Saturday, August 23, 2014

Aw, Moffat's a Poet!

I am alone.
The world which shook at my feet and the trees, the sky have gone.
And I am alone now.
The wind bites now,
and the world is grey and I am alone here.
Can't see me.
Doesn't see me.
Can't see me.

Doctor Who, Series 8, Episode 1 by Steven Moffat

(I'd have entitled this "The Dino's Lament" if it was mine, as the Doctor was translating for the dinosaur while he was sleeping. Maybe I'd have gone with "Regeneration," though.)

(By the by, that's the new new new new Doctor sleeping up there, played by Peter Capaldi.)

Monday, August 11, 2014

Long Poem, Worth the Read

I've been pondering suicide a lot since my friend Carla jumped of the Golden Gate Bridge last Thanksgiving. Why some of us who experience suicidal tendencies commit suicide and others don't. Carla had therapy and every form of treatment imaginable. She was trying to cling to life. And one day she didn't any more. And there's her whole family and a myriad of friends left behind wishing they'd gotten that "net" up sooner under the bridge. That maybe if someone had been able to catch her and place her in care one more time, she could have made it. We'll never know. Apparently Robin Williams also killed himself today. There's just something about brilliance and despair that attract one another, isn't there? Know someone brilliant and sensitive, chances are they are in the pit of despair from time to time.

I don't normally post long poems, though I enjoy reading them, but this one has spoken to me for years and I wanted to share it. The images in this poem speak to a deep belief in my soul of a loving Heavenly Father welcoming us home, loving us, blessing us to the extent that we let him. The final image keeps me glued here on earth until God calls "Olly olly oxen free!"

The Suicide

Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more!
Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore!
And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me,
I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly
That I might eat again, and met thy sneers
With deprecations, and thy blows with tears,—
Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawled away,
As if spent passion were a holiday!
And now I go. Nor threat, nor easy vow
Of tardy kindness can avail thee now
With me, whence fear and faith alike are flown;
Lonely I came, and I depart alone,
And know not where nor unto whom I go;
But that thou canst not follow me I know.”

Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through my brain
My thought ran still, until I spake again:

“Ah, but I go not as I came,—no trace
Is mine to bear away of that old grace
I brought! I have been heated in thy fires,
Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires,
Thy mark is on me! I am not the same
Nor ever more shall be, as when I came.
Ashes am I of all that once I seemed.
In me all’s sunk that leapt, and all that dreamed
Is wakeful for alarm,—oh, shame to thee,
For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me,
Who laugh no more nor lift my throat to sing
Ah, Life, I would have been a pleasant thing
To have about the house when I was grown
If thou hadst left my little joys alone!
I asked of thee no favor save this one:
That thou wouldst leave me playing in the sun!
And this thou didst deny, calling my name
Insistently, until I rose and came.
I saw the sun no more.—It were not well
So long on these unpleasant thoughts to dwell,
Need I arise to-morrow and renew
Again my hated tasks, but I am through
With all things save my thoughts and this one night,
So that in truth I seem already quite
Free,and remote from thee,—I feel no haste
And no reluctance to depart; I taste
Merely, with thoughtful mien, an unknown draught,
That in a little while I shall have quaffed.”

Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly smiled,
Looking at nothing; and my thin dreams filed
Before me one by one till once again
I set new words unto an old refrain:

“Treasures thou hast that never have been mine!
Warm lights in many a secret chamber shine
Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song have blown
Like blossoms out to me that sat alone!
And I have waited well for thee to show
If any share were mine,—and now I go
Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain
I shall but come into mine own again!”

Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake no more,
But turning, straightway, sought a certain door
In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low
And dark,—a way by which none e’er would go
That other exit had, and never knock
Was heard thereat,—bearing a curious lock
Some chance had shown me fashioned faultily,
Whereof Life held content the useless key,
And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust,
Whose sudden voice across a silence must,
I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear,—
A strange door, ugly like a dwarf.—So near
I came I felt upon my feet the chill
Of acid wind creeping across the sill.
So stood longtime, till over me at last
Came weariness, and all things other passed
To make it room; the still night drifted deep
Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep.

But, suddenly, marking the morning hour,
Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower!
Startled, I raised my head,—and with a shout
Laid hold upon the latch,—and was without.

* * * *

Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road, 
Leading me back unto my old abode, 
My father’s house! There in the night I came, 
And found them feasting, and all things the same 
As they had been before. A splendour hung 
Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung 
As, echoing out of very long ago, 
Had called me from the house of Life, I know.
So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame
On the unlovely garb in which I came;
Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked:
“It is my father’s house!” I said and knocked;
And the door opened. To the shining crowd
Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud,
Seeing no face but his; to him I crept,
And “Father!” I cried, and clasped his knees, and wept.

* * * *

Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone
I wandered through the house. My own, my own,
My own to touch, my own to taste and smell,
All I had lacked so long and loved so well!
None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song,
Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long.

I know not when the wonder came to me
Of what my father’s business might be,
And whither fared and on what errands bent
The tall and gracious messengers he sent.
Yet one day with no song from dawn till night
Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight.
And the next day I called; and on the third
Asked them if I might go,—but no one heard.
Then, sick with longing, I arose at last
And went unto my father,—in that vast
Chamber wherein he for so many years
Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres.
“Father," I said, “Father, I cannot play
The harp that thou didst give me, and all day
I sit in idleness, while to and fro
About me thy serene, grave servants go;
And I am weary of my lonely ease.
Better a perilous journey overseas
Away from thee, than this, the life I lead,
To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed
That grows to naught,—I love thee more than they
Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way.
Father, I beg of thee a little task
To dignify my days,—‘tis all I ask
Forever, but forever, this denied,
I perish.”
        “Child," my father’s voice replied,
“All things thy fancy hath desired of me
Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee
Within my house a spacious chamber, where
Are delicate things to handle and to wear,
And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song?
My minstrels shall attend thee all day long.
Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand
Open as fields to thee on every hand.
And all thy days this word shall hold the same:
No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name.
But as for tasks—" he smiled, and shook his head;
“Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by," he said.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Too Many Books?

I have a lot of books. My sister has been teasing me about the fact that I am never going to read them and that I should get rid of them. I hate getting rid of books. Hate it. I got rid of a few dozen boxes in 2008 and I still miss some of them. Would I have read them again? I don't know, but I just loved having them around. ANYHOW, I've decided to read or re-read all of my books and make the decision book by book. I'm not sure this is even a possibility. Can I read them in what remains of my lifetime? I'm going to give it a shot. I won't read all of my husband's Birchy books or the reference books, but everything else I'm going to tackle. As I finish each one I'll decide whether I'll keep it or toss it. I started the other day on Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I'll be tossing it because its binding is broken and I have a couple of other copies. There you go. Besides homeschooling, church, and caring for my friend June, that's what I'm up to. 

(Wish I had time to edit, but I don't so you get what you get. Also those aren't my books, just a pic from Google.)

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Loving Is Worth Having My Heart Broken

A while back, I wrote about June. She's our adopted grandmother and my dear friend, and she's deathly ill right now. June has a son who has disowned her, so she asked several years back if I'd be willing to make her medical decisions if she became incapacitated. I agreed. I'm finding the process so much less complicated with June than with my mother, because she's never been anything but a unmitigated blessing in my life; whereas my mom was always at odds with me, even in her final days. June trusts me. My mother didn't. People keep telling me I have a big heart, that she is lucky to have me, but she had a big heart first. She loves my children. She loves me. Unconditionally. I am lucky beyond lucky to have her in my life; blessed would be a better word.

Now, she is frightened. Her mind has suddenly begun creating terrifying scenarios, fires and guns, devils and drug lords, and thieves, so many thieves. She's still lucid and knows and loves us, but she's trembling and confused. It's heartbreaking, because it can't be fought. If a real danger existed, I could move her. If someone was truly calling her names, I could stop them. But I can't stop her mind from laying this fabric of horror over her life. June is well-educated, smart, rarely confused. I didn't anticipate dementia. But that's just life, isn't it? Full of surprises. And a wicked kind of humor.

Would I take away my years of friendship with June, so that I didn't have to see her suffer? Would I turn into the kind of person who can drop someone at a convalescent home and walk away, so that I didn't have to watch this pain? No and no. Loving has its costs. Loving is what makes life worth living. It's the source of all of my joy and most of my pain. Someone with a whole heart might disagree with me, but my mantra has been "It's worth it. Loving is worth having my heart broken." Forgive me if I have to remind myself during the hard part. 

It is. It's worth it.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Sometimes Poetry Says It Best

Dirge Without Music

 By Edna St. Vincent Millay

 I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Happy birthday, Mom. See ya on the other side.