Updates from June, 2012 Toggle Comment Threads | Keyboard Shortcuts

  • Jay 2:43 pm on June 29, 2012 Permalink | Reply  

    Joe’s 31st birthday today 

    Oh, Joe, we are still that three-legged dog, just limping along…. but we’ve also got David and Lotte and little Dell to keep us going.

     

    The Thing Is

    to love life, to love it even

    when you have no stomach for it

    and everything you’ve held dear

    crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

    your throat filled with the silt of it.

    When grief sits with you, its tropicalheat

    thickening the air, heavy as water

    more fit for gills than lungs;

    when grief weights you like your own flesh

    only more of it, an obesity of grief,

    you think, How can a body withstand this?

    Then you hold life like a face

    bewtween your palms, a plain face

    no charming smile, no violet eyes,

    and you say, yes, I will take you

    I will love you, again.

     

    ~ Ellen Bass

     

     
    • Robert Curley Jacobs 12:36 am on August 3, 2012 Permalink | Reply

      Darn shame to hear about Joe. He was a good man and it is to bad that he is no longer with us. I remember one time I came up from the University of Oregon and he showed me a real good time at Reed College. Lots of fun!!! Anyway I am sure he is partying it up in the afterlife! Godspeed Joe.

  • Jay 6:48 am on December 20, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Kaddish

    Look around us, search above us, below, behind.
    We stand in a great web of being joined together.
    Let us praise, let us love the life we are lent
    passing through us in the body of Israel
    and our own bodies, let’s say amen.

    Time flows through us like water.
    The past and the dead speak through us.
    We breathe out our children’s children, blessing.

    Blessed is the earth from which we grow,
    Blessed the life we are lent,
    blessed the ones who teach us,
    blessed the ones we teach,
    blessed is the word that cannot say the glory
    that shines through us and remains to shine
    flowing past distant suns on the way to forever.
    Let’s say amen.

    Blessed is light, blessed is darkness,
    but blessed above all else is peace
    which bears the fruits of knowledge
    on strong branches, let’s say amen.

    Peace that bears joy into the world,
    peace that enables love, peace over Israel
    everywhere, blessed and holy is peace, let’s say amen.

    –Marge Piercy

    from The Art of Blessing the Day: Poems with a Jewish Theme

     
  • Lichen Rancourt 9:05 pm on September 26, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Every picture I love
    taken
    across some table

    Sao Miquel,
    Portland,
    home

    laughing
    into the camera.

    I love you

    most interested
    in the person
    across the table

    even if that person
    wasn’t me

    but I was
    your sister
    proud

    this man
    across the table
    was my brother.

     
    • Jay Rancourt 8:32 pm on October 12, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      From “A Year with Rumi” for Oct 12

      What’s Not Here

      I start out on this road,
      call it ‘love’ or ‘emptiness’.
      I only know what’s not here.

      Resentment seeds, backscratching greed,
      worrying about outcome, fear of people.

      When a bird gets free,
      it does not go back for remnants
      left at the bottom of the cage.

      Close by, I’m rain. Far off,
      a cloud of fire. I seem restless,
      but I am deeply at ease.

      Branches tremble. The roots are still.
      I am a universe in a handful of dirt.,
      whole when totally demolished.

      Talk about ‘choices’ does not apply to me.
      While intelligence considers options,
      I am somewhere lost in the wind.

  • LT 7:30 am on September 14, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Your Son 

    I brought Joe to mind this morning,
    the liquid, guttural tone of his voice,
    as he speaks – I don’t want to say,
    as he spoke.

    I know you hear him a thousand times a day,
    the baby laughing,
    the grown man chattering away,
    the love he radiated.

    I think how you ache, the singe of rage.
    Torrential rains pelt your face, soak
    clothes, shoes, nothing can possibly muffle,
    or ease the loneliness of grief.

    Yet, you bring me a bag of corn
    from your garden and with a smile
    hand me a bouquet of zinnias.
    Yellows, pinks, salmons and gold.

    Louise Taylor
    9/5/11

     
    • Jay 9:08 am on September 19, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      It’s been eight months today. Where are you, Joe? We miss you so much. I hope you are ‘shouting with joy’ somewhere, and busy with new friends, new work to do.

  • Jay 9:57 am on August 25, 2011 Permalink | Reply  


    Time passes. Lichen & David’s wedding reception has come and gone.
    We are still a three-legged dog – we can get around just fine now but there will always be a limp.
    No more so than at Lichen & David’s bash on August 6th. Joe’s absence was an aching presence amidst the celebration – the greetings and hugs and laughter and dancing.

    I had a bad night of missing Joe last night and when I woke up today, I went looking for Diane’s gift of “A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings”.
    This is what I found for today, August 25th, Robbin’s and my 32nd wedding anniversary.

    On the Day I Die,
    when I am being carried toward the grave,
    don’t weep. Don’t say, He’s gone. He’s gone.

    Death has nothing to do with going away.
    The sun sets and the moon sets,
    but they’re not gone.

    Death is a coming together.
    The tomb looks like a prison,
    but it’s really release into union.

    The human seed goes down into the ground
    like a bucket in a well where Joseph is.

    It grows and comes up
    full of some unimagined beauty.

    Your mouth closes here
    and immediately opens
    with a shout of joy there.

    ~ Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, 13th century Sufi poet

    My Joseph, we will never stop holding you firmly in our hearts.
    And we will find joy in you and in ourselves.

     
    • Jay Rancourt 8:35 pm on October 12, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Oh, Joe, such an empty space

    • Betsey 10:12 pm on August 25, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Oh Jay honey. My heart aches as I read your “Time Passes”. And then my heart sings as I read the profound poem below your words. My heart bursts with the sadness and the song. And this is but a tiny seed of what I know YOU are feeling. Sending you my open heart now and every day.

    • Lichen 9:21 pm on August 25, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      I love this picture for the empty space where Joe should have stood. I can’t believe my fragile body can withstand how much I miss my little brother.

    • Nancy Sheridan 11:26 am on August 25, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Sending love to you and Robin.

  • Jay 8:14 pm on June 12, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Burlap Sack 

    BURLAP SACK

    A person is full of sorrow
    the way a burlap sack is full of stones or sand.
    We say, “Hand me the sack,”
    but we get the weight.
    Heavier if left out in the rain.
    To think that the stones or sand are the self is an error.
    To think that grief is the self is an error.
    Self carries grief as a pack mule carries the side bags,
    being careful between the trees to leave extra room.
    The mule is not the load of ropes and nails and axes.
    The self is not the miner nor builder nor driver.

    What would it be to take the bride
    and leave behind the heavy dowry?
    To let the thin-ribbed mule browse in tall grasses,
    its long ears waggling like the tails of two happy dogs?

    JANE HIRSHFIELD

     
  • Jay 2:19 pm on April 14, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Poem for J.

    What she made in her body is broken.
    Now she has begun to bear it again.
    In the house of her son’s death
    her life is shining in the windows,
    for she has elected to bear him again.
    She did not bear him for death,
    and she does not. She has taken back
    into her body the seed, bitter
    and joyous, of the life of a man.

    In the house of the dead the windows shine
    with life. She mourns, for his life was good.
    She is not afraid. She is like a field
    where the corn is planted, and like the rain
    that waters the field, and like the younger corn.
    In her sorrow she renews life, in her grief
    she prepares the return of joy.

    She did not bear him for death, and she does not.
    There was a life that went out of her to live
    on its own, divided , and now she has taken it back.
    She is alight with the sudden now of death.
    Perhaps it is the brightness of the dead one
    being born again. Perhaps she is planting him,
    like corn, in the living and in the earth.
    She has taken back into her flesh,
    and made light, the dark seed of her pain.

    ~ Wendell Berry, Collected Poems

     
    • LT 8:59 am on May 5, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Such a poignant poem Jax.

  • Jay 11:33 am on March 15, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    The Longing

    Do not pretend that the longing
    has not also lived in you,
    swinging like a pendulum.
    you have been lost,
    and thieved like a criminal
    your heart
    into the darkness.
    but life is tired, deep friend,
    of going on
    without you.
    It is like the hand of the mother
    who has lost the child.
    and if you are anything like me,
    you have been afraid.
    and if you are anything like me,
    you have been afraid.
    If you are anything like me,
    you have known your own courage.
    there is room in this boat:
    take your seat.
    take up your paddle,and all of us
    All of us
    shall row our hearts
    back
    home.

    ~ Em claire

     
  • Jay 6:03 pm on March 10, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Desiderata 

    Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
    and remember what peace there may be in silence.

    As far as possible, without surrender,
    be on good terms with all persons.
    Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
    and listen to others,
    even to the dull and the ignorant;
    they too have their story.
    Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
    they are vexatious to the spirit.

    If you compare yourself with others,
    you may become vain or bitter,
    for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
    Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
    Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
    it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

    Exercise caution in your business affairs,
    for the world is full of trickery.
    But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
    many persons strive for high ideals,
    and everywhere life is full of heroism.
    Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
    Neither be cynical about love,
    for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
    it is as perennial as the grass.

    Take kindly the counsel of the years,
    gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
    Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
    But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
    Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

    Beyond a wholesome discipline,
    be gentle with yourself.
    You are a child of the universe
    no less than the trees and the stars;
    you have a right to be here.
    And whether or not it is clear to you,
    no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

    Therefore be at peace with God,
    whatever you conceive Him to be.
    And whatever your labors and aspirations,
    in the noisy confusion of life,
    keep peace in your soul.

    With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
    it is still a beautiful world.
    Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

    ~ Max Ehrmann (circa 1920s)

    I first discovered this poem, I know not where, when I was in my mid-teens. It spoke to me then and speaks to me now. It seems to me that my son, Joe, embodied much of the wisdom expressed here.

     
  • Jay 8:37 am on March 3, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Missing (Joe) 

    Goodness was
    a fever in you. Anyone
    might glow in the heat of it,
    go home comforted -
    for them a shawl, for you
    fire at the bone.

    You knew
    more than was good for you.
    Your innocence
    was peat-bog water, subtle and dark,
    that cold it was,
    that pure.

    Kindness – didn’t we act as though
    we could cut an endless supply from you
    like turf from a bog?

    smoke of that empty hearth
    fragrant still.
    your words
    cupped in our hands to drink
    But you –
    you’re gone and we never
    really saw you.

    ~ Denise Levertov, Missing Beatrice (Hawley)

     
    • Lichen 6:39 am on March 17, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Holy moly, mom… this is SO Joe. Wow. This is just what I have been trying to say. Thank you.

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