another year passes and the new one arrives... flying home from Boonville on bittersweet wings of an angel's weary feathers.
i drive mountain view road home this morning with a cup of hot coffee in an old worn out mason jar listening to Gillian Welch singing April the 14th part one, and her plaintive voice is my anthem this morning for the nostalgia of my life as i drive the winding road marveling at the misty canyons and the filtered golden light.
i cried for nearly 5 miles as the images of my mother's passing 28 years ago , to this very day,
suddenly appeared as if a phantom had taken hold of the road and projected the images of that day like a scritchy old newsreel.
i was not crying in grief but in astonishment at all the loss i have had in my life, the intricate
lace of life and change and of all the things we dream of and the people that are taken from us, or leave us, or simply we find our paths taking different turns. like a sad honkey tonk song like the cliche country lament like an old blues tune the metronome tic toc.the quiet pause after a crescendo.
i cried in astonishment at my ability to survive all this.
Love.
My heart played it like the strings of a banjo, how sweet and melancholy the notes sound,
the sad wisdom of the chord changes and the whimsy of the refrain.
Leaves blowing across the road the next turn brings me to the mountain pass and the view to the sea Dan's vineyard , now bare.
How well i know this road, the road to boonville from the coast... this road where mark and i saw a huge golden eagle eating roadkill at a turnout as we drove to Ukiah for our wedding license, the road had froze sometime eariler and the slick spots were coated in dark red rust salt, we married january first, in the meadow above Schooner Gulch, with only a few folks to see it, Raven, married us, and Louie stood up for Mark and Lucinda stood up for me, and the dogs, Dozer and Animal, both now gone, stood on rose petals under an arbor, Mark and Louie made from alder and willow, cut that morning from the banks of the Garcia River. Raven passed away soon after.
This is the road where years later, Stefan and i fell in love listening to love song #3.. how we met in the hills for trysts on hot summer days.
the road brought butterflies and a hopefulness i had not had for many years. and now the road brings tears and revelation.
a new wisdom arrives to my belly and i can barely stomach it though i know it is good for me.
the sages say it is good for the blood to eat bitter greens in winter.
I raise my cup to
this night sky filled with twilight
i will drink the cerulean blue
i will douse my fires with stars
kneel down to the Blessed Irony &
declare my Devotion to Benevolent
Heart of the Unknown.
january first 2009
You step through things others miss entirely. Or take for granted. Or fix. You take steps. You take to heart. You open doors. You make your way with a heavy heart. You move forward imperceptibly. You move the air around yourself, dry the tears, question the salt. Move mountains. We do not know the names for everything you are and everywhere you have been, but in this terrible absence we guess at numbers that approximate the physics of your existence. You create numerousness. You bury the heart of numbers. The heartache is coming from somewhere outside of you and far far away, inside of you, as if the horizon could itself bend back and place its hand on you, and on us. If we will only pay attention. If we will only see. Your gaze is pressing at the windows. The warmth of the darkness is everlasting. You make your way.
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