Separation

In the Desert

Off tomorrow for a week in Arizona: of exploration, of visitation, of exhilaration. Pictures to follow.

A Good Thing To Know?

Recent days have been filled with ups and downs--not a condition one feels especially comfortable with, certainly these several years after the half-century mark has passed. Paul Simon: "Maybe I'm an old dog who's lost his bite/I've grown accustomed to a smooth ride...," or words to that effect.

A friend told me that whatever happens in the exploration of a new relationship, I've learned one important thing, and early after Amelia's passing: that my heart is still alive, that it is ready to commit to a new future. He said that many people, having gone through the turmoil of losing one so dear, cannot say the same; indeed, many who are still married and living their lives together with a spouse, have died or at least fallen asleep emotionally.

And yet: I feel to a very great degree any change, any shift in the tie that links me with this special soul that's come into my life. My mood can be floating among the clouds or swooping down into the abyss, all within the space literally of hours. When I was a boy we went water skiing with a friend of my father's. My brother Steve was a natural, and in very short order was doing all kinds of flashy maneuvers, completely at home in this new element. And then the skipper of the boat noticed that the rope Steve was holding was twisted around the staple holding it to the stern. He told my father to flip the hook so the rope would feed straight out, avoiding the possibility that the rope might snap and cause serious damage of various potential kinds. My dad did this and we watched, fascinated, as that suddenly-added inch of extra rope flashed down the length of the cord and flipped my brother into the water, all in a matter of seconds and with no warning to him at all. These days feel just like that to me: a little slack and the tether that holds my mood swings dramatically.

Is this what being alive emotionally is about? It's not as pleasant as you might think. Of course, one should be in such a condition of heart, mind and spirit that even large swings don't disturb one's balance; but I am not there, nor am I very sure of how to attain that condition. This is about reliance on God, detachment from everything but His will, and that understanding of purpose and self that I've been struggling for; and it is small wonder that, without that understanding developed, I may not be ready for a relationship, especially a challenging one that holds such potential.

So one keeps working at it; but dear God in heaven, it takes its toll!

What Do We Take With Us?

When we leave this life, what do we take with us?

The Bahá'í Writings speak of the qualities and attributes that we have acquired here, qualities of character and spirituality that we earn through making moral choices. Partly through our own efforts, and even more through the grace and assistance of the Holy Spirit, if we are earnest in our search then we gradually move from a material being to a spiritual one; the mirror becomes polished and directed toward the source of light.

But today I have been thinking about something else: about the images and memories that we also can take with us. We know from those same Writings that our individuality remains after death: our soul, that eternal essence with which our bodies are associated at the moment of conception, continues its deathless journey toward reunion with its Creator having been shaped in special and particular ways by the events of our lives and the decisions we have made. After passing the divide between life in this world and life in that next one, we are assured that we meet again all those whom we have loved. How could we know them if our memories, and the images born of our time together, were not carried with us? It's true enough, that all those images, and even the sensations that go with them, were generated by physical bodies moving through the time and space of this life; but once created, do they not become the property of mind and soul? How is it, then, if these images we have of our memories were somehow captive of the material world, that we can summon them at will in our mind's eye? Who among us cannot bring back sight, color, sound, even fragrance of the things that have touched us deeply?

I know I will treasure the image of Amelia and Husayn, for instance, laughing on the steps leading to the Shrine of the Báb, during our visit to the Holy Land. The picture is here, and it is a material thing; but look at them: barely a month after her diagnosis, thinned by her surgery and by the new burden placed on her shoulders, yet laughing with her boy, sitting on the steps of the Place she most wanted to visit before her days' ending. That joy, that courage, all that sweet meaning in their faces, could never die: it graced this world for a moment, but as surely as I know anything, it will grace the next, just one small part of the vast treasure I will carry with me to brighten my eternity, and about which we will speak, Amelia and me, in some time yet to come.

The Circle Now Complete

The circle is complete now, dear Amelia. Those who loved you, and I, have done the last thing we can do for your earthly body: your gravestone has been set to mark where your sweet head lies, a jewel in the crown of your life. Following the advice of your sister, Rebecca, we have dedicated it as a testament, however imperfect, to our love for you, with attar of rose and the flowers you loved, with music that delighted your ear, with silk that eased your neck—the very scarf you wore when you came to me in dreams—and with one of the books that brought you solace and insight. We have said prayers of remembrance and asked God to cherish your dear soul; and we have shed tears out of our love for you, for all the days gone by that we shared, and for all the days we will never see together until the world changes.

This stone, so terrible in its way, yet so fitting: elegant, as you were; the lettering clear and fine and proportioned, as was your bright spirit; its straight lines a reminder of the confines of your life, and yet the curve across the top to remind us how you made the shape your own, made the joy and sadness of your life embrace in a solemn, beautiful dance. Oh, Amelia, how we miss you!

Did you see the future stirring among us, Amelia, there at your graveside? Little Amia Carmen was there with her mother Suzanne and her father, our son. I wonder: will we see you in the twinkling of her eyes? The brightness of her smile? Maybe in the soft brown luster of her hair, or in the uprightness of her character? What color, what fragrance, what way of being will live on in her, to bring her joy and strength, and to enrich all our lives once more?

And do you recall when our long journey together began, all those years ago, this journey that ended in this place? I do, often. And when the dark days began, that later we knew were so filled with light, as illness changed our lives all unbidden and unexpected? I do, every day. Some part of the story will return to me, to soften my heart or light my eye or bring a smile to my lips. So much we learned together! That was when I learned how truly precious you are, how to honor and reverence the soul that dwelt within you through caring for your graceful body.

Do you remember? As the light of your life here began to fade, your loved ones and I prayed for you, helped you to do all the things you wanted to before your strength should desert you. How sweet to my memory are the small things: the constant search for foods you could eat and that would sustain you; the labor to ease your days; preparing your bath with herbs we hoped would cleanse your faltering system of its accumulating poisons, helping you into the water and out again, holding the towel or helping you, tenderly, to dry yourself when you were too weak; holding you in the terrible nights after the pain returned, hoping against hope that my untrained hands, placed where the hurt was, might somehow translate the fervor of my prayers into healing and relief for you when there was no medicine to dull the edge of your misery.

How happy I was that you would allow me to keep you company during your treatments, and how grateful to know, now, that you were never alone during all those long hours unless you wished to be. So many ways God, and you, allowed us, your family and friends, to honor you, to gentle and support you, and to care for you with all the love in our overflowing hearts!

And now it is done. Is it to your satisfaction? Did we bring a smile to your heavenly face? Did you tarry among us for those few precious moments and remember the joy of the music, the silk, the flowers, the book? I hope so, my sweet girl. I hope so.

“Like unto a singing nightingale she chanted Thy sacred verses, and like unto a mirror she sought to reflect Thy light.” --'Abdu'l-Bahá

Of Oystershells and Pearls

To look at this house is to see straight lines, order, symmetry; and maybe a certain Midwestern up-tightness. Who might live in such a house, you might ask, and what are they like? Have they always lived like that?

The couple that lived in this particular house started from very different places. He grew up in an upper middle-class household in Illinois. His father had his own business, one he had assumed from his own father. His mother was a housewife who, when the children were older, became a social worker at the age of 40 or so. And they were neat, oh my were they neat: nothing could be out of place in their house; nothing could be out of place in their emotions. Control, symmetry, order: leavened with love, this was still a pretty hard loaf of bread.

She started out in Chile. Her family moved five times in four years, every time her father got in a drunken brawl or fell afoul of the local numbers runner and his debts got too big. The places they lived were rundown apartments, houses falling down, rooms tacked on to garages and barns, or little shanties made of cardboard and cast-off lumber. By the time he met her, they had finally settled into a home, rented but stable. Her mother said she would never move again, so the father took up with the cleaning lady and left his family adrift on the hard fortunes of the time.

Our couple were just friends then, and thought there might be more to it than that. He had gone to Chile, you see, for his Faith, had knocked about, taught English, played the fiddle. He came to live with them for a few months after the school year ended, in a spare room or in a hut out back—no heat, one lamp, dirt floor, bed with fleas—while he looked for work and they got to know each other. They were very happy--love among the ruins, you might say--as they stayed up late sharing tea and conversation, talking of dreams and the things they had seen, approaching each other with fear and gentleness and, sometimes, a kiss.

The house had been cut in half by an earthquake years before and the walls still looked as if they might fall if you touched them the wrong way. The adobe facing on the bedroom wall, where he slept after it became too cold to stay in the lean-to, had all the marks of children and poverty: scribblings, scratchings, pieces that had fallen off—a strange constellation on a pale sky. The bathroom was an outhouse in back, the shower a garden hose strung over one corner of the outhouse door. You haven’t lived, he sometimes thought, until you’ve taken a cold shower in 40-degree weather, with the wind whistling up through the opening where the walls and floor didn’t quite meet. Or spent the evening reading horror stories and then gone to sit over a black hole while that same wind howled in the eaves and shook the sheet metal that had been wired, not very tightly, to the sides on this jury-rigged toilet, the darkness inhabited by every gruesome creature the mind could manufacture.

The house was neat and uncluttered; there was no money for clutter. Every week or ten days, kerosene was spread over the floors with rags or coarse steel wool, to keep down the fleas, but they were always there, they came in on your clothes from the bus. The roof leaked, had leaked for years, but there was no money for repairs. The kitchen, in winter the best room of the house because the cooking kept it a few degrees warmer, had a bottled-gas stove, a large table and an old marble-topped dressing table with a huge mirror; it doubled as kitchen and wardrobe for the mother, and its back wall was a window, some wood paneling that had survived the earthquake and a few half-hearted attempts at paint in some distant past, and sheets of quarter-inch styrofoam. There was a single faucet, a luxury, the one source of running water in the house.

But he thought he was living in riches; that’s why he stayed. It was because of her, of Amelia, the bright pearl in this dingy shell. She had made herself into a lady—not in wealth or clothing or jewels, but where it counted: in her soul. She knew her value because it had been revealed to her, and to her world, in the fire of loss and pain and abuse. She carried herself with dignity; she laughed with joy; and she lived in simplicity. Service to her Faith and to others were her amusements, her hobbies, and solitary prayer filled every morning and every evening. And after he came to know her, his life, their lives, would never be the same.

You look at that Midwestern house today, and you see traces of the life they shared, if you know where to look. They consulted about the colors for the walls and where to put things; they inherited all their furniture from others. They never had much time or money for the house, they just spruced it up a bit and maintained it, or tried to. They tried to make others comfortable, that was why they arranged it the way they did. But the house wasn't their priority: they had known very different ways of living and were, mostly, unconcerned about such things. The house was the place where family was, a place to come home to after wandering. They had come a very long way together.

Looking at the shell, who knew?

My Prayer This Morning

Road Through Autumn Mountains--Acadia Park, Maine

O my God, Thou hast guided and blessed me all my life, and I offer Thee my thanks.

Thou didst give me a loving family, and now Thou hast taken my father home so he will know relief from the pain and suffering that marked his whole life and wasted his strength. Thou didst bring into my life my sweet Amelia, thirty years ago and more, and didst decree that she and I should share our lives; and didst enable us to know a love that grew ever stronger, deeper, and sweeter, especially toward her ending in this life; and didst give to us a parting of tenderest forgiveness and grace. Now Thou hast taken her back from whence she came, where age will never touch her nor fade the beauty of her dear face. O God, I beg of Thee to grant her a place in a garden whose beauty will never wane, where she may rejoice in brightness and fragrance, and a service she may offer Thee, and a healing for her wounds and grief.

Thou didst grant me two sons, who enchant my heart and the hearts of all who know them, and hast blessed them, in their turn, with children and those who love them. Thou has reared them strong in faith and firm in their caring for others, and I thank Thee for this great favor and consolation.

Thou has given me friends who, for no reason I can fathom except Thy purest grace and mercy, love me, and who have stood by me in this time of testing. Thou has given me work and service to do, health and strength with which to do them, and freedom from want so that my purpose and attention may be undivided. When I have wandered Thou has brought me back to Thy path; when I have been heedless Thou has opened my eyes and ears once more; when I have been willful Thou hast been patient; and when I stood before Thee, shaking my fist in anger and rage and fear, Thou didst heal my soul and remind me of Thy love.

And now, in this time of greatest loss, Thou has brought suddenly, unexpectedly into my life this special soul, Rebecca, who delights and perplexes me, who teaches and challenges me, who brings out qualities and capacities that had lain dormant within, and who sows happiness wherever she goes. Guide and protect us as we walk the road Thou hast marked out before us. Each day Thou dost remind us both that our lives are in Thy Hand, that Thy purpose for us is woven of light and mercy, that there is no power save Thy power, and that the future of things is known only to Thyself.

Dear God, please accept the thanks of this servant of Thine and enable him to find the strength and serenity that flow only from Thee; so that the years which, through Thy decree, remain to him in this life may be spent in love and in service and in praising Thee.

Tired

My Grandfather's Apple Orchard on the Damariscotta River

“Within the meadows of Thy nearness, before Thy presence, make me able to roam, O my Beloved,…. From the fragrant breezes of Thy joy let a breath pass over me, O my Goal….”

I often feel tired these days. More and more an image forms in my mind, and it is this:

My love and I are together in a meadow of green grass. It is an early summer day and the sun pours down in golden waves, the color of the palest amber. She has taken my head on her lap and as she leans down her hair, a darker amber that is sister to the sunlight, waves around us and envelops us in a shimmering world of our own. Is it the warm, green breeze that ruffles my hair, or is it her beautiful fingers? And as we look deeply into each other’s eyes she whispers, “Rest now, sweetheart, you are weary. Tomorrow is time enough to take up the hard work again, and tomorrow we can continue to build our lives together. For now it is enough that you know that I love you, that our hearts are one, and that nothing can shake that, even until we reach the door through which we will both pass one day.”

A fond hope and a comforting one, but vain nevertheless. For one, it is not only I who needs comfort. Any woman God might choose to join me with is single only because she has herself passed through the fire of tests, and so we really are more like castaways holding to each other for strength, safety and solace.

For another, this hard work must be done. It is not about coping or recovering or building a new future, as the psychologists might say. Ultimately it is about love: love of God, love of oneself, and love of others—the foundation-stones on which all else rests, the source of the true strength that is needed.

Yet each of these comes so hard. I find that even with all the many evidences in my life of God’s great love, proofs which should make it easy to trust Him implicitly and completely, it is still hard to rely on One Who is invisible, Who does not speak, Whose purpose is cloaked in the mystery of some future time, Whom one can see, often, only after He has passed by. And love for oneself: not from ego or arrogance, but from selflessness, from a clear insight into that “powerful, mighty and self-subsisting” reality that God has placed inside—no simple task, that! Love for others? Even when they are entirely lovable it is not easy: the heart’s currents shift and move constantly, timing and distance and the poor tools of words stand in the way of that congress of souls out of which lasting love flows. It is not for nothing that Bahá'u'lláh wrote of the Valley of Love that “The steed of this Valley is pain; and if there be no pain this journey will never end.”

So one picks up the tasks of the day, making the best of the pain, searching inside for the voice of calm and strength, and one carries on even as the mind and heart continue their deeper quest; and the meadow fades until another unguarded moment lets the curtain drift to the floor and that golden sunlight floods in again.