Threadbare

I didn't expect this grief

to become threadbare

I didn't expect it to move in,

become something I owned,

claimed, defined myself by

I didn't expect it

to be a word easily spoken,

thin from overuse

I didn't expect it to soften

around my shoulders

the way a well worn pair

of shoes holds the shape of my foot.

But today my grief rises

three weeks after the night

I can't quite remember.

After the night

I remember vividly.

After the night

I remember the way

I look at stars

by staring to one side.

Grief rises,

mocking my attempts

to do the work before me

welling up

forming deltas of salt on my cheeks

rivulets

that collect in the hollow of my collar bones.

Here is my grief

my threadbare sadness

my frustration,

my scattered mind.

Here,

hold it up to the sky

and through it

count the stars.

Journeyman

I send you my work, raw, a dress with unfinished seams.

"Is it any good?" I ask

You spoil me, and return my poem polished and bright,

cloth that slides over my head, fits perfectly.

"How do you do it?" I ask "How do you pare away

The unnecessary and leave my voice shining through?"

You send me instructions, and humble thanks.

You, who are a master of your craft, a tailor of words,

perform alterations, sculpt your own works.

Wind Caves, Photo: Michael Gaige

But now you are gone.

And I, a student without a teacher, stand bereft.

I gape at my closet of words

"Are they any good?" I ask myself

I pull out your instructions, take the first poem from the hanger
and get out my purple pen.

I begin the work I should have learned long ago.

I check verbs, straighten the seams of time,

Cut away words that weaken

Hem and surge, measure and slice.

In your absence my tutelage begins.

I hold my new poem up to the light

Look for excess with an eye that gropes at impartiality.

Still the fabric bunches, the metaphor wears thin.

Stitches run amok, punctuation snags meaning

I long for your subtle touch.

I begin to feel my own way,

begin to gather the tools of my craft, to call them my own.

I heft a growing responsibility to set free words that arise

I begin to trust the work,

to hang it out on the line, polished and bright.

I offer it to you, dear reader,

"Is it any good?" I ask

Solitude

This evening, I return home

Lake Colden Sunrise. Photo: Michael Gaige

build up the fire

chop onions and carrots

add them to oil in the pan.

In a moment

loneliness sweeps over me

I weep,

resting my forehead on the counter.

I flavor lentils

with salt and red wine vinegar

and spoon them over rice.

I eat slowly

eschewing the company

of computer or radio

I wash dishes,

and set them to dry

In solitude,

my heart softens.

I bow at the altar,

perform tasks demanded

by home and body.

I make space for tenderness

and tiredness

And in the slow passage

of days, I begin

to heal.

Fine, Thank You

"How are you," you ask in greeting,

not really wanting an answer

I beat my chest in response

tear my hair and wail

"I am so very sad"

I respond to your surprised look.

I am not afraid to grieve

I am not afraid to weep

rocking in front of the wood stove

convulsed by tears.

I am not afraid to tell you of my loss

how two weeks ago

my love expanded beyond

the bounds of our universe

I am not afraid to chant

out loud in remembrance

words cobbled together to

Ganesha and Guan Yin

I am not afraid of inhabiting my anguish

I am not afraid to tell stories of the dead

I am not afraid to spin my weakness

into words

But you look uncomfortable.

Does my grief offend you?

Would you rather, when asked, that I respond

"Fine, thank you, and you?"

Lizard Brain

How does my lizard brain know

Photo by Mike Gaige

the day of the week,

a concept I loose so easily when I step

away from my accustomed routine?

And yet, three weeks to the day

heading home in my car

tears slide, then cascade

down my cheeks.

Sobs well from the depths.

This morning, in a fit of sanity

I had straightened and cleaned house.

I took out compost,

put away dishes, and brought in

an extra arm load of firewood.

I watered plants

and opened curtains.

I was making space, I thought,

for the house guests

Focus and Possibility

Instead my lizard brain knocks

and on the doorstep, stands

Third Anniversary

bearing gifts of

longing and sorrow.

Seven sevens

Penstemon, Superstition Mountains, AZ

     I traveled in good company. Over oatmeal my aunt, the Chan Dharma Master, and my mother, the Zen Priest, discussed the Buddhist rituals and ceremonies that surround death. I listened, an invited fly, soaking in discussions that I mostly understood.

     "In the Chinese Buddhist tradition, the family of the diseased would abstain from eating meat or drinking alcohol for the forty-nine day period following the death. The merit of this action is dedicated to the deceased."

      I counted back on my fingers, remembering meals. Was the ground turkey I stirred into pasta sauce Wednesday lunch or Thursday? I am not a vegetarian, though an allergy to red meat and training in both sustainable living and yoga philosophy have lead me to eat fewer meals containing meat.

       I drifted away from the discussion. Could I do it? Forty-nine days with no meat, no beer? Should I cut out sugar too? How would it serve me, my grief? How would it serve the traveling spirit of my aunt? But why not? I thought, I'll try it. It certainly won't hurt me.

      And it did serve. It served me in ways I had not foreseen.

      After returning from California, I found myself sensitive: the news grated, and I turned it off. I made simple, nutritious meals, and made my daily walk a priority. This period of abstinence was not only for Gail's sake, though I happily diffused to her the merit of my actions.

      Instead of muting my sorrow with a glass of wine, or seeking comfort in breads and pastries, I inhabited my sorrow. I grieved, yes, but I did not wallow. My body and mind were exhausted, but nourished and clean. I was receptive to words, memories, insight. I was tuned and attuned; vibrating and vibrant.

     I lived deliberately.

     I felt the full force of my grief. 

     I began to heal.

Altars

On the seventh day after Gail's death, we moved what was left of her altar to the one table not yet carted away by the Salvation Army: a nine-inch Guan Yin, white ceramic, with a piece missing from her shoulder; a figure of Master Hua in seated meditation, glaze revealing each feature of his long, wise face; a framed picture of Swami Chinmayananda; an aqua glass vase offering bearded iris, two rose buds, narcissus, and a constellation of muscari. Deep purple, yellow, pale pink, the first of the spring harvest.

My mother, aunt, and I pulled couch cushions to the floor, and settled into meditation. My mother began to chant the first Great Memorial Service. Every seven days for seven weeks, each in our own way, we would return to the ceremony. We pray that in the realm of life and death, this one person, Gail, like the precious Dragon Jewel, will shine as the emerald sea, clear and complete, as clear as the blue sky,...

***

At home, I prepare my own altar for the second-seventh day. I drape Gail's blue scarf on the breakfast bar, letting it cascade over the edge. I set the buddha in the center; he is small, perhaps an inch and a half high, sent to me by my mother. To his right stands Guan Yin, bodhisattva of compassion, a gift of my aunt Heng Ch'ih. And on his left Gail's own Ganesh, red and yellow, palms offering. A pottery vase my grandfather scupted, brown and blue, holds daffodils. I choose a photograph taken thirty-four years ago of Gail and my mother, each with a cheek pressed to my infant face and lean it against the vase. I tuck a close-up, recent, of Gail's face into a clay frame. She smiles out at me, looking vibrant, playful and a little smug.

I remove a stick of incense, light it, and stand it in a raku pot. My own service is unkempt, bits and pieces gleaned along the way and offered without reservation. A sampler of Japanese and Sanskrit wrapped up with the service my mother had offered on the first seventh day. I float on the words only guessing at the depths they hold, trusting that showing up is service enough. ...like the precious Dragon Jewel, will shine as the emerald sea, clear and complete, as clear as the blue sky, in the Dharma everywhere, and serve as a guide for the world in ascending the path to enlightenment.