David Whyte wrote this after the death of his mother. I think it is comforting.

FAREWELL LETTER

She wrote me a letter after her death,

and I remember a kind of happy light

as I sat by the rose tree

on her old bench by the back door

so surprised to receive it

wondering what she would say

looking up before I could open it

and laughing to myself in silent expectation.

Dear son

it is time for me to leave you

the words you are used to hearing,

are no longer mine to give.

You can only hear those words of motherly

affection now from your own mouth

and only for those who stand

motherless before you.

As for me I must forsake adulthood

and be bound gladly to a new childhood.

You must understand

this apprenticeship demands

of me an elemental innocence

from everything I have ever held in my hands.

I know your generous soul

is well able to let me go

You will in the end be happy to know

my God was true

and that after so many years

of loving you so long

I find myself in the wide, infinite mercy of being

mothered myself.

P.S. All of your intuitions were true.

(David Whyte – Poet from the Pacific Northwest)

For you bookworms

This is a cute video of books coming to life.

Watching time pass

Jane Hirshfield  is masterful in this poem. I feel so drawn into the imagery. I identify with the sense that life is flashing past and I can’t take in but a fraction of it. I sometimes feel like a helpless bystander watching it happen.

THE GALLOP  

 Jane Hirshfield

There are days the whole house moves at a gallop.

Bookshelves and counters, bottles of aspirin and oil,

chairs, saucepans, and towels.

I can barely encircle the neck

of a bounding pen with my fingers

before it breaks free of their notions;

open the door before the dog

of lop-eared hopes leaps through it;

pick up the paper before it goes up as kindling.

Barely eat before something snatches

the toast from my plate,

drains the last mouthfuls of coffee out of my cup.

Even these words

before the blue ink track has dried on the paper,

they’ve already been read

and agreed to or flung aside for others I don’t yet know of,

and well before

I have dressed or brushed out the braid of my hair

a woman with my own shadow

has showered and chosen her earrings, bought groceries

and fallen in love, grown tired, grown old.

Her braid in the mirror shines with new ribbons of silver,

like the mane of a heavy warhorse.

He stands in the silence as if after battle, sides heaving, spent.

From “Given Sugar, Given Salt” by Jane Hirshfield