Life Sized Maps

This is arguably the greatest love poem ever written.  Every verse in itself is perfect and seductive; as a whole, Great Wagon is a powerful and beautifully constructed poem about love and desire as a spiritual journey.  If there is nothing that is not love (as written by the same brilliant poet in Love Said to Me), then these lines "The price of kissing is your life... What a bargain, let’s buy it” are absolutely irresistible.  

Great Wagon

When I see your face, the stones start spinning! You appear; all studying wanders. I lose my place.

Water turns pearly. Fire dies down and doesn't destroy.

In your presence I don't want what I thought I wanted, those three little hanging lamps.

Inside your face the ancient manuscripts Seem like rusty mirrors.

You breathe; new shapes appear, and the music of a desire as widespread as Spring begins to move like a great wagon.                               Drive slowly. Some of us walking alongside are lame!

~

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

~

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.

~

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.                             Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want.                             Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill                             where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open.                             Don't go back to sleep.

I would love to kiss you. The price of kissing is your life.

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting, What a bargain, let's buy it.

~

Daylight, full of small dancing particles and the one great turning, our souls are dancing with you, without feet, they dance. Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?

~

They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual? They wonder about Solomon and all his wives.

In the body of the world, they say, there is a soul and you are that.

But we have ways within each other that will never be said by anyone.

~

Come to the orchard in Spring. There is light and wine, and sweethearts           in the pomegranate flowers.

If you do not come, these do not matter. If you do come, these do not matter.

There are few poets whose words are as enduring and universally powerful as Rumi.  I’ve spent much of my time in bed this past week, following a minor medical procedure, devouring the poetry of this brilliant 13th century mystic.   Meanwhile, my kids finished up their school year and spent much of their time since in bed as well, albeit sleeping in (well deserved following a very difficult year).  

The following poem so perfectly communicates my dream for my kids as I watch them grow that I shared it with them as their end of school year gift.  I’m so very proud of them. 

For Zoe and Jeremy:

“Do not feel lonely, the entire universe is inside you. Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.

Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.”

This post is going to be long, rambly and cathartic, so forgive me or unfollow me in advance.  This post is least six months overdue, and the events I write about have taken a year to process, but I’m just now able to sit down and write it without breaking down.

Last December, during some light housekeeping, I came across the gratitude journal I started at the beginning of 2014.  As far as resolutions go, this was supposed to be one of the easier, yet impactful ones to do; I would note three things that I was thankful for before bed every night.  Admittedly, come February, it became challenging to think of something new to be thankful for each night, despite how fortunate or creative I thought I was at the time.  Three months in and I found myself writing anything without much reflection just to get to sleep on time.  “Sleep,” (not surprisingly) along with good health, secure marriage, friends, a job I love, and education reappeared frequently the first four months of the year.  The last entry in my rediscovered journal was dated May 8, and on that day I wrote I was grateful for:

My kids’ health

Sunshine

Having my parents nearby

On May 9, my father was admitted to O’Connor Hospital in San Jose with late stage liver cancer.  The oncologist told him he had 6 months to live.  He died a month later, and in the days that occurred between the diagnosis and his death, we watched as the man who was the rock of our family weaken and diminish.  We all expect to bury our parents one day, but I don’t think we ever fully prepare for the loss.  Even with a family of my own, I felt as though I lost my center; I remember everything and very little about that time.  

My father died peacefully in hospice care the evening of June 11, 2014, exactly a year ago today, surrounded by his family and closest friends, and accompanied into the after life by the chants and prayers of two Buddhist monks from the Nhu Lai temple in San Diego, at his bedside.  Hearing is the last sense to go as your body shuts down, and I am comforted in knowing that the last sounds my dad heard as he was dying were the melodious chants of these Buddhist monks guiding him to the next plane.  I remember closing my eyes to imagine what it was like to be my dad at that moment, and I felt no fear, only security and peace.  

I started seeing a grief counselor in August, and had the good fortune to be paired with a wonderful woman by the name of Lucy Moore.  Lucy was compassionate, kind, wise and the most evolved human I’ve ever met.  She describes grief as a backpack you take on a long journey and with every significant loss, be it a death of a loved one, a pet or a heartbreak, a stone gets added to your load.  The weight of each loss is different, but they all add up.  Some days the sack is too heavy to bear, other days you discover you have enough strength to soldier on but the stones remain.  A year later, having gone through every stage of grief multiple times now, I can attest that grief doesn’t go away, you simply learn to live with it.  These days, I find that I actually cherish the moments that bring me to tears thinking of my dad because they have become few and far between.  

I’m a different person than I was May 8 last year.  I miss my father terribly but I cherish his final gifts to me that were only possible in death:  his loss taught me to value life and time as sacred in a way I didn’t before, he taught me compassion and the words to say to a friend in mourning.  He taught me to be truly grateful for what I have and have had.

So in honor of the one year anniversary of my father’s death, I’ve decided to resume my gratitude journal starting tonight.  On June 11, 2015, I’m grateful for:

My kids’ health

Sunshine

My parents

100 days after my dad’s death, a Buddhist nun informed my mom that my father had been reborn.  Six months ago, I told Lucy I finally understood what she meant:  my dad had been reborn as the person I am now.    

Though today’s the day that you were born You insist it’s like any other Business as usual, but I could’ve sworn You took a second glance at the mirror

Perhaps you noticed lines and silver Not there the night before? Age can make a strong man quiver Over lines that you ignore

You, my husband, act like you don’t know The difference ‘tween 51 and 40 You shine more brightly as you go And say the difference is the story

You shrugged to hear that teeth get long And that you resemble your father You humor us the birthday song But pay the years no bother

You must’ve lived a life before How else would you explain The calm that is uniquely yours As the seasons change

If one life is not enough Today is more than plenty I cherish this day for you, love And wish it be one of many

At the start of the year, I was determined to cut out clutter in my life and for motivation, I had an idea to post a photo of one item every day that I was removing from my home.  While I was getting rid of something everyday, I quickly realized that plugging in to blog about stuff I was getting rid of only contributed to my mental clutter and that endeavor was short lived.  

I thought that blogging about un-owning each item would make it easier for me to say good bye to them.  I recall how I’ve come to acquire these items, and why I’ve held onto them for so long.  Kind of like a eulogy for my stuff. Many times I hold on to things I don’t use for sentimental reasons- I like the gift giver for example- or out of fear of losing something I may eventually need.

When I was a little girl, my mother gave a neighborhood boy my favorite marble. I didn’t have a lot of toys then, and I loved this marble- it was a cat eye shooter with beautiful veins of browns and purples. I was heartbroken. To deal with the loss, I drew a picture of the marble from memory and posted it on the wall of the bedroom I shared with my sisters. Remarkably, I felt better just having an image of the item, as crudely drawn as it was (I was no more than 6 years old). I’d visit my drawing, think about my marble and the fun we had and it would make me happy to simply have something by which to remember it.

I think of that experience and realize that when it comes to my stuff, I haven’t changed much from that 6 year old girl. I still struggle with parting with things I don’t need, as I think many people do, but somehow being mindful about what and why I own something has made it easier to let it go.  I took photos of the stuff I let go, though I never referred to them again.

In my desire to simplify, I created unnecessary work for myself and allowed unwanted material items to continue to occupy space in my life, if just in a photo album.  I never looked back, but I wasn’t unlike the wife of Lot who did:  I continued to place too much value on the things I unowned.  I collected marble drawings to give myself a safety net should I regret letting go; I gave myself permission to regret.