Recently our beloved dog Mazie refused to eat for two days. Kimberly needed to talk about arrangements for her death because Mazie is old and has health issues. I tried to feed Mazie breakfast, and when she turned away again, I started crying heavily. She has been a precious part of our life our whole marriage. This is the third time we thought we were losing her, though she pulled through once again. How will I bear it when she is gone? The next day I wrote the following reflection.
Death came knocking yesterday. He did not stay. just tapped twice and peered inside, because he is concerned for me and does not want to shock me when he comes for his appointment. He wanted to get acquainted, to let me know he is in the neighborhood. He is much more gentle than I feared and more understanding. He does not want to shove me suddenly into the dark river unexpectedly but hopes I will hear his reassurance that I will not drown, and that life itself is richer and fuller when I remember that all blossoms die, and in their passing leave behind their rich fragrance while making room for new life to spring up. Living awake to certain loss widens my heart, breaks it free of its defensive, guarded posture, helps me breathe in deeply the goodness of today so its fragrance in its passing lingers full in my heart, blessing it and opening it to the hope of good to come.
I later rewrote the poem in metered rhyme, but I like the rawness of the original. Here is the edit
Stark death came knocking yesterday. He just tapped twice and did not stay But gently smiled in real concern That coming suddenly would turn My heart to ash and crush all good. So being in the neighborhood He wished to get acquainted now, Prepare me for his scheduled blow, As not to double pain with shock And slash before I’d taken stock. He’s much more gentle than I feared, And moved with understanding cared That I not unexpectedly Be swept away so tragically. He hoped I’d see his real intent To help me be more confident That life itself is richer by Remembering that all blossoms die, And in their passing leave behind Their fullest fragrance in my mind while furrowing new life to bring, from torn up soil fresh buds will spring. If I can live awake to loss, Expand my heart, and breaking toss away its guarded, armored stance, It helps me breathe in deep and long The good today before its gone. The fragrance as it slips away Fills up my heart, opens its way To hope for all the good to come. The good that’s passed is always home.
Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.
“I wrote [this poem] down, but I honestly felt as if it were a female voice speaking in the air across a plaza in Popayán, Colombia. And my husband and I were on our honeymoon. We had just gotten married one week before, here in Texas, and we had this plan to travel in South America for three months. And at the end of our first week, we were robbed of everything. And someone else who was on the bus with us was killed. And he’s the Indian in the poem. And it was quite a shake-up of an experience.
“And what do you do now? We didn’t have passports. We didn’t have money. We didn’t have anything. What should we do first? Where do we go? Who do we talk to? And a man came up to us on the street and was simply kind and just looked at us; I guess could see our disarray in our faces and just asked us in Spanish, “What happened to you?” And we tried to tell him, and he listened to us, and he looked so sad. And he said, “I’m very sorry. I’m very, very sorry that happened,” in Spanish. And he went on, and then we went to this little plaza, and I sat down, and all I had was the notebook in my back pocket, and pencil. And my husband was going to hitchhike off to Cali, a larger city, to see about getting traveler’s checks reinstated.”
Janathan Grace Reflections 