The substantiality and effervescence of what isn't now but will be is what keeps God smiling and hearts praying, for the beauty of the promise is that it encompasses not just you but the entirety of the universe in one binding pulse of love. For once we searched for narrow rainbow, we all now see holy light. And where once we had light pollution, we now have starry starry night. God rests on atom and the pores of my skin. Love is spread from without, but begins from within.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Recently a song came on my Pandora that brought me back to forever ago amen and I wasn’t quite sure that nostalgia was allowed at the meager age of twenty-five but I was selfish enough to feel as if I had lived enough to smile at a tune and daydream at the thought of younger years that could have been better spent calibrating my future self for heartache and fortifying my soul for wanton success.
I will never ever be able to hear Peter, Paul, and Mary’s “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” without thinking of my mother and me in cradle, despite how foggy that daydream might seem. Also learning even more recently that I had recollected the lyrics wrong all along for eternity years, and that it wasn’t “Michael Row YOUR Boat Ashore.” Michael never owned a boat. The boat was me, the sea was God’s mind, and here I was rowing through it with ores I felt might be better suited for someone else but that mistake was made and nobody ever owned anything. Creation was thus, and here we were, and we had to make the best of it until we jumped back into the sea we might call US and UNIVERSE.
Or oddly enough, if “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed came on, my father would mystically appear driving me everywhere I needed to be at the tender age of scion not catching onto the graphic details of song but reveling in the fact that playing the saxophone might still be cool despite being made fun of for being first chair in band at eleven years old while the football quarterbacks called me a queer for experiencing high mighty arts.
But now, it’s other songs that spin in my head that don’t have a tune but Anansi might dwell and bounce on like some springboard, intertwined webbing.
I want to spend my life acknowledging the fact that memories will be made, and who I am now might not be a recollection in a decade if I live so long. I also want to realize that happiness is but a choice, and that music is subject to listener.
One of the most beautiful tunes I still hear in dreams and phantasmal energy are the click-clack of puppy claws that need to be trimmed on wood floors while I’m trying to sleep.
It was about this time five years ago that I found out that my beloved Prema was going to meet God, (as if it ever was a doubt for any of us) because I believe that every animal does meet God and the same God I intend to meet in compassion and love.
Just that smell of spring brought freshness and renewal and wondering and curiosity in endless euphoria as what we are, who I will meet in ten years time, who I had met in ten years past, and still the radio pumps on and provides a tuneless tune and the world’s heartbeat thumps and pumps and breeds and bites and tears and creates and humanity burns and candles melt and what what what is anything but a wonderment to celestial body and what can we say but, “Certainly, it is great to know love exists and we are not alone in anything but loneliness.”
Friday, March 8, 2013
When it came to light that I would definitely be losing both my grandparents this year, I didn't curse. I didn't scream. I didn't yell. My mind just seemed to vacate like a rain cloud absorbed into the prairie big sky canopy, not wanting to let loose another raindrop tear until it was certain that there was at least a substantial sapling to absorb and enjoy its heartbroken sustenance. It was worse than extreme sadness or extreme anger. It was Nothing. My Fantastica had grown and crumbled in what seemed like a blink. I was no longer a boy, I was a man. And the worst part was, I didn't even get a chance to soar through a saltwater sky with Falcor, much less take a bow on a Broadway stage for my heroes.
What it boiled down to was memory and cancer. Grandma's Alzheimer's had gotten exponentially worse, while Grandpa's cancer had ebbed and flowed, receded, tsunami'd, and now stood to flood his entire digestive tract. Grandma's mind was going, Grandpa's body was going, and here I was staying in New York City, where thoughts came and went and hope raised and went and I cursed and struggled and conquered and faded on a daily basis.
But today, another Nor'easter came and blanketed the steel and chrome and mercurial waterways to contort it all into a bastardized version of the vast Minnesotan tundra I had been raised on and still identified as "home": endless prairiescape, my grandparents' porched home atop a hill, the farm at the base of the hill, the phantom dogs that lived and died there, the people I had met at my grandparents' that had lived and died there, the coffee sipped at the Donut Hut, us, me, them, we, gone, mist.
My grandfather had long been preparing me for this, ever since the original cancer took hold. My grandmother tried when she could, but mostly was just there to love.
But oh the magic swell it gave me to know that their spot in nothingess, whole body God's mind earth could hold a portal to everything that I held dear on earth and beyond to infinite.
Did my grandfather feel the same way? Did my grandmother? Did they once look around the vast Minnesota prairiescape that was alien to them but chapel to me and realize the magic they had created? That the Jewish cowboy from South Dakota and the barefoot Cherokee half-blood from Texas had forged in me a desire to recreate the same thing for my children, my grand-children?
That was the sapling my tears could water.
Death is a mystical idea--it brings salvation, samsara, peace, and nothingness. It brings loneliess and togetherness. It brings me home in my heart despite being thousands of miles away; it reminds me that love is the great uniter.
It also brings back foggy memories of hot summer days too, which are needed on cold dreary days like this, of walking along a dusty gravel road in muggy July Minnesota, running through prairie grass and catching butterflies while Grandpa told me to mind the electric horse fence and Grandma told me to be gentle with the bugs.
They will be missed more than I know now.