Simple

It’s simple

erase,

the loss,

the pain,

that emptiness,

erase it all,

move on,

smile,

laugh,

hide those scars,

behind sleeves,

those bruises,

cover them,

hide it all,

don’t weep

don’t live grief

exposing

us living with pain,

loss,

emptiness,

scars and bruises,

behind

sleeves

in silent caverns

of memory

Advertisements

Village

Down in the village,

children run

half naked through the streets,

dirty faces smudged,

snot running from red noses,

no one seems to care,

an old lady squats,

fanning the fire under her pot

mouth cherry red

from chewing betel nuts,

next to her stands a boy,

his face half gone

the remains of a uniform

hanging like a limp flag

from his broken body

the cost of madness

of debt never erased

I’m Back Blogging, I think.

It has been too long since I sat down to write. It has been a combination of things, both great and small that has kept me from my writing. For the last few months I have been struggling with a bit of depression that has worn me down. I really have tried to climb out of the valley, to see that bit of sunshine on the horizon, but the darkness is still there. Like a hungry wolf it lingers waiting to pounce when I am at my weakest and once it has sunk its teeth in, I can’t seem to thrust it off. Of course there are several factors and the big one for me is trying to find my way in this strange new world of being retired. I know that some folks can’t wait to retire, the fantasize about laying on some warm beach all day, or being able to play golf or just lay around without any expectations. No more punching the clock, no more having to work in a place that sucks the marrow from one’s soul. It sounds great and I thought I had a plan, then like all good plans, life gets in the way. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a difficult transition if we stayed up in Massachusetts. There I had my colleagues who would have helped me to find a new way. I had Grub Street, that would have kept me on track with my writing, taking courses that would have greased the mental wheels as I continued to put on paper my thoughts and feelings. In other words, I had stuff, I had the necessary social and intellectual connections, where now, there are none. Moving to Delaware, into a new state, a new diocese has been difficult. I’m not a big extrovert and I don’t get out making friends all that easily, so I have struggled finding my way. As I have watched my former parish continue to move into a new direction from afar, I sometimes feel wistful and sad, wondering what it would have been like had I not retired. Honestly, I miss the liturgy, the weekly celebration and the daily work of being with the people in the ordinariness of life. In this new diocese, I feel like an intruder of sorts, a virus that should be shunned so that nothing changes the lives of those here. Going from Diomass to Delaware, is like going from a corporate size parish to a family parish, there is a different mindset in the smaller diocese. Like a family parish, there are the matriarchs and patriarchs who one must engage with. Not only that but one needs to deal with the bishop and here, in Delaware, the bishop is new and he has his vision, which may or may not work as well as he hopes. It is just another layer in this labyrinthine world of the church and I have not felt, nor have I desired, to be a traveler along these roads. Yet, here I am, stuck in the middle not knowing what to do or where to go. Sure, I’ve done some supply, preached a couple of times, even helped with a book study, but that is like giving a drop of water to a thirsty soul, it doesn’t help. So the big question for me, is what do I do with what I have been given? That’s great because at this point I have no idea. This week I will attend my final writing class at Osher, well let’s be honest, it really isn’t a class in the real sense, it’s just a group of older people who write and hope what they write makes sense. This class has not helped to motivate me at all even though I have tried to get something down. So for the next few weeks, months maybe even year, I will endeavor to sit my butt down and just write. It doesn’t have to be pretty, or even make sense, all I need to do is write. I have plenty of books on writing to read, I have books on poetry, memoir and all of that to help motivate and guide me. Another way to help me out of this funk is getting back to my blog that has laid dormant for the last few months. Just lay it out there for all to see, lay out the struggle and the pain, the deep insecurities as well as the darkness that lingers.

The Child That Never Was

I could see it in her eyes

the memory of that day

as she lay in bed waiting

a doctor,

a nurse

she knew it wasn’t good.

The child died

it was that simple

the life carried within

was no longer.

She yearned to touch

to hold, to see

that which she had felt

all those months

even now

her arms ache to hold

that child she never saw.

The years go on

time does not always heal,

the small casket buried

holding her heart.

Requiem

He lay there, 

in his bed,

eyes closed, 

breath shallow.

I look down, 

my heart heavy,

he taught me so much,

about perseverance,

about how to stand, 

even when legs failed.

To use words,

to elicit change,

to evoke emotion,

words to convey,

the human experience

I do this watching,

no words can I say,

even now as I write,

they fail to help.

This world I occupy,

between the living and dead,

this grayness without borders.

The ambiguity of life,

the reasons we live,

the reasons we die,

questions of life.

The collar seems tight,

my sorrow rises,

as my own throat tightens.

Prayers seem trite,

in these moments.

I’m no shaman, no healer,

I can only reach out,

hold his hand, 

stroke his head.

I leave holding the grief,

as I hold everything else.

If only we could see this,

if only we would remember

that we all stand in the dust,

of our own choosing,

seeking that blessing of life.