sometimes, just sometimes,

Love enfolds my fears,

and I hear Laurie whisper, 

“Dad, let the thoughts go.

Let darkness begin.”

Wild Willy

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments

                                         

Phone curtesy of Wikipedia Commons

                        1.

Around the time this log cabin 

sold moccasins I’d see

Wild Willy Crockett 

on the corner 

with Pea Soup, Spider, and the Goose.

Taller than the others,

he stood with knees rigid, 

pigeon-toed, gazing 

up and down the street,

searching for someone with a car,

a summer chick on the make,

or Crazy Benny,

who’d buy him beer.

Balanced on a line 

between cool and caricature:

the shiny D.A.

French-inhaling Camels,

rocking with Dee Dee Dinah, 

whose tits stuck out 

of her sweater like oil funnels,

chugging three beers before the game 

and coming off the bench 

to score six straight points,

graduating high school with his pants

on backwards.

            2.

Now the log cabin 

sells organic and new-age produce, 

and Willy Crockett stands 

at the corner of tofu and prunes.

Fifty pounds heavier, 

still tall.

Wears a toupee 

that looks like roadkill,

carries a cell phone 

clipped to an alligator belt.

Assistant manager 

at the local hardware store, 

divorced from Dee Dee, 

He tells me he belongs 

to the Church of the New Kingdom.

Says the old days are long gone

—Praise the Lord!

Toes pointed in, 

he cradles his yellow basket 

of flax oil and sulfur supplement,

gazes at displays 

of crystal pyramids,

Himalayan incense,

and Navajo dreamcatchers,

still searching…