Am I as old as I am? Maybe not. Time is a mystery that can tip us upside down. Yesterday I was seven in the woods, a bandage covering my blind eye, in a bedroll Mother made me so I could sleep out in the woods far from people. A garter snake glided by without noticing me. A chickadee landed on my bare toe, so light she wasn’t believable. The night had been long and the treetops thick with a trillion stars. Who was I, half-blind on the forest floor who was I at age seven? Sixty-eight years later I can still inhabit that boy’s body without thinking of the time between. It is the burden of life to be many ages without seeing the end of time. ~Jim Harrison, “Seven in the Woods” from The Essential Poems.
… just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,— Who held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: “Come in,” he said, “and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be.” ~Henry van Dyke, from The Poems of Henry van Dyke
When we drive the country roads where I grew up, though the trees are taller, it looks just as I remembered. The scattered houses on farms still stand, a bit more worn, the fields open and flowing as always, the turns and bends, the ups and downs of the asphalt lanes unchanged where once I sped with bicycle tires and sneakered feet.
My own childhood home is now a different color but so familiar as we drive slowly by, filling me with memories of laughter and games, long winter days and longer summer evenings with its share of angry words and weeping and eventual forgiveness.
Back then my child’s heart tried to imagine itself decades hence, what fears and joys would pass through like pumping blood, what wounds would I bear and bleed, what love and tears might trace my face?
I have not forgotten that girl I was. No, I have never forgotten – I am still that girl and will be until the end.
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April is like the raggedy, wandering gypsy lad of the fairy tale. When he moves, streaks of gold show beneath his torn garments and you suspect that this elfin creature is actually a prince in disguise.
April is just that.
There are raggedy, cold days, dark black ones, but all through the month for a second, for an hour, or for three days at a stretch you glimpse pure gold.
The weeks pass and the rags slip away, a shred at a time. Toward the end of the month his royal highness stands before you. ~Jean Hersey from The Shape of a Year
I avoid spending much time in front of mirrors now as I age. Clothed in rags, I’m thinning here, thickening there, sagging and stretching, wrinkled and patched up.
Still, if I look closely past the rags and sags, I see the same eyes as my younger self peering back at me. There are some things that age does not disguise.
The lightness and freshness of youth might be covered up with the trappings of aging, but I’m still delighted to be here, just as I am. Every once in awhile, I believe I glimpse a little gold under the surface. This farm girl isn’t a queen or a princess in disguise, but breathing in the scents of certain golden days of April can make me feel like one.
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Near a shrine in Japan he’d swept the path and then placed camellia blossoms there.
Or — we had no way of knowing — he’d swept the path between fallen camellias. ~Carol Snow “Tour”
I’ve seen brilliant camellias blooming in Japan in late winter, a harbinger of the sakura blossom explosion right around the corner. The shiny-leafed camellia bushes are taller than I am, loaded with flowers, a showy yet still humble plant. As little else is blooming, walking along Tokyo rivers and pathways becomes a camellia scavenger hunt, checking out the different pinks and reds, looking for the most perfect blooms.
Although camellia blossoms are hardy enough to withstand variable temperatures and weather, their petals eventually begin to brown at the edges and wither. On windy days, the full intact blooms plop to the pavement without warning, scattering into a nubby floral throw rug. They are too bulky to step on, so the tendency is to pick a path around them, allowing them the dignity of a few more days before being swept away by street cleaners.
In an aging country of great order and tidiness, these fallen blossoms are almost sacred and clearly respected. They grace the paths the living still must navigate. They are indeed grounding for the passersby, reminding us our time to let go will come too. As we measure our steps, carefully making our way around their fading beauty, we acknowledge the blessing they unknowingly bestow.
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All day the stars watch from long ago my mother said I am going now when you are alone you will be all right whether or not you know you will know look at the old house in the dawn rain all the flowers are forms of water the sun reminds them through a white cloud touches the patchwork spread on the hill the washed colors of the afterlife that lived there long before you were born see how they wake without a question even though the whole world is burning ~W.S. Merwin “Rain Light”
My childhood fear was that my parents might die young and leave me alone to fend for myself. This fear was certainly fed by nuclear threats, bomb drills at school and the Cuban missile crisis. It felt as though the world was so uncertain that even the most routine day felt fraught with the potential of a tragic ending. As an overly-sensitive eight year old, I struggled to go to school because I was certain I would not see my mother again if bombs dropped and the world ended in fire. That prospect was more terrifying than my own life ending.
It took time, and my mother’s constant reassurance, for me to settle into the reality that life is an uncertain business. Whether or not I would know what may happen that day, I would know to look for beauty and peace and renewal. Many days started with morning rain, a quiet washing away of the night’s worries and frets.
Decades later, I would be okay when she left, which she did, at dawn. I came to sit beside her for a short time, knowing she was gone, knowing I would be all right, and knowing she had given me the tools to look each uncertain day in the eye and accept it for what it was going to be.
Now, for nearly seventy years, I wake and look out at these uncertain dawns. Even though I do not know what will come next, I have been given the gift of reassurance that I will be all right.
And so will you.
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Yesterday our children, playing in a tree, watched as the tiniest bird fell from above them, where it belonged, to land below them, where it did not. The dog, animal and eager, stepped on the bird, then lowered his head. Our daughter screamed, hauled him back, then cupped her trembling hands around the trembling bird, Its one wing stretched and bent. Our son ran inside, obedient to our daughter’s instructions. I was in the shower, useless. You found a shoebox, sheltered the bird, helped our children find leaves and twigs, perched the box in the tree. At supper, we prayed for the bird while its mother visited the shoebox, her beak full. She fretted and fluttered. She couldn’t do anything, and we couldn’t do anything, and after supper, we found the trowel. Dust to dust, I said. O how I longed to gather you, you said, as a mother hen gathers her young beneath her wings. Our son pushed a stick into the soft earth. Our daughter told him not to push too far. ~Shea Tuttle “After reading our daughter’s poem”from Image Journal
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. ~Emily Dickinson
I have known the helplessness of watching life ebb away from a living creature and not be able to do a thing to change what is happening.
As a teenage nurse aide in a rest home for the elderly, I saw much of dying over those years before going to medical school – some deaths were anticipated and some unexpected. What was most apparent to me in that setting is that my primary role was to be a caring witness and comforter. I could not change what was happening but I could be there, not leaving my patients to die alone. I hoped that I was useful in some way.
Later, when I worked as a physician in a hospital, there were certainly things we would do to respond to a sudden cardiac event, and it was very dramatic to see someone’s pulse restored and stabilized due to our intervention. But more often than not, what we could do wouldn’t change the reality – dying still happened and we were gathered to witness the end. We often left the bedside feeling useless.
Now I have grandchildren who are learning about death through observing the natural cycles of animals living and dying on our farm. They discover a dead bird or vole on the ground; they were aware one of our elderly horses recently died. They are aware our beloved farm dogs are aging and so are grandma and grandpa.
Children naturally ask “why?” and we do our best to explain there is always hope and comfort, even when physical bodies are dust in the ground, marked by a stick or stone or only a memory.
It is “Hope” that sings alive within us, even when we’re naked and featherless, even if we fall far from the nest we were born to. We are caught and safe under our Savior’s wings for the rest of eternity, never to be “just dust” again.
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You might not know this old tree by its bark, Which once was striate, smooth, and glossy-dark, So deep now are the rifts that separate Its roughened surface into flake and plate.
Fancy might less remind you of a birch Than of mosaic columns in a church Like Ara Coeli or the Lateran Or the trenched features of an agèd man.
Still, do not be too much persuaded by These knotty furrows and these tesserae To think of patterns made from outside in Or finished wisdom in a shriveled skin.
Old trees are doomed to annual rebirth, New wood, new life, new compass, greater girth, And this is all their wisdom and their art— To grow, stretch, crack, and not yet come apart. ~Richard Wilbur “A Black Birch in Winter”
When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows— Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father’s trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It’s when I’m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I’d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better. I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. ~Robert Frost “Birches”
Old trees are doomed to annual rebirth, New wood, new life, new compass, greater girth, And this is all their wisdom and their art— To grow, stretch, crack, and not yet come apart.
The poet understands as we (and trees) age, we are no longer smooth on the surface, developing cracks and furrows, a flaking and peeling skin surrounding a steadfast trunk. Yet we still grow, even if not as recognizable in our old skin – our innards are still working, in particular enhancing a “greater girth.” (!)
Our farm’s twin birch trees have had some rough winters, having been bent double in a previous ice storm. One has not survived the trauma – the other continues to struggle. There are times when these flexible trees can bear no more bending despite their strength and perseverance.
As I am no longer a swinger of birches (and in truth, never was), I hope instead for the “finished wisdom in shriveled skin” of the aging tree. I admire how the birches renew themselves each spring, not giving up hope despite everything they have been through. They keep reaching higher up to the sky, while a slender branch just might touch the hem of heaven oh so gently.
1. See the lovely birch in the meadow, Curly leaves all dancing when the wind blows. Loo-lee-loo, when the wind blows, Loo-lee-loo, when the wind blows.
2. Oh, my little tree, I need branches, For the silver flutes I need branches. Loo-lee-loo, three branches, Loo-lee-loo, three branches.
3. From another birch I will make now, I will make a tingling balalaika. Loo-lee-loo, balalaika, Loo-lee-loo, balalaika.
4. When I play my new balalaika, I will think of you, my lovely birch tree. Loo-lee-loo, lovely birch tree, Loo-lee-loo, lovely birch tree.
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When faced with navigating an icy path ahead of me, I am rendered helpless. An icy path on a slope is even more intimidating.
Our farm is located on a hill, which is wonderful 50+ weeks out of the year, but in winter during arctic wind flow days, plus rain or sleet, it becomes a skating rink on an incline. Even the best traction devices won’t keep me on my feet.
I’m thankful my husband has much better balance than I do, but even the last ice storm was even too much for him. We don’t have much choice but to slide and crawl to our barnyard destination to complete our chores. It is exceedingly humbling to be brought to our knees, but that has always been the best position for sorely needed prayer and petition.
We pray to keep our aging bones intact. We pray to keep our backs and noggins functional. We pray for the thaw to come soon.
Despite an unsure landing for each footstep, there is nothing to do but keep going. So we do.
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I’m the child of rainy Sundays. I watched time crawl Like an injured fly Over the wet windowpane. Or waited for a branch On a tree to stop shaking, While Grandmother knitted Making a ball of yarn Roll over like a kitten at her feet. I knew every clock in the house Had stopped ticking And that this day will last forever. ~Charles Simic “To Boredom”
Charles Simic died last week at the age of 84.
It has been an eternity since I’ve been bored.
My list of to-do’s and want-to-do’s and hope-to-do’s and someday-maybe-if-I’m-lucky-to-do’s is much longer than the years still left to me.
But I remember those days long ago when the clock would stop, time would suspend itself above me, ~dangling~ and the day would last forever until it finally collapsed with a gasp.
No more.
Time races and skitters and skips by, each heartbeat a grateful reminder of my continued existence as forever moves closer than ever.
Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick, And think of you Caught up in circles confusion – Is nothing new Flashback – warm nights – Almost left behind Suitcases of memories, Time after – Sometimes you picture me – I’m walking too far ahead You’re calling to me, I can’t hear What you’ve said – Then you say – go slow – I fall behind – The second hand unwinds If you’re lost you can look – and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you – I’ll be waiting Time after time After my picture fades and darkness has Turned to gray Watching through windows – you’re wondering If I’m OK Secrets stolen from deep inside The drum beats out of time – ~Cyndi Lauper
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time Any fool can do it There ain’t nothing to it Nobody knows how we got to The top of the hill But since we’re on our way down We might as well enjoy the ride. The secret of love is in opening up your heart It’s okay to feel afraid But don’t let that stand in your way ’cause anyone knows that love is the only road And since we’re only here for a while Might as well show some style Give us a smile. Isn’t it a lovely ride Sliding down Gliding down Try not to try too hard It’s just a lovely ride. Now the thing about time is that time Isn’t really real It’s just your point of view How does it feel for you Einstein said he could never understand it all Planets spinning through space The smile upon your face Welcome to the human race. Some kind of lovely ride I’ll be sliding down I’ll be gliding down Try not to try too hard It’s just a lovely ride. Isn’t it a lovely ride Sliding down Gliding down Try not to try too hard It’s just a lovely ride. ~James Taylor
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“Did you ever know that a flower, once withered and freshened again, becomes an immortal flower, – that is, that it rises again?” ~Emily Dickinson in a letter to a friend
Emily Dickinson Herbarium – preservation of trilliumEmily Dickinson herbarium- preservation of wild ginger (asarum)
While I was fearing it, it came— But came with less of fear Because that fearing it so long Had almost made it fair—
There is a Fitting—a Dismay— A Fitting—a Despair ’Tis harder knowing it is Due Than knowing it is Here.
The Trying on the Utmost The Morning it is new Is Terribler than wearing it A whole existence through. ~Emily Dickinson
Over a decade ago, as I was going through my mother’s boxed-up possessions after her death, I found the 1956 Webster’s New Dictionary of the Twentieth Century that I grew up with. This book was massive, easily weighing 10 pounds, and served as a booster seat for haircuts, a step stool for trying to reach the cookie jar on the kitchen cupboard, and of course, for looking up any obscure word that ever existed in all of history. Or so it seemed.
It was an amazing tome. And as I flipped through the pages, I found some old familiar friends that were neither black nor white nor read all over. They had survived over half a century.
Wildflowers had been carefully pressed between the pages–over two dozen specimens paper thin themselves, their existence squeezed into two dimensions–still showing faint pink or blue, or purple color, almost exuding a long ago fragrance from a summer over fifty years ago. As a child I regularly wandered out to our fields and woods to gather crimson clover blossoms, buttercup, dandelions, daisies, wild violets, wild ginger, calypso lady slippers for bouquets for my mother, and she would select the most perfect to slide between the pages of the dictionary. Occasionally she would pull one out to gently paste on a hand written card she sent to a friend.
Here were my perfect flowers, preserved and pressed for time, just waiting for the senior-citizen me to rediscover them lying between wonderful words that I love to roll in my mouth and type on a page. They are too fragile to paste to a greeting card, or even to handle due to their brittleness. They need to stay right where they are, for another generation or two or three to discover.
As a child, I was always very worried about losing my parents, fearing their death would be the end of me as well. But as Emily Dickinson writes “fearing it so long/Had almost made it fair” – as an adult, I was more prepared for the day each parted from this life. As the poet suggests, fearing it for years was much harder than the acceptance when that time had come.
Now I too am pressed for time, fading and more fragile, perhaps more brittle than I care to admit. My mother and father have blown away like the puff ball seeds of the dandelion, on to other horizons, but the sturdy old dictionary is going nowhere. It will be passed down, its delicate passengers preserved inside from a long-ago-far-away summer afternoon of flower gathering. They will be shared as a great grandchild opens the book to look up a favorite word sometime in the not-so-far-off future.
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Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road, my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first
through the woods, then out into the open fields past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop
and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.
I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening
a prayer for being here, today, now, alive in this life, in this evening, under this sky. ~David Budbill “Winter: Tonight: Sunset”from While We’ve Still Got Feet
I thank you God for most this amazing day For the leaping greenly spirits of trees And a blue true dream of sky And for everything that is natural, which is infinite, which is yes I who have died am alive again today And this is the sun’s birthday This is the birth day of life and of love and wings And of the gay great happening illimitably earth How should tasting, touching, hearing, seeing, breathing any Lifted from the no of all nothing Human merely being doubt unimaginable You? Now the ears of my ears awake And now the eyes of my eyes are opened ~E. E. Cummings~
Each day, no matter how things feel, no matter how tired or distracted I am, no matter how empty or discouraged, no matter how worried, or fearful or heartsick:
it is up to me to distill my very existence down to this moment of beauty that will never come again; I’m given the unimaginable opportunity to be loving with every cell of my being.
One breath, one blink, one pause, one whispered word again and again: thanks, thanks, thanks be to God.
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