1GregM3
I don't write poetry often these days, but I thought I would share a poem I wrote that was part of a Good Friday exhibit. It's about two experiences, visiting a dear friend in the hospital who was dying of esophogeal cancer and then a few years later, my experiences with my spouse in the hospital after his stroke. I've melded aspects of the two of them.
2GregM3
Hospital Room
i.
“You don’t need to,” he starts,
but then grips hard,
bones pinching,
as a nail of pain passes through
his hand into my own.
As his fingers relax between waves,
his eyes open and I see him
underneath that crust of agony;
we’re behind the bowling alley for a moment,
him taking my hand to pull me along,
a touch so casual and perfect
that my heart could break.
And with a shudder of electric light,
the clicking machines surrounding us fade
and the waves roll off of him,
a great rolling unknown and unseen
that laps through my eyes’ lenses
to overflow the vitreous chambers beneath --
a perfect sensing without refraction,
a perfect sight without sight.
We sit there, connected by hand,
in a quiet so complete that for a moment
I feel the atoms of the hospital windows vibrate,
hiding the chaos of their atomic structures
where each particle’s position can never be known
but only statistically guessed.
And yet, like all the night beyond that fragile barrier of glass
are all the dark seas of feeling that I hold back
so the moment can last.
ii.
Later on the way home,
I will feel the animals in the underbrush,
the tininess of those scrabbling claws
as though a tender touch
among the vast unfolding warrens
beneath my feet that connect these many houses,
the flickering lights of televisions
trembling on each artificially separate pane of glass.
Inside each house, carrying its own load,
so infinitely precious,
the animals underneath the structures
always working, connecting,
and above, the yuccas that extend
their exquisite spines
and that one stalk high above
with a flower of stunning whiteness.
I cry below that torch-flower
so white that it seems to shine.
iii.
But still I know that even this bare curation of pain cannot last.
I know that late at night asleep or not sleeping
I will return to that hospital room,
and the glass window will break
unleashing dark oceans and oceans of pain.
Yet, I would take and gladly take it:
I will go to that room again
and I will take his hand’s kiss.
Whatever I have to pay for him I will pay.
That nail through our pair of hands binds us.
i.
“You don’t need to,” he starts,
but then grips hard,
bones pinching,
as a nail of pain passes through
his hand into my own.
As his fingers relax between waves,
his eyes open and I see him
underneath that crust of agony;
we’re behind the bowling alley for a moment,
him taking my hand to pull me along,
a touch so casual and perfect
that my heart could break.
And with a shudder of electric light,
the clicking machines surrounding us fade
and the waves roll off of him,
a great rolling unknown and unseen
that laps through my eyes’ lenses
to overflow the vitreous chambers beneath --
a perfect sensing without refraction,
a perfect sight without sight.
We sit there, connected by hand,
in a quiet so complete that for a moment
I feel the atoms of the hospital windows vibrate,
hiding the chaos of their atomic structures
where each particle’s position can never be known
but only statistically guessed.
And yet, like all the night beyond that fragile barrier of glass
are all the dark seas of feeling that I hold back
so the moment can last.
ii.
Later on the way home,
I will feel the animals in the underbrush,
the tininess of those scrabbling claws
as though a tender touch
among the vast unfolding warrens
beneath my feet that connect these many houses,
the flickering lights of televisions
trembling on each artificially separate pane of glass.
Inside each house, carrying its own load,
so infinitely precious,
the animals underneath the structures
always working, connecting,
and above, the yuccas that extend
their exquisite spines
and that one stalk high above
with a flower of stunning whiteness.
I cry below that torch-flower
so white that it seems to shine.
iii.
But still I know that even this bare curation of pain cannot last.
I know that late at night asleep or not sleeping
I will return to that hospital room,
and the glass window will break
unleashing dark oceans and oceans of pain.
Yet, I would take and gladly take it:
I will go to that room again
and I will take his hand’s kiss.
Whatever I have to pay for him I will pay.
That nail through our pair of hands binds us.
3DebiCates
I just had to stop...
to cry
because of the first reading pass of part 1 and the end here
And yet, like all the night beyond that fragile barrier of glass
are all the dark seas of feeling that I hold back
so the moment can last.
Greg, I'll be back to finish. I just need to hold on to this a while. And have a good blubber. Seriously, I can't say how long ago it's been since I was this wallopped.
to cry
because of the first reading pass of part 1 and the end here
And yet, like all the night beyond that fragile barrier of glass
are all the dark seas of feeling that I hold back
so the moment can last.
Greg, I'll be back to finish. I just need to hold on to this a while. And have a good blubber. Seriously, I can't say how long ago it's been since I was this wallopped.
4GregM3
Sorry Debi, what it's describing is for sure an intense time! . . . and probably the most difficult moments of my adult life up to this point. But it was simultaneously one of the most sacred times of my life too, I think.
I was super-anxious when I was commissioned to write a poem for that event, since it had been so long (two decades!) since I had written anything or done a reading. But I was happy with the piece in the end, and I liked sharing it in a community of people I knew.
I was super-anxious when I was commissioned to write a poem for that event, since it had been so long (two decades!) since I had written anything or done a reading. But I was happy with the piece in the end, and I liked sharing it in a community of people I knew.
5DebiCates
>4 GregM3: For Heaven's sake, don't you dare be sorry! I'm crying because I get it. I get how important that was, how you never want to lose the meaning, how stunning you found the privilege of being there for your friend, transferring atoms across time, space, hands.
Pain is part of this life. And I admire when someone is willing to be in that experience of pain, to not let go, not shying away, but holding it. Especially when it is for someone who needs you to be there for them.
ETA: ...the poem you wrote captured all that with gobsmacking genius.
Pain is part of this life. And I admire when someone is willing to be in that experience of pain, to not let go, not shying away, but holding it. Especially when it is for someone who needs you to be there for them.
ETA: ...the poem you wrote captured all that with gobsmacking genius.
6GregM3
>5 DebiCates: Aww, thanks Debi! And yes, I think you get exactly what I was trying to say in the poem - you have your finger on the heart of it!
7DebiCates
I got a grip on myself and just finished reading it once through.
Stunning.
So absolutely stunning.
I don't think I can meet the full moment just now. I want to say so much but all that comes out is gushing admiration.
Let's see if I can look at just this for now:
I cry below that torch-flower
so white that it seems to shine.
So much symbolism, you astound me. The white yucca stalk of blooms glowing like a votive one lights in dire need, or a candle lit at the Catholic alter. Like Christ's own resurrected light. It is so modern: a landscape yucca, there, instead of a cathedral. It's a found church, appearing in the stark environment of modernity. It's the timeless need met, unexpectedly: a refuge, a comfort, a silent companion.
Stunning.
So absolutely stunning.
I don't think I can meet the full moment just now. I want to say so much but all that comes out is gushing admiration.
Let's see if I can look at just this for now:
I cry below that torch-flower
so white that it seems to shine.
So much symbolism, you astound me. The white yucca stalk of blooms glowing like a votive one lights in dire need, or a candle lit at the Catholic alter. Like Christ's own resurrected light. It is so modern: a landscape yucca, there, instead of a cathedral. It's a found church, appearing in the stark environment of modernity. It's the timeless need met, unexpectedly: a refuge, a comfort, a silent companion.
8GregM3
>7 DebiCates: Oh thank you so much Debi!!
And I love what you say about the yucca. You are absolutely right - it is a found church. It's funny; when I write poetry, the details spring first so much from the intuitive half of my mind that I find myself drawn to symbols and imagery I feel is right but that I haven't yet fully understood with my conscious mind. I absolutely had in my conscious mind the idea of the sacredness of the two related moments, both hospital and desert, but I think you're picking up on the ways my upbringing expresses that sacredness.
And you're deepening my understanding of my own poem here with your thoughtful and perceptive take. I love that!
And I love what you say about the yucca. You are absolutely right - it is a found church. It's funny; when I write poetry, the details spring first so much from the intuitive half of my mind that I find myself drawn to symbols and imagery I feel is right but that I haven't yet fully understood with my conscious mind. I absolutely had in my conscious mind the idea of the sacredness of the two related moments, both hospital and desert, but I think you're picking up on the ways my upbringing expresses that sacredness.
And you're deepening my understanding of my own poem here with your thoughtful and perceptive take. I love that!
9DebiCates
@GregM
This part:
Later on the way home,
I will feel the animals in the underbrush,
the tininess of those scrabbling claws
This seemed to come out of nowhere! But it has that wonderful effect of waking one up to millions of mysteries all around us, of so much vying for normalcy, instead we find the ongoing need for empathy for others, contrasting, conflicting with our current need for that empathy. That startling knowing that a battle for life is going on, the mix of sharp fears, of scrambling in dark unfolding paths. It, underneath always. The contrasting pacification of those fears, just above, in the warm houses with mindless television, near cowardly postponed living behind glass. Then, unexpectedly the neighborhood yuccas shooting out above, our bland backdrop, no sign of movement, no sign of emotion. Layers upon layers of life, of coping, built upon one another, busy being busy, busy being cut off, until...until we notice that remarkable glow.
This part:
Later on the way home,
I will feel the animals in the underbrush,
the tininess of those scrabbling claws
This seemed to come out of nowhere! But it has that wonderful effect of waking one up to millions of mysteries all around us, of so much vying for normalcy, instead we find the ongoing need for empathy for others, contrasting, conflicting with our current need for that empathy. That startling knowing that a battle for life is going on, the mix of sharp fears, of scrambling in dark unfolding paths. It, underneath always. The contrasting pacification of those fears, just above, in the warm houses with mindless television, near cowardly postponed living behind glass. Then, unexpectedly the neighborhood yuccas shooting out above, our bland backdrop, no sign of movement, no sign of emotion. Layers upon layers of life, of coping, built upon one another, busy being busy, busy being cut off, until...until we notice that remarkable glow.
10DebiCates
>8 GregM3: I believe in that subconscious way poems come to poets even without their full knowing. Taps into the collective subconscious.
Did you see the comments on last week's Jeffers poem about his ideas about poetry? Wait, I'm going back to find where that was shared. It's niggling at me, telling me something there is connected to your poem and its process here.
Did you see the comments on last week's Jeffers poem about his ideas about poetry? Wait, I'm going back to find where that was shared. It's niggling at me, telling me something there is connected to your poem and its process here.
11DebiCates
>8 GregM3: It's here https://www.librarything.com/topic/377942#9088966 posted by @xkyzero.
The quote is from Jeffers in Jesse Rossa's essay on him (I have not yet read it) https://www.abaa.org/articles/californias-wild-coast-poet-robinson-jeffers
"Poetry is not a civilizer," is the part that came to me thinking about the sudden appearance in your poem of the animals in the underbrush, recognizing how uncivilized life is, even in a suburban neighborhood, even after experiences the narrator (you) just experienced. A reminder, also a recognition, that trying to civilize our experiences--instead of experiencing them--is not why a poem works, or why it exists.
Your poem has given me an insight to what Jeffers might have meant.
“I have no sympathy with the notion that the world owes a duty to poetry, or any other art. Poetry is not a civilizer, rather the reverse, for great poetry appeals to the most primitive instincts. It is not necessarily a moralizer; it does not necessarily improve one’s character; it does not even teach good manners. It is a beautiful work of nature, like an eagle or a high sunrise. You owe it no duty. If you like it, listen to it; if not, let it alone.”
The quote is from Jeffers in Jesse Rossa's essay on him (I have not yet read it) https://www.abaa.org/articles/californias-wild-coast-poet-robinson-jeffers
"Poetry is not a civilizer," is the part that came to me thinking about the sudden appearance in your poem of the animals in the underbrush, recognizing how uncivilized life is, even in a suburban neighborhood, even after experiences the narrator (you) just experienced. A reminder, also a recognition, that trying to civilize our experiences--instead of experiencing them--is not why a poem works, or why it exists.
Your poem has given me an insight to what Jeffers might have meant.
12GregM3
>9 DebiCates: When I was writing it, my way of seeing this was a little different but it definitely shared a whole lot with what you're describing. I definitely saw it as about the difference between the isolated people in their houses and the larger world. And absolutely, it was about waking up to the millions of mysteries around us; the ground seems solid and simple, but there are always creatures underneath there, digging, making.
For me, what I was thinking on a conscious level when I wrote the second part: our society balkanizes groups of people into separate family units, and they all exist in these separate physical places, but in some ways they only seem separate. It's a matter of those peoples' perception; it's their choice whether or not to accept distraction instead (represented by the televisions) and whether or not to refuse the "real" bond. Because between these houses there are these tunnels connecting; above is this flower that shows upon all. The bond is always there for the taking.
And when I left the hospital, that's what I felt, that I was so much more connected to all of these people and to this world than I had ever known, that I had had somehow accidentally been half-asleep to the "real" action of the world. And I felt a deep yearning to connect to it, even as I was not in a mental state to manage that.
That "found church" as you put it was for me a sacred moment, and all of those people in those surrounding houses were congregants in a religious service that they didn't know they were participating in. That service of the yucca included them, and it included me, and it included the ground squirrels and rats and everything else out there. Everything was under the yucca, as was I.
Within my great pain, I felt a moment of connection and beauty, to people I had never even met.
For me, what I was thinking on a conscious level when I wrote the second part: our society balkanizes groups of people into separate family units, and they all exist in these separate physical places, but in some ways they only seem separate. It's a matter of those peoples' perception; it's their choice whether or not to accept distraction instead (represented by the televisions) and whether or not to refuse the "real" bond. Because between these houses there are these tunnels connecting; above is this flower that shows upon all. The bond is always there for the taking.
And when I left the hospital, that's what I felt, that I was so much more connected to all of these people and to this world than I had ever known, that I had had somehow accidentally been half-asleep to the "real" action of the world. And I felt a deep yearning to connect to it, even as I was not in a mental state to manage that.
That "found church" as you put it was for me a sacred moment, and all of those people in those surrounding houses were congregants in a religious service that they didn't know they were participating in. That service of the yucca included them, and it included me, and it included the ground squirrels and rats and everything else out there. Everything was under the yucca, as was I.
Within my great pain, I felt a moment of connection and beauty, to people I had never even met.
13DebiCates
>11 DebiCates: I am going to disagree with Jeffers mildly: "You owe it no duty."
In the strict sense, no we don't. But in this particular poem and poet (you), I do feel, not a duty, but an exploding gratefulness that you wrote it and enabled us (me) to experience your experience. I recognize it.
I was alone with my best loved grandmother when she died. I was with my mother when we let her "go." Your poem has given me a tangible treasure to hold, to turn to, to further the terrible and magnificent meaning--the meaning we can never fully state, we can only experience and then spend decades in wonder. Your poem does that: gives the simple act of being with a dying person its vast wonderment and crushing grief.
Did I understand that you recited it? My god. I would have loved to be in that room then.
In the strict sense, no we don't. But in this particular poem and poet (you), I do feel, not a duty, but an exploding gratefulness that you wrote it and enabled us (me) to experience your experience. I recognize it.
I was alone with my best loved grandmother when she died. I was with my mother when we let her "go." Your poem has given me a tangible treasure to hold, to turn to, to further the terrible and magnificent meaning--the meaning we can never fully state, we can only experience and then spend decades in wonder. Your poem does that: gives the simple act of being with a dying person its vast wonderment and crushing grief.
Did I understand that you recited it? My god. I would have loved to be in that room then.
14DebiCates
>12 GregM3: That "found church" as you put it was for me a sacred moment, and all of those people in those surrounding houses were congregants in a religious service that they didn't know they were participating in. That service of the yucca included them, and it included me, and it included the ground squirrels and rats and everything else out there. Everything was under the yucca, as was I.
I feel a congregant of that moment now, too.
I feel a congregant of that moment now, too.
15GregM3
>13 DebiCates: Actually, I didn't recite it, but it was part of an art exhibit that was installed on the walls of a historic church with other art and photographs around the theme of Good Friday that the community could circulate through and experience. But there was a speaker who quoted from it afterwards, and he did read out some of the first and last stanzas. I don't know if I could have read it out loud myself without breaking down.
In the past, when I had poems published in literary journals, I would sometimes have to go read them at events, which was frankly terrifying! But I got through it somehow. That was mostly in my twenties and thirties though, before I was fully settled on my career as a computer programmer.
In the past, when I had poems published in literary journals, I would sometimes have to go read them at events, which was frankly terrifying! But I got through it somehow. That was mostly in my twenties and thirties though, before I was fully settled on my career as a computer programmer.
17DebiCates
>1 GregM3:
But still I know that even this bare curation of pain cannot last.
That word, "curation".....
is a startling truth about the emotion of grief and why it cannot last.
But still I know that even this bare curation of pain cannot last.
That word, "curation".....
is a startling truth about the emotion of grief and why it cannot last.
18AnishaInkspill
>2 GregM3: truly beautiful 💚, I read your >1 GregM3: after Greg, the essance of this comes through v v beautiful
19DebiCates
>15 GregM3: Lots of new info here!
I love that you have such a supportive community, and one with excellent taste, I might add. I'm envious actually, to be among such folks who would host and promote something like that. It must incalculably enrich your life.
I've suspected you would make a good poet. Proof is now in this poem. But also being published in literary journals. It also explains why you are so great to read poetry with, how much generous attention you give to each line, to particular words.
A computer programmer! I didn't think of your engineering degree as being in computer science. And me, another computer programmer. Also one who switched her desired Art degree, like you (I suspect) settling on a "livable wage." Now and then I lament that choice. I wonder if you do, too.
I'll be back later in the week to this poem because there is more I want to gush over. Is that okay? I mean, to go over it like that? I know we do that with dead poets, but how do you feel about it at this level on your own poetry?
ETA: crap, I meant to ask the most pressing question I had on my mind, where can I read more of your poetry?
I love that you have such a supportive community, and one with excellent taste, I might add. I'm envious actually, to be among such folks who would host and promote something like that. It must incalculably enrich your life.
I've suspected you would make a good poet. Proof is now in this poem. But also being published in literary journals. It also explains why you are so great to read poetry with, how much generous attention you give to each line, to particular words.
A computer programmer! I didn't think of your engineering degree as being in computer science. And me, another computer programmer. Also one who switched her desired Art degree, like you (I suspect) settling on a "livable wage." Now and then I lament that choice. I wonder if you do, too.
I'll be back later in the week to this poem because there is more I want to gush over. Is that okay? I mean, to go over it like that? I know we do that with dead poets, but how do you feel about it at this level on your own poetry?
ETA: crap, I meant to ask the most pressing question I had on my mind, where can I read more of your poetry?
20GregM3
>18 AnishaInkspill: Thanks Anisha!
21GregM3
>19 DebiCates: Oh Debi, you're making me blush, but yes, I am good talking as much as you want about it! As far as reading more of my work, I don't want to mislead you, the literary journals were small. There are several in universities and related organizations around me, or at least there were in the 1990s. I'll post more poems here someday. I mostly published in the journal (Riprap) linked to California State University of Long Beach, the one linked to Irvine Valley College (the Ear), and a couple other small ones.
22GregM3
There is one more thing I wanted to say about my intention in the poem. Of course, it was written primarily as a way of expressing my own deep personal experience of loss and grief and connection.
But on another level, since I knew it was going to be installed in the church for that event, it was also my way of trying to make a statement about how I saw Good Friday to that particular audience. With the poem as a whole, I wanted to say something about I saw my Christian faith as a whole. For me, as a non-conservative Christian, I would say that the essence of my faith is not about theology at all but about relationship and connection.
The image of the nails through the hands at the beginning and end of the poem was a deliberate choice. In a poem celebrating Good Friday, the poem was meant to reflect how I see Christ in action in the world. He is alive in us when we connect, and connecting makes us alive, when we help carry the burdens of this world. Connection is the painful gift that is completely worth it. And it isn't "charity" in the modern sense that many Americans seem to feel so suspicious or resentful about. It infuriates me, the modern American idea that people must have an ulterior motive for behaving kindly towards others, as though it was such a huge loss. True connection does hurt, but it is rarely a loss. Connecting is what makes and remakes us; hurting is the price of that.
A pastor told me he thought everyone acted out of selfish motives. I was shocked to the core. And I felt moved to respond to that because I deeply, profoundly disagreed. This poem was partly my way of responding to him.
It is in touching other people that we are healed. The one action does both, and it's not unidirectional; it's bidirectional, always. Healing happens both ways, simultaneously. It's impossible to give something properly without receiving something at the same time. And it's impossible to receive something properly without giving something at the same time. To want to give help and yet never wanting to be in the position of having to receive is psychologically insane. Just as to want to always receive and never hoping to be in a position to give; that's equally crazy. For me, to be selfish is just to be dead, unhealed, to deny the whole transaction, like a light bulb with the switch off. When the two sides connect, the current will flow and the light will light. When they don't connect, nothing happens. Why would anyone want to be dead, much less everyone? It's an insane choice, in my view. Doing good for, with, and through other people is just touching hands to let the current flow and to enjoy the glow of the light.
Good Friday for me centers on a sacrifice, but it's not the sort of sacrifice where a king throws gold coins over a wall to throngs of people below. It's the connection of a circuit wires that makes light. It's the most painful of gifts that also heals. It's Communion with a capital C, and communion by very definition of the word, is the profound connection of many together. It's the healing action of connecting broken things.
But on another level, since I knew it was going to be installed in the church for that event, it was also my way of trying to make a statement about how I saw Good Friday to that particular audience. With the poem as a whole, I wanted to say something about I saw my Christian faith as a whole. For me, as a non-conservative Christian, I would say that the essence of my faith is not about theology at all but about relationship and connection.
The image of the nails through the hands at the beginning and end of the poem was a deliberate choice. In a poem celebrating Good Friday, the poem was meant to reflect how I see Christ in action in the world. He is alive in us when we connect, and connecting makes us alive, when we help carry the burdens of this world. Connection is the painful gift that is completely worth it. And it isn't "charity" in the modern sense that many Americans seem to feel so suspicious or resentful about. It infuriates me, the modern American idea that people must have an ulterior motive for behaving kindly towards others, as though it was such a huge loss. True connection does hurt, but it is rarely a loss. Connecting is what makes and remakes us; hurting is the price of that.
A pastor told me he thought everyone acted out of selfish motives. I was shocked to the core. And I felt moved to respond to that because I deeply, profoundly disagreed. This poem was partly my way of responding to him.
It is in touching other people that we are healed. The one action does both, and it's not unidirectional; it's bidirectional, always. Healing happens both ways, simultaneously. It's impossible to give something properly without receiving something at the same time. And it's impossible to receive something properly without giving something at the same time. To want to give help and yet never wanting to be in the position of having to receive is psychologically insane. Just as to want to always receive and never hoping to be in a position to give; that's equally crazy. For me, to be selfish is just to be dead, unhealed, to deny the whole transaction, like a light bulb with the switch off. When the two sides connect, the current will flow and the light will light. When they don't connect, nothing happens. Why would anyone want to be dead, much less everyone? It's an insane choice, in my view. Doing good for, with, and through other people is just touching hands to let the current flow and to enjoy the glow of the light.
Good Friday for me centers on a sacrifice, but it's not the sort of sacrifice where a king throws gold coins over a wall to throngs of people below. It's the connection of a circuit wires that makes light. It's the most painful of gifts that also heals. It's Communion with a capital C, and communion by very definition of the word, is the profound connection of many together. It's the healing action of connecting broken things.
23DebiCates
>22 GregM3: I'm glad you shared this. I know non-conservative Christianity gives you community and meaning. It was good to read the many ways that manifests for you. What you've written is uplifting in a way that I don't see or hear often. I rejoice with you that you have the love of Christ in your heart. I have the love of Zen in my heart. I think they could easily meet, as Rumi (yet another philosophy/religion in another heart) wrote:
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
There is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
The world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
Doesn't make any sense.
Translated from Persian by Coleman Barks and John Moyne, from The Essential Rumi, published by HarperCollins. Copyright © 1995
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
There is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
The world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
Doesn't make any sense.
Translated from Persian by Coleman Barks and John Moyne, from The Essential Rumi, published by HarperCollins. Copyright © 1995
24GregM3
>23 DebiCates: Oh definitely Debi, and Rumi is wonderful! I don't begrudge anyone their path, and I don't mean to proselytize at all. It's just me expressing how I see my own path, and I'm just as interested in hearing and learning about other paths as my own. I wouldn't be at all surprised if many or all of those paths ended up leading to the same destination, honestly.
I felt a great sacredness going to the Taoist temples in Taiwan during my visits with coworkers there, and I felt the same sacredness going to Buddhist temples with Ron's relatives for funerals and other events.
I felt a great sacredness going to the Taoist temples in Taiwan during my visits with coworkers there, and I felt the same sacredness going to Buddhist temples with Ron's relatives for funerals and other events.
25DebiCates
>24 GregM3: You didn't proselytize at all. I read it as a person explaining the importance their path gives them. I wish for every person to have such a meaningful experience, and to, like you did, share it.
I too like to think that what we call God is so big, nothing can contain all of it. Thus we have all these pieces, and sharing is the closest we'll come to a Kingdom of Heaven on Earth.
I too like to think that what we call God is so big, nothing can contain all of it. Thus we have all these pieces, and sharing is the closest we'll come to a Kingdom of Heaven on Earth.
26TonjaE
>2 GregM3: I like your poem very much. It's hard to comment appropriately on something so significant to you. I hope you write and share more with us. Thank you, it's heart breaking and beautiful.
