Open Asking Hand

Photo: On the window sill of the abandoned lighthouse on Burrows Island.

“The simple clenched fist lifted and ready,
Or the open asking hand held out and waiting.
Choose.
For we meet by one or the other.”
Carl Sandburg

We also part by one or the other.

Last words often come as a surprise. One of the last things I ever wrote to her was “The next time I see you it will be as if we are meeting for the very first time.” The last thing that she wrote to me was: “I swear in the days still left we will walk in fields of gold.” These parting words came from an open hand. They delivered an unexpected prophecy. I truly do feel that I will meet her again, and everything will be healed and new. I picture a place like the field of grasses and the single great tree we loved. Who knows which words will be our last. Who knows which words will spell out a soulful future of unexpected joys and karma.

Today is the second anniversary of this earth without her laughing eyes, without her mysterious dance with scarves and without the pleasures the beach cobbles feel beneath her feet. It’s a day to remember with an open hand. I’m grateful that she came into my life and taught me how to say “Yes” with my whole being. I’m especially grateful with how the poems began to arrive the day I first met her. And they have never left. She taught me that there is a place beyond right doing and wrong doing… a place where love blooms and grows and evolves without judgment. She taught everyone that she met how to be passionate about every transient moment. There is so much to be grateful for.

I miss you beloved, friend.
Soon the green grass will grow
bonny on this side.
How is it with you?
What are the fields like on the other side
of the hole in my heart?

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A New Story

Photo: From my front yard. Sun and the fire beneath a walnut tree named “Artemis”.

The November writing experiment is over. There are now 52,542 words written by hand in a single large sketch book. I wonder “Now what?”. I feel out of sorts. And I feel like I met my life’s purpose in living the creative process. I dreamt about my book last night. My first real mentor came to me. We shared fine coffee around my kitchen table. I could actually smell the beans in the coffee grinder… delicious. In the dream she read every line of my tome, made suggestions and then placed the book in my hands. She said “Now is the time to write a new story.” I remember feeling disappointed and a little excited by the prospect. She smiled at me and walked out my front door into a sunny spring day.

I woke up to a Northwest morning of muscular winds and waves of rain. I felt keen to remember her face and her hand on mine when she handed the book back to me. I thought: “She died ten years ago and here she is still helping me to stretch my self limitations.” I wanted to be happy and grateful. But the rain had a way of seeping into my heart. Because I also woke with the weight of losing someone beloved this week. And next week marks two years since she, a song of my heart, died.

I felt the wind of this past Fall coming in off the glaciers of Mt. Shasta. I remembered the laughter of friends in the Autumnal sun, all of us hiking down to the most beautiful lake in the woods. I remembered how a shaft of sun bent in through the branches of a great tree and lit her hair and eyes by the outdoor fireplace. And I remembered the cloudy year of sitting alone in my quiet house. Then I thought about my mentor’s advice: “…time to write a new story.” She’s right again. Perhaps part of the new story is about how to stay connected with this world, this moment and the rich and transitory sensations of being alive. The rest of the story is a mystery. I guess I’ll have to write it…maybe even live it. The tale begins with a friend and mentor’s hand upon mine. It begins after someone has read every scrawled messy word, looks up and says “I love you even more than I knew.” It begins with someone who actually wants to share my ordinary full life. It begins with me.

Unconditional love comes from many surprising places: a storm, a dream, a voice of the dead or even a bent shaft of sun around the fire. Unconditional love usually appears in seemingly ordinary events. Unconditional love begins with simple attention and circles around into gratitude.

Thank you for sharing this brief journey with me. I’ll write to you next week and then close this portion of the story. Who knows what will begin after that?

PS The name of my book is The Weight of Beauty.

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