One of the readings from my mother’s memorial service, a clipping of which was found among her papers accompanying her Bible & Episcopal Book of Common Prayer.
Thomas Merton was an American Trappist monk, theologian, writer, and poet.
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Photo by flickr user Dejan Krsmanovic. Appears via cc: license. All rights revert to originator.
Yesterday
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father’s hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me
oh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don’t want you to feel that you
have to
just because I’m here
I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don’t want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
-W.S. Merwin, Opening the Hand, 1983.
William Stanley Merwin of New York City, New York died in his sleep three days ago at his home in Hawaii.
A perfectly representative photo of Pop: smiling, family at hand, button-down shirt…
I’d like to thank every one of you for coming out today…for standing up one last time for a good and beloved man. For the ways you helped Pop grow into the man, the worker, the father he was…for the changes you wrought in his life…for reflecting his bright and loving nature in a way that caused him to cleave to you…I embrace you, every one.
My brother Wier broke the news about Pop’s passing followed close by a call from Torrence with the details, some of which I’ll share with you now.
Torrence and Pop were heading down to Boone for a visit with Torre and David that Thursday afternoon. They stopped to take a little break at the rest area just the other side of the North Carolina line. He’d seemed a little loose and weary walking back to the car so she helped him back in the passenger seat.
Buckled up and ready to go she hits that highway on-ramp and gives it the gas. 10…20…30… The world is a neon green Southern springtime…70 degrees and sunny. 40…50…60…
Now if you’ve driven with Torrence you know that speedometer kept on creeping up. 70…80…probably a healthy 85 before she backed off the accelerator. In my mind in this moment I like to envision Pop just kept on accelerating, achieved escape velocity, and sizzled out into the universe at 186,000 miles a second.
What struck me…what made the difference were Torrence’s description of that moment. Herself still spinning in the fresh, confounding vortex of loss she called and described Pop’s face as looking “so young…like he did when we first started dating.” She went on to describe the transcendent look of peace on his face, as if relieved of all of his burdens and doubts and fears. His final moments on this Earth –his deliverance from all uncertainty and suffering– you have to know were the second-to-last gift his maker ever gave him.
Now if you could go back in time and ask Pop at 40 years of age how he’d like to go I bet he’d have painted a scene not entirely dissimilar from the late afternoon of April 12th. Flying down the highway through a familiar, beloved world fairly quivering with renewal; with his lady-love at his side; with his final breath one of sweet Southern springtime air…if you knew him you’d know Hollywood couldn’t have engineered a more fitting finale.
We were down at the river house yesterday for a little lunch and some family time. I had hoped to find some time during my visit to bide a while in his domain…to meditate a while in quiet communion and seek out his spirit. My friends, to my shock and pleasure no such measures were required. Today you can not walk into their home without feeling the enduring glow of his loving presence…the quiet contentment of a watchful soul whose charges –Torrence and the living Rappahannock itself– are safely embraced by the courses in which they flow. I tried to feel bad for myself that I could no longer hold him but it became quickly apparent it is he who now holds all of us.
It is for that reason I now ask you all to set aside your sadness and fill your hearts with joy. Pop is not gone. He has simply transformed from light to light, and all that remains is for each of us is to shine.
Photographed at the Okanogan Family Faire in Tonasket, WA; October 2007.
Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you’re perfectly free.
This recipe can be found on p. 437 of Bobbie Hinman’s indispensable vegetarian cookbook “The Meatless Gourmet.” I was commenting to my dinner party tonight that no vegetarian cookbook had more to do with the way I shop than this one. From this I learned what items to keep on hand to have a versatile kitchen: one ready to take on whatever delicious, perfectly ripe produce you happen to bring home to star in your evening’s meal. Access to tofu is important for this cookbook. IMO Ms. Hinman makes prudent use of canned goods as well (e.g., canned tomatoes), which lends these recipes a simplicity that stirs the soul of a harried single father to sublime satisfaction.
Tofu in Ginger Tomato Glaze (serves 4)
2 tsp. cornstarch
2 tbsp. soy sauce
1 tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 tsp. sugar
1 1 lb. can of chopped tomatoes, drained slightly
2 tsp. vegetable oil
1 lb. firm tofu, pressed (we used the fried tofu commercially available at Asian markets here in Seattle, which changes the fat content of the dish from the totals listed below)
1 tbsp. grated fresh ginger root
In a medium bowl, combine cornstarch and soy sauce, stirring to dissolve cornstarch. Add vinegar, sugar, and tomatoes. Mix well. Set aside.
Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet or wok over medium-high heat. Add tofu and ginger. Cook and stir, until tofu pieces are lightly brown on all sides, about 3 to five minutes. Stir tomato mixture and add to skillet. Continue to cook and stir, for 1 minute or until sauce has thickened slightly and mixture is hot and bubbly.
In Grenada Addie was 5 and Cal was 3: prime age for the young antagonist to learn the hassling trade and his sister the art of active resistance. This was the song I used to sing to defuse their occasional flare-ups, increasingly to their annoyance as they came to realize I was accusing them of being fussy. Now whenever I hear Peter Broggs’ call for peace in the community, I imagine my beautiful children in some of their less-beautiful moments and smile.
Everyday they get up and fuss
Everyday they get up and fight.
Everyday they get up and fuss
Lord everyday they get up and fight.
What you fighting for?
I really want to know right now.
What you fighting for?
I really want to know right now.
It’s a good thing to live up fully
In true love and harmony
Respectfully with dignity.
I know it’s a good thing.
As one who has hit his life’s reset button so frequently the type is worn off, there’s something very familiar about all of this. I recognize how lucky I am to have a cooperative partner in Addie and faithful fellow travelers in what my friend Jessica calls ‘the village.’
Making Addie’s lunch for the first time this morning I found myself absentmindedly falling into the old routines. The slice I had already mindlessly jellied (with low-sugar strawberry of course) became my breakfast, and I toasted another slice before carefully measuring out her pb and her j. What was old is new again. A ground-shift in perspective and my mindfulness horizon is reset as well.
It is as if we have added one to our number. Like an infant it demands attention. Likewise, there is no alternative to success in its care. I told Addie this morning in the hallway outside her classroom “Do you realize this is my first morning as a diabetic dad?” She perked up, cocked her head, squinted, and said “Really?” “Yep. Really.” I don’t know if it all just seemed so ‘normal’ to her or if she’s already becoming an old hand at self-management, but after a morning of old favorites (sleeping in, the venerable Dad Sandwich, listening to NPR, Lego-tinkering) I think perhaps we shared a moment of perspective on her condition: that our lives have not been disrupted, only that we have been asked to live them more mindfully and with greater appreciation.
The Doc Watson Family – Grandfather’s Clock, from the 1994 Sugar Hill release ‘Songs From the Southern Mountains.’ Original by Henry Clay Work, 1876. It is said to be based on two brothers who ran the George Hotel in Piercebridge, Durham, UK.
A Biscuit In The Sun 