such letting go is love
such love is faith
such faith is grace
such grace is god.
i agree with the leaves.
"I find I am humming, softly, not to the music, but to something else, some place else. A place remembered."
from A River Runs Through It
Freedom. It isn’t once, to walk out
under the Milky Way, feeling the rivers
of light, the fields of dark—
freedom is daily, prose-bound, routine
remembering. Putting together, inch by inch
the starry worlds. From all the lost collections.
— Adrienne Rich, from “For Memory,” Selected poems, 1950-1995 (Salmon Publishing, 1951)
Did someone say that there would be an end,
an end, Oh, an end to love and mourning?
What has been once so interwoven cannot be raveled,
not the gift ungiven.
Now the dead move through all of us still glowing.
Mother and child, lover and lover mated,
are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited -
only the strands grow richer with each loss
and memory makes kings and queens of us.
Dark into light, light into darkness, spin.
When all the birds have flow to some real haven,
we who find shelter in the warmth within,
listen and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
as the lost human voices speak through us and blend our complex love,
our mourning without end.
Thank you, Death Deconstructed
To sing is to begin a sentence
like “I want to get well.”
I am not born for nothing
and neither are you:
Heaven never wept
Thank you, Love Is A Place
- Rebecca Solnit
Thank you, whiskey river
It is touch I go by,
the boat like a hand feeling
through shoals and among
dead trees, over the boulders
lifting unseen, layer
on layer of drowned time falling away.
This is how I learned to steer
through darkness by no stars.
To be lost is only a failure of memory.
—Margaret Atwood, closing line to “A Boat,” Selected Poems II: 1976-1986 (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1987)
Neil Gaiman, from “Murder Mysteries”
From Smoke and Mirrors: Short Fictions and Illusions
Parts of a Tune
One old man keeps humming the same few notes
of some song he thought he had forgotten
back in the days when as he knows there was
no word for life in the language
and if they wanted to say eyes or heart
they would hold up a leaf and he remembers
the big tree where it rose from the dry ground
and the way the birds carried water in their voices
they were all the color of their fear of the dark
and as he sits there humming he remembers
some of the words they come back to him now
he smiles hearing them come and go
–W. S. Merwin,
from his Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Shadow of Sirius
A lovely listen this morning, though sad… Mary Gauthier, Oh Soul. Sums up this week in some ways. There have been many vigils this week, not just the obvious ones. Some are closer to home.
Where the music is lovely, the story is sad.