many thanks to Sky Vani, for sharing this song and beautiful video.
feel free to play it low as a soundtrack, as i did while writing this poem.
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as early as her day begins, it ends
a sad memoir echoes an empty room,
and she breezes through her motions
without a care in this world.
as if her love never really ended
wrote the diary, it’s last page.
wide cupped latte’
a quick croissant
and her habitual daily stroll
to every place they ever met.
she’s hoping without a prayer
he’ll be sitting there as always
in his favorite, corner chair.
she chooses spools of woven thread
from the French village mercerie,
that suggestive red dress
he always loved
and it’s noticeable tear.
as if life never did really end
wrote the diary, her last page.
I wish that I could be a prowling cat
or, ghostlike in the wall, hear pieces, bits
of whispered conversation. Oh. He quits? How can this be? I feel my heart fall flat.
I wish my dad had not deserted us.
I wonder what we might have all become
if he’d not gone away and left us numb.
I felt a big subtraction, never plus.
I wish my father had approved of me,
shown his encouragement or his support.
Instead, he and my mom wound up in court,
their marriage then dissolved. He, fancy-free,
married again, then two times more. I saw
him try for happiness. O, how I begged
for his attention, but I had him pegged
right, and I sadly saw the fatal flaw
that kept him locked from free and easy back
and forth relationships. And how I wish
than cancer hadn’t spilled its nasty dish
into his lap to emphasize the lack
he must have felt. I stopped my wishing then,
forgave him, overlooked much, and calmed down.
He, after all, had shared his writing crown.
He’d lived Days One through Nine. Soon coming? Ten.
I saw a show on public television last night that I thought was fascinating, arresting, and superbly-done. Called “Undertaking,” it was a behind-the-scenes look at what a small-town undertaker does. At first I thought I couldn’t watch it, but as it progressed with details I thought might repulse me, I couldn’t take my eyes from the screen. It turned out to be narrated by the only funeral director in a small town in the very state where I live. His voice describing what he does was respectful, almost a hush, almost poetic. I was drawn in.
He talked about such things as helping people to choose a casket, to gently asking questions about what someone might want for their own or a loved one’s services, to tastefully showing “just enough” of the embalming process, washing, making up, and dressing a body for viewing, and talking with families to help them come to terms with the fact that a loved one was alive three days ago and now he or she has passed.
“It’s a shock,” he said, “a transition, and people don’t go through it easily. We are here to assist them through that transition.”
He told of when his own father had died, how he said to himself, looking at his father’s body on the table, “This is what Dad will look like dead,” then catching himself, saying, “Oh, this is Dad. He died. He is dead.” And he was taken aback that he could think that way, being the funeral director.
He said that if he were to gather 100 people and ask how many of them had put flowers on the casket of a loved one, or shoveled some earth atop the casket, or even helped to lower it into the ground, many would say they had. However, he said, few to none would say that they had gone to a crematorium to touch the casket or container, or even put their hands on it in an effort to “push” it toward the final flames.
“People don’t know they can do that.”
I know I was surprised to hear it. He emphasized that people need rituals of varying kinds to help them make the transition from life with a loved one to life without him or her.
“The smallest detail can become greatly important,” he said as he was shown knotting the tie through the collar of a white shirt on the body of a well-respected community businessman.
The show was highlighted by three families who would lose a loved one. One was a woman whose elderly aunt needed to talk about her wishes. Her niece brought the funeral director to the hospital to talk with her about her choices. The aunt was open about what she wanted, and grateful that she was able to express them before she passed.
Another was an older man whose family wanted to make sure that his services reflected his life.
And yet another was a young couple with a baby who from birth was very ill and whose health deteriorated every day until his death. What that funeral director did for this family was exquisite. The parents wanted to be very involved, even to helping to lower the tiny casket into the ground.
One of the most stirring moments of the show was when the funeral director spoke about readying a body for services. The body was shown on the table before him.
“I am always struck by the absolute stillness in the room. There is no heaviness to the body, no resistance, no sound of breathing. It is a hush. I lift a hand and place it here. I lift the other hand and place it there. A lived-life is in my hands. It is absolutely still. I cannot help but be overcome with respect during these moments.”
My song, “Set You Free” is one of my favorites. There are many ways that I relate to my song. I share more about it in a moment. Recently, I was very moved by a blog about a woman who is caring for her terminally ill daughter. It is getting close to the end now. I reached out and sent my song and words to this mother.
I was very inspired to know that out of hundreds of messages, she chose to post my song and mention how much it helped her.
There is nothing more meaningful in my life right now than that.
Clicking the blue title below, is a link to Tersia’s blog:
I wrote these words six months before my father died:
My song, “Set You Free” was born when I was feeling sad on Cheryl’s birthday. It was hard for me to believe that it had been almost three years since Cheryl died; sometimes it was easier to imagine that she was still alive and living far away. When we were older, life was busy but I missed our former closeness. Sometimes, there were special moments when I could hear her voice; it was recognizable and always comforting. There was no mistaking the cackle in it; we both used to laugh so easily. The smile in her voice was like music filling my mind, traveling straight to my heart and spreading comfort throughout my body. Those times were fleeting, but it was always music that brought Cheryl back to me.
I was sad because I knew Cheryl would have had some wisdom to offer me as I coped with my parents’ suffering. My mother’s dementia was worsening. She still recognized me, but was often terribly confused and anxious. My father was now in a wheelchair and plagued by constant infections; he would say he wasn’t in pain but he continuously moaned under his breath. A few moments earlier, I had spoken with him on the phone; he was very sick and refused to allow me to take him to the hospital.
And so it was on that stressful day, that Cheryl visited me. I was listening to one of the songs I wrote for her in my darkened bedroom, and my tears began to flow. I cried because it was hard to accept that she was really gone. But then, I heard Cheryl’s voice and her sweet encouragement. Gently, she reminded me that I was not alone; she would always be with me, especially when I played my guitar. After her voice quieted, I stood up to address my emptiness inside. My eyes still wet with tears, as I explored new fingerings on my guitar and soon beautiful chords began to appear; my melancholy was gone.
I put down my guitar to answer the phone. The call was to inform me that my father was being taken to a nearby hospital emergency room by ambulance. I left in the summer twilight to go to the hospital. When I returned home it was very late and I couldn’t sleep. I fingerpicked my guitar and felt inspired; lyrics formed in my mind to go with the beautiful new guitar chords I had discovered the day before. My new song, which I named “Set You Free,” began with the words: “You’re hanging on, as night turns to dawn.”
Acceptance is truly what “Set You Free” is about. My lyric line of “There is no fear and your leaving is clear,” is completely honest. As a result of my happiness and newfound clarity about life, I was confident that even with separation, both of us would be all right. Relating that to my children was easy. With my parents, it meant that my uncertainty and fear about death was gone. This revelation was quite profound for me. I felt ready to face the unknown.
It was because I had decided that life was all about arrivals and departures.
Because my songs come from my subconscious, sometimes I find my lyrics to carry additional meanings for me later on. I began to picture Cheryl as I sang the lyrics, because she had inspired me to compose the first chords of my song.
But it was my chorus lyrics of: “your smile, your touch, your voice, your face, your essence I will never replace,” that perfectly expressed my deep longing for Jason, and caused me to become emotional when I sang them. Jason was my child who died many years ago, when he was only five years old.
Yet not long after my song was written, I was singing those words and I realized that my emotions weren’t related to pain or sadness. As I remembered Jason’s unforgettable essence, I was overcome by deep gratitude. I had finally let go of my grief for him.
It was then that I understood.
I realized that my song was about setting myself free.
It has been 20 years since my son, Jason died. I wrote this poem four years after his death when I believed my pain would never go away. I dedicate this posting to Beebee and continue to try to inspire hope to anyone suffering with grief at my blog: myjourneysinsight.com
THE ACHE IN MY HEART
The ache in my heart goes everywhere with me
It follows me through time and never really leaves
With every breath I push it away and hope it won’t remain
Because I can’t accept that it will stay with me for the rest of my life
But four years later, it’s still there . . .
In the loudest or quietest moment I strain to remember your voice
In the daylight or in darkness, I’m searching for your face
In the happiest of times, the ache in my heart
Reminds me that tragedy can always strike
The thought of more agony than your loss alone is unbearable
So, sometimes I wish the pain away and pretend it never happened
Or it happened to somebody else or maybe you’re better off
Or maybe I am, too, but it never really matters
Because the ache in my heart never leaves
Even when I’ve thought it’s gone, it’s only disguised
It becomes the guilt that now I’ve forgotten you or loved you less
I guess the ache inside is what remains
And though the pain is no longer raw
I can’t believe that time can heal
How can my heart ever heal
when it continues to bleed?
Clicking the blue link below,
leads to my song “So Real” and more words about grief:
This poem is not for my precious son, whose death
took everything from me that I hung on to, believed in.
It is for those who can’t see that I am still here.
but I have been forced to live in a world where there
is not glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.
I’m so tired of it all, so tired of the lies.
The further I fall, the higher you rise.
It takes all I have, each moment I try,
I give and I give, till I think I will die.
I’m sorry that I was never enough,
My heart is long dead, the road’s been so rough.
All that I have, I have given to you.
And what have I left? No joy and no you.
Just leave me here in my prison, my home,
Cause when you are here, I still feel alone.
Not a thing I’ve endured, suffered, survived.
Has helped you to notice, that I’m still alive.
I still feel, I still hope, I still love, I still try.
Somehow through the darkness, I still survive.
Take just one heartbeat, one touch, one breath,
And remember I will love you till nothing is left.
My passion is music and songwriting and I want to share a little poetry surrounding two songs that I wrote when I was a teenager.
One song is named “Autumn Recollections” and the other is “Alone.” I recorded them together and they both definitely have a certain mood and express deep loneliness.
I share first calligraphy of my lyrics that I created in college. Below it are some thoughts of mine about death, which relate to my song “Alone.”
Here are links to the music and story of these two songs:
I wasn’t sure how to relate my post to December, and I realize I am sharing more than twenty lines. What I want to say very succinctly is that the holidays are very difficult and lonely for people who are carrying the burden of grief. Grief doesn’t magically disappear. It lingers and bites during holidays, because holidays are when we miss those special people who were ripped from our life.
Please remember people who are grieving in December. They need support, love and understanding. Never tell them that it’s time to move on. Just be there for them – and listen.
You may have to click the title above to see the entire concrete poem. It clips on my screen. Couldn’t find a way to force it to use the entire width.
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Circles of cycles
move me farther from birth,
closer to death.
I do not acknowledge the latter.
Seasons teach me:
Infant blossoms in spring,
full bloom of youth, the summer,
a winding-down in fall, raking up excesses, lowered skies,
then frozen winter.
I know my season,
just as the clock ticks inexorably.
