How do we honor loss in our culture?
It seems to hem us in from every corner of our lives...no one is untouched by death.
And yet- doesn't it seem that the care and process of honoring the dead, of honoring the death within us is treated as if they are table scraps...
How may we, as mourners pick up these scraps and elevate them to our table. Allow them to be present with us...clear a place for them, so that we may feast on them as memories, suckle on them as painful as it may be-greet them.
What would it be like to take the ONE SECOND that we are allotted to grieve and multiply it to a lifetime? What would it be like to be a people who remember? How do we honor the dead? Where is the place on this earth for grieving? Where is the designated aisle that I may find to walk down... where is my place in this world as one who grieves daily? Where is my flag I should wave- that i can pass to you?
I am in Seminary because I deeply desire to enter more deeply into the way of my own grief, walk in that way and meet up with God there. It is there that i long to grasp His hand and ask others to join me there. I want to sing there, beautifully, as we craft a way together to cry out "why God why?!", shaking our fists in the air, crying out, yelling out and yet still holding hands full of red roses that symbolize hope. Together we will point to the moments of redemption and call them out, cheer them on as powerful!
This is why I study....
Today I had a day of deep grief...
and this poem below is an attempt
to put words to what there are no words for...
grief.
mourning
death....
may you all journey deep within the walls of your grief and come out grateful...
(please note that this poem is written with the intent to be spoken...so- will you please do me the deep honor of imagining me actively engaging this - of course with all the right poignant pauses!! :))
roaches desecrate the wood
that once
fed the fire
so they walk 3 miles further
and three miles back
to bake the bread , that feeds the ache within their stomachs
the screaming started at 1am
when the child remembered
the smell of that morsel that at one time had fed her frail frame
she had forgotten
the goodness of its taste
the wonders of it matriculating on her tongue
the way it makes her feel in her toes
when the warmth wanders just a bit down
past her belly...
the hugs she throws up in the room
when she feels whole
like parts of her are full enough to fill other parts
you see- she walks everyday.
everyday she wakes and walks
to soothe the torment of her empty vessel
to make flames.
to make flames for her family.
to stare at the empty eyes of the people
across from her she once knew..
to chew on the remains of the days
that held laughter
and dreams
these are the memory days
the days were she imagines the desert
to be full of daffodils
daffodils that grow grapes.
the memory days
hold within them
visions...
the clouds become his face
and they reach out for her hand
folding each finger back, ever so gently until only the pointer remains
And he thrusts it up for her, towards the sky
running/ leaping/ galloping
she runs across the mountain top pasture of her dreams
as if her finger is a flag
a flag that says
mourn.
she runs. and runs and runs and runs and runs and runs....
until, her sorrowing heart weighs her to the ground
her heavy body forms itself a place in the sand
her fingers buried deep within...
...she scoops up the handful-watching carefully as it pours to the ground
whispering to each small glimmer:
“its okay”.
