Something No University Will Ever Teach

There are more than a few things I’ve done

For which I’m at a loss for words to explain.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder

Why recurring memories still haunt me?

Emerge from shadows— at times they speak,

Often they merely stand and watch from corners in the room.

They bring no regrets.  If given a second chance,

I’d do now what I did almost 50 years ago.

Even at the time, I knew I was in violation of the rules:

The policies of the hospital were clear.

But the place was chronically understaffed.

No one was watching when I slipped into

Rooms of patients that were clearly close to death.

Most had been hospitalized for ten or twenty years,

No family came to visit.  They were alone,

Would die alone that very night in silent hours of darkness.

No doctors attempted to save them.

Their time had finally come, organs were shutting down.

Some were in their forties, some on the other side of eighty.

Sitting in their rooms, I held their hands,

Could tell when pulse was weakening.

They would not survive till morning light, but still

Had something to offer, to teach.

There were times I closed the door and locked it,

Dimmed the lights down low.  Felt in the silence

The presence of a Holy Other, a sacred time where it was

Impossible to simply leave.  If there were saints or angels,

I asked them to gather close.  Then removed my shoes,

If I sensed they wanted holding,

Climbed into bed and gently held them….

I learned how important body is to life—

Saw them struggle to hold breath of life when

They inhaled and expanded, then released.

Bony limbs held heads that openly gasped for air—

So close to death, how does one watch

Without becoming owned, opened, chilled?

The eyes—always the eyes searched

Until they found me, taught me to mourn,

To pray muted prayers, for them, for me

In this silent time of letting go.

I learned how the body is not impeded from Being,

As long as heart does beat, yet slowly uncouples,

Seeks a place underneath the earth to rest.

I could not close my eyes nor walk away,

To see with young blue eyes, to behold something

So dark, so grim, so holy seemed impossible yet necessary.

Now, in the safe house of this poem, I find new words—

Though then I was not entirely voiceless.

Even to see, to be seen was precious.

Sometimes I worry that I will die before I’m ready.

By the time I was eight, I’d had three near death experiences,

Now I’ve had more than ten, yet death has not taken me.

But in those nights in hospital, death itself was in the room.

Its darkness burned and I felt presence of a hunger that

Could not be moved or delayed, but merely satisfied.

Have you seen someone die?  Heard the rattle

As the end approaches closer and closer?

I had no power to save, but only to bless, to bless

With kindness all of life.  Let me be aware, even now.

Let me remember you, even as you say goodbye.

Some might think this morbid or that perhaps

I had some secret thrill to be alone in a hospital room

When the living slipped away.  Buddhists call this the moment

When the soul drops the body and slowly transcends,

Moves on to ethereal realms, or lingers for a moment or an hour,

Thanking the cold body for the life it provided.

If anything, I felt no one should be left utterly alone to die.

Someone should witness; someone should care.

I was no savior;  I was clear about that.  Just let me remember you.

Some of them I had gotten to know; others had never

Spoken a word in years, wounded in war, injured in accidents,

Strokes or disease that took their memories to the point

They didn’t know their names.  They were nothing to me.

But in that moment, they became everything to me.

They lingered moment by moment by the grace of God.

Their hearts pumped blood and their lungs still breathed.

In the cold chaos of those moments, it was impossible to leave.

With each passing that I have witnessed,

I felt my own fear of death begin to diminish.

To this day I cannot say how, but I learned

That death is completely safe, though dying might be hard.

Twenty two years later, when I held my father as he slowly died,

I was there not from duty but because I was his only son.

My mother and sister couldn’t come close to the bed,

So alone, I encircled him gently with whatever love I had.

All of the previous deaths I’d witnessed were there in the room,

Made it possible for me to stay, not to walk away.

At two in the morning, his breath grew shallow.

By three he breathed his last.  But I was steady in determination

To cradle him to the end.  I closed his eyes.  I prayed…

Thirty minutes later, two hospice nurses finally arrived.

I told them what I wanted, so they watched as I removed his

Clothes and slowly washed his body, anointed him with oils,

Dressed him in clothes that I had picked.   Then we gently

Slipped his body into the black bag and I zipped it closed.

I never saw his body again.  But if I close my eyes, I can still see it now.

When the hearse arrived, I helped as best I could, tears

Flowing down my face, but I sat next to the driver

Until we reach the funeral home, then took a cab back home.

There was no pride.  There was no honor.  I simply did

What I felt called to do to attend my father at his death,

Mourn him at the funeral, and preside at the burial service.

When I was overcome with grief, I paused and took my time.

If others were uncomfortable with my tears,

That was their problem, not mine to own.

I find no pleasure in suffering.  I have no love of death.

No one ever thanked me.  It was a task I never shared.

But in a very personal way, there was purpose to be found.

Yet still the memories occasionally come, always late at night.

It is amazing what shadows can project onto our lives,

Lithographed over face, skin.  Since childhood,

We know our own shadow, that gray dark area

Found when body blocks the light.

We dance and find that shadows move— a visible absence

Linked by distance to your own very sense of Self.  With open eyes,

We see, we witness, we record as memories an awareness

That in some mysterious way, shadows are a harbinger of death.

In some future day, we will no longer reach out to touch

Our own flesh, for our bodies are not owned,  merely

Borrowed, one day to leave, uncouple, let go and move on.

For now, they advise we do not touch our faces, lest we die.

But soon will come a time when we return to the body, call back

Our arms and legs and feet, to clothe ourselves in silk and cotton,

Chew our nails, eat our scabs, linger before the mirror as we age,

Brush our silver hair that thins just as childhood freckles faded.

Each day, if we are awake, we die a little death in preparation for

That eventual time when soul and body are ready to say

Goodbye, expanding into different light.  Thank you.

Thank you for all I learn each day, each night.

Bless me, that I may see and love.

The Silent Song of Light

Dedicated to my dear friend, Sue Shapiro, for the lasting love she shared.

There’s a silence in the world,

If one is aware, slowly

Can slip gently into mind,

Rest as a stone does rest in quiet water.

 

In that silence of the mind,

One with God, we sense

Bottomless well of Being, hidden,

Resting Presence deep within.

 

No need to fear, no need to pull away—

Its margins are our own.

Beyond measure, it’s vastness whispers,

Calls us deeper into our own fathoms.

 

Somewhere outside, there sits

Large mountain force, never moving,

Waiting, watching, whose image

Reflects into our quiet waters

A silent song of light.

 

Praying Another Voice May Speak

It’s already late in April,

Still too early to cut grass.

Be patient.

Eventually flowers will bloom.

 

But it doesn’t take flowers

To find beauty in the world.

Just a few small stones held in hands

Or ants crawling in dust by feet.

 

Approach each day in silence,

Bring no expectation,

Be open, observe, appreciate.

Even cloudy days can be open doorways.

 

Perhaps, just perhaps in the silence

You might hear another voice—

A hint, a whisper, a breath of air

More melodious than a symphony.

 

Let it carry you where it wills.

Follow it off course into a storm,

Spend an hour sitting on boulder

Grateful for every breath.

 

It could be sunrise on Isle of Skye or

Weeds growing in vacant lot in Chicago—

Reading epitaphs on old headstones.

Even confusion can be an open path.

 

Though at times it feels our fates

Are held in the hands of fools,

Today I breathe and pray

Out of silence, another voice may speak.

 

What Seems to Really Matter, Matters Not At All

Years ago, while working in Yellowstone,

I slept alone in an old cabin:  simple, austere,

No longer fit for tourists, wood walls rotting,

Two cracked windows that whispered thru the night

As wind swept across the tree line just below the clouds.

Across valley a pack of wolves howled.

One night a moose kicked in the door and came inside.

 

Oxygen was thin at such altitudes—

Sometimes waking me at night

When I escaped from vivid dreams

But could barely breathe in early morning light.

Perhaps God was telling me

I’d be better off if I joined

An order of contemplatives, led a life of ceaseless prayer.

 

I never finished filling out an application.

Instead, I walked mean streets at night,

Lost of my own accord, anonymous in Manhattan,

Never moving too far away from silent emptiness—

Voices pounding in my head as I studied Jung and Freud.

Where might God be leading me?

Do you have clarity when you cannot sleep at night?

 

Perhaps it really doesn’t matter that no one

Has ever made a promise that was kept.

These days I still live deep within interior spaces—

Yesterday got sad news yet another dear friend has died.

I’ve sat and prayed in church, mosque, synagogue,

Yet never found a single answer carved upon brick walls.

Questions serve as truest guide, reflect glimmer of light in darkness.

 

Now I trace the pace of slow decline from age—

The only constant seems my sin of pride.

Here I am:  guilty, unable to be indifferent,

Invoking my right to remain silent to the end.

Suffering has been integral to everything I’ve learned,

Yet everything that seems to really matter, matters not at all.

 

There are days I long for second birth, other days I don’t.

They say a wise man does not wish to be young again.

Were I given other chances, would I hope to never

Learn to pray in wordless silence?  Should I have

Filled out that application, become a monk,

Found different fate where brothers vowed to never speak?

 

Though all I’ve said is true, there is deeper truth unsaid.

I love my life.  I love my work.  I love my friends.

While I live alone, I am not lonely.  Though I have a host of flaws,

I do not live in discontent.  I am at peace.

I will not change course.  I accept, embrace my simple,

Complicated path–each day aware of endless Grace.

Each day I long for deeper Love.

 

An Easter Poem

I confess there have been nights
Where I sat alone in garden
And could not sleep, alone I saw
Darkness of the fate that stood unfolding.

My body has at times
Hung upon a cross of wood
Though I am no god with heavy weight
The world upon my shoulders resting.

Thank God, there also comes
Bright Easter morning rising Sun,
When white swan upon the water
Swims with urgency to live.

Even flowers bloom again in spring,
Willing or unwilling, still they bring
Beginning of new hope, sweet fragrance,
Fresh awareness of an astral glowing.

May you this day go winging into air,
Feel ten thousand kisses on your face,
Knowing that with Love there is no lasting parting,
Deep within the silent space, death yields to life anew.

Lesson Worn Threadbare Thru the Years

When I was young, in early 20s,
After living for seven days in silence
At Trappist monastery in Kentucky,
One of their elder monks died.

They dressed him in his work habit,
Plain, simple, black and white,
Coarse cloth, cross on chain around his neck,
Rugged, unpolished boots on feet.
Wrinkled hands folded on his chest–
Laid out for all the congregation
In small chapel, upon wooden bench.

Even now, the memory haunts me—
Not in a bad way, but oddly
Death of that old monk
Was a blessing, unsought but encountered,
Helped to change, redeem my ideas
Of what is best in life, of how to die,
Gives shape to how the dead
Should be given honor. Strangely,
I do not think I ever knew his name.

Of course, they did not embalm,
Though his body lay in front of chapel altar
At least two days before his service–
Readings from Good Book, a cappella chants,
Prayers offered by his band of brothers.
I do not recall that any tears were shed.

The chapel was full of monks, family,
Visitors, like me, who chose to attend.
At the end they picked up that
Old rugged wooden bench upon their shoulders,
Slowly circled high altar three times,
Incensed his body as they processed,
Exited outside through main door.
We each, alone, followed in absolute silence…

There, within fifty feet by the side of the church,
Was the graveyard, no tombstones above each grave,
Only simple wooden crosses with no names or dates.
A grave had been dug, six feet into dark Kentucky loam.
No coffin, no concrete vault to serve as tomb.
They wrapped his body in a clean white cotton sheet,
Encircled it with ropes and sang hymns
As they lowered lifeless body down into the ground.

After the rope was pulled up, brothers came close,
Each one sprinkled lime upon the body,
To help release it more quickly back to Mother Earth.
They shoveled dirt until the grave was full.
I stood there, looking, because how not to?
My own eyes filled with tears.

My breath was shallow, could not reach
Deep well of lungs, eyes open, taking in
The closing of this man’s final resting place.
Simple, sacred, dignified with quiet grace.
I was one of the last to depart,
Taking with me some mysterious lesson that
I’ve worn threadbare through the years.
This is the world. This is the world
From which we cannot run away.

And that Death is completely safe.

A Murder of Crows

Outside my door are three tall

Shag bark hickories, branches bare,

Naked in the late March air.

 

They stretch their arms out,

Holding a murder of crows,

Perched restlessly, like human souls.

 

They wait, as though wanting

A chance to be born again,

Reincarnate, perhaps in human form.

 

If I were a crow, I might want that, too.

Come back to live inside warm house,

Take a hot shower rather than be out in cold rain.

 

I am mesmerized by their dark eyes,

Thoughtful, wise, filled with longing,

Black beauty blended with hungry envy.

 

They watch me intensely as I leave the house,

Silently mock me if I wave my arms,

But do not fly away into morning breeze.

 

They seem entranced as I tie my boots,

Covering with tough leather softness of soles of feet.

Makes me curious if in prior lives they ever danced.

 

Are their calls a cry for help?  Are they so lonely

They fear I might fall asleep?  The mystery

Seems so obvious, I am disturbed with wonder.

 

When the World Seems Uncertain

There are times when it’s useful to

Think like an animal—like now

When you smell that peculiar

Sense of fear running through veins,

People get furious over stupid things

Or weep when alone at night.

 

One friend said, “I want to go home.”

But where is home when the world

Seems on fire, wolves circling in shadows

As incompetence sits upon the throne….

Who can we blame?  The Chinese?

Russians?  Italians?  Gay people?

 

When darkness seems pandemic,

It’s tempting to allow the heart to harden,

Feel constriction of hatred,

Make wager that fear will win.

Finally, I paused and then laughed,

Walked out under full moon.

 

Begging the light to take me back,

Slowly absurdity of hope

Began to dawn in the east.

How long will I allow myself

To be enslaved by my own fear?

Even as a nomad in exile, I still have a calling.

It Matters Not Which Path I Walk Today

It matters not which path I walk today,

Ancestors have come this way before.

Whichever gods you trust the most,

Have touched and blessed you from their thrones.

 

If you believe in Spirit Guides,

Then know they send you rightful signs.

Within Eternal Light forever shining,

Angels appear and whisper.  Can you discern their words?

 

Whatever path my feet walk upon today,

My way is where I need to be, assured.

May my eyes be open, my mind awake,

Darkness of my journey filled with blazing Light.

 

In past times, when lost, confused, have strayed;

Am now found today and thankful for my straying—

More blessed and send my blessing

To all this day I meet, to all for whom I pray.

 

Drifting Into Sleep

Drifting away into sleep,

All sense of direction lost, floating—

Washed clean by waters of the night.

I become the rain, falling into

Skin of Earth, or maybe it’s Venus,

Or maybe it has no name at all.

My name says nothing about who I am.

 

When lost within my dreams,

I have no name at all, own no home,

Have no car— but there are times

I’ve found myself beside the roots of trees,

Under garden of flowers where it’s moist,

Next to friends who are nothing but dust.

Together we touch and converse in silence.

 

When I wake, sometimes I have to search,

Forgetting my name, forgetting my work,

No fears, no cares, like death—completely safe.

Each day we wake as newborns, naked,

Opening eyes into the fresh light of day,

Walking onto new continent

From Oneness of the Ocean’s deep

Vast wholeness without the need of a name.