What causes the autumn wind
to rush through the forest
stirring the leaves,
breaking their fragile connection
to the spent moments of yesterday,
that they might flutter down to the earth
and experience new life in their death and decay?
It is in their letting go of the past
that they receive the promise of this new moment.
They cannot hold their form in death;
it melts away and feeds new life,
and this is the way of all things.
In the autumn of your life,
can you turn to look
at how you’ve been nourished by the Tree of Life?
Can you gracefully surrender the diversions of youth,
breaking free of your bonds, fluttering down,
allowing your form to be used by the earth,
making way for the promise of what will come?
Grow dark, all Hallow’s Eve
Send the spirits of the dearly departed
to gather near to us
that we may hear
their whispered wise words.
The veil is thin between the worlds.
They are speaking to you.
Ah, how Grace does swoop in
with so many blessings
when my heart is open
and my mind relaxed.
I let the old Lorien die—
the Lorien who was attached
to her stories of her woundedness,
beliefs in deficiency,
resentment toward her imagined oppressors—
I let that Lorien die.
The new Lorien who emerged
was willing to put more attention on her future
than the old Lorien was putting on her past.
This new Lorien was excited to know her power.
She longed for more and believed she was worthy
of the good life had in store for her.
In this place of faith and confidence
And how it has swept into my life
with so many blessings
now that my heart is open
and my mind relaxed.
Today’s prompt…write an elegy. Maybe you can figure out to whom I am writing the elegy?
I could feel you after I met him,
and the promise of you drew nearer
with each meeting.
And then the day came
when you were finally a reality.
Friends and family gathered
to celebrate your beginning,
such a joyous occasion.
I had such high hopes for you,
invested in you with my heart and soul.
I had longed for you my whole life
and here you were.
They told me you would be difficult,
so I didn’t bring any false hopes going in.
I was willing to roll up my sleeves
and do the work to keep you going
for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
But you began to fail.
And try as I might to keep you alive,
he no longer wanted you,
and he chose to let you die.
No…that’s not it.
He chose to kill you.
He even mocked you,
disrespected your memory,
threw away your remains
as if you never existed.
And I tried to pick up all the pieces,
to make some sense of what happened.
There was no saving you;
I wonder if you were ever really there.
And now I weep for you.
I miss you.
I had you for eight years,
and now you are gone.
Rest in peace;
you are remembered by me
and you will live forever
in the gratitude I feel
for the lessons you brought me.
In this world where everything has died
I notice the silence above all.
Sometimes a car passes by
reminding me that life goes on for others,
But in here, in this house,
everything has died.
I buy myself some flowers
and for a few days
their sweet scent reminds me of living…
but as all living things must,
the flowers wilt and decay
and now I am responsible for
disposing of their remains.
If only the remains of my marriage
could be thrown out like the spent flowers.
Its faded scent lingers,
and so do all the fallen petals
of the hope I kept alive for so long.
My children are with him tonight.
He took our two cats as well;
it’s eerily silent here.
Silent like death.
Now here I am,
listening to this absence of sound
inside a home once raucous
with the symphony of existence.
A car passes by now,
reminding me of the life that goes on out there.
If I died today,
would I feel good
about the legacy
I left behind?
There is so much more I want to do,
so much more life I want to live,
so many experiences I want to have,
so many things I want to give.
It’s sobering to realize
I’m not ready to die,
to think about why.
Give it a try.
Don’t get me wrong,
it’s not that I hate Christmas…
It’s just that it is dead to me now.
The lights, the trees, the carols,
stepping into the home
of my son’s kindergarten friend,
seeing their happy Christmas
taking shape in their happy home,
and inwardly bemoaning
the shapelessness of my Christmas,
now that it’s dead.
A marriage, a holiday, a life,
all falling apart.
Dead things decay;
particles break down
and return to the earth.
New life springs up
and eases the memory of death.
Will this happen for me?
Can I hope for this much?