I sit alone in my room,
seeking peace,
seeking strength.
I see my altar,
a file cabinet covered
with a tie-dyed bandana,
a red candle,
and a picture of Mary.
The Buddha and Kuan-Yin
sit in meditation
on the shelf above the altar.
Books on the shelves
remind me that I’m not alone
as I search for hope.
I belong to a community of seekers:
ancient and modern,
Christian, Buddhist, Jewish,
Hindu and Sufi,
male and female,
seekers from east and west.
Like me, they had to find meaning
in the dark nights of their lives.
I look at the planter
I brought home from my father’s funeral
so many years ago.
I see the wooden box
filled with treasured mementos
of family members
long departed.
I remember the struggles and triumphs
of those who gave me life
and shared their hard-won wisdom.
They still give me strength.
Alone in my room?
I guess I’m not.
8/5/2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Fight
Darryl also writes poems to express his fears and his hope as he waits for the transplant. The poem below expresses both. I made the mandala above to give visual expression to the powerfully hopeful opening lines of his poem.Fight, a poem by Darryl Nichols
Every choice you make
is a choice between Life and Death.
Or, if you prefer, Love and Fear.
I will not fear. I will love and live.
My feet tap out the sound,
of my heart beating round and round,
spinning as I face my greatest fear,
an unknown death, a census smear.
I will fight. You will fight.
We all will fight, for the right
to breathe, to party, to love, to grieve.
One day this thing
will put me in my grave,
but even then
no coffin will I crave.
Burn me up, an offering to your gods
so that you can go on and Fight.
And love, and survive, and strive
and become the best
whatever it is you were destined to be
When you dreamed,
as a child, on a shooting star,
that you later found out was a firefly.
You know the fireflies are dying out.
The city lights confuse them.
I used to think they were fairies.
Put the little fairy bodies on my breast
right before you push the button.
We will all burn bright
One last time
before we return to the earth.
Fight! Never give up!
Live. Breathe. Love.
Let Death fear YOU!
Fight.
5/20/10
Monday, August 2, 2010
Dark Night
About a month ago, when we were going through another rough patch, I took great comfort in this song by Kate Campbell and Walt Aldridge. As the song kept playing over and over in my mind, I began to see colors and an image of the dark night, the fire out in the cold, and the wonders that can be seen even in the midst of the darkness:
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
You can pray with all your might
Till your knuckles all turn white
You can look the other way
Hope it’s gone with each new day
You can do your best to hide
You can hold it all inside
You can curse and shake your fist
You can ask why God why this
There is peace somewhere I’m told
There’s a fire out in the cold
There are wonders to behold
In the dark night of the soul
You can give in to your doubts
Try to figure it all out
You can fight the fight alone
Do your best to drink it gone
There is peace somewhere I’m told
There’s a fire out in the cold
There are wonders to behold
In the dark night of the soul
Trust your spirit to be your guide
You’ll come out on the other side
In the absence of the light
Let the shadows hold you tight
You can let your fear and pain
Wash over you like rain
There is peace somewhere I’m told
There’s a fire out in the cold
There are wonders to behold
In the dark night of the soul
In the dark night of the soul
By Kate Campbell & Walt Aldridge
© Large River Music (BMI)
Cross Key Publishing Co. Inc./Waltz Time Music Inc. (ASCAP)
Shall We Dance?
My son faces a fearful journey, one he might not survive,
moving to the brink of death in search of new life.
Fear, like a rock, takes up residence in the pit of my stomach.
I long for that rock to be transformed—into what?
Hope? Peace?
A calm assurance that all will be well?
Sometimes I reject that rock,
pretend that I don’t see it, don’t feel its weight.
I tell it, “You can go now.”
And it seems to—for a while,
but it returns, and I run to the nearest distraction,
so it grows legs and chases after me.
Sometimes I turn and face it,
sit down with it, hold it,
embrace it as well as I can.
It seems a little lighter then,
a little less oppressive.
It’s still there, but less the center of my life.
We’ve done this dance many times, my fear and I.
We’ll do it many times again, I’m sure.
I wouldn’t have chosen this dance partner—if I had a choice.
But he comes and he asks me to dance.
I escape to the ladies’ room.
He’s waiting when I come out.
“I’m too tired to dance,” I say.
“Then let’s sit and talk,” he responds.
I no longer have the energy to resist, so I get up and dance once more.
moving to the brink of death in search of new life.
Fear, like a rock, takes up residence in the pit of my stomach.
I long for that rock to be transformed—into what?
Hope? Peace?
A calm assurance that all will be well?
Sometimes I reject that rock,
pretend that I don’t see it, don’t feel its weight.
I tell it, “You can go now.”
And it seems to—for a while,
but it returns, and I run to the nearest distraction,
so it grows legs and chases after me.
Sometimes I turn and face it,
sit down with it, hold it,
embrace it as well as I can.
It seems a little lighter then,
a little less oppressive.
It’s still there, but less the center of my life.
We’ve done this dance many times, my fear and I.
We’ll do it many times again, I’m sure.
I wouldn’t have chosen this dance partner—if I had a choice.
But he comes and he asks me to dance.
I escape to the ladies’ room.
He’s waiting when I come out.
“I’m too tired to dance,” I say.
“Then let’s sit and talk,” he responds.
I no longer have the energy to resist, so I get up and dance once more.
Advent in August
It’s been a rough summer for Darryl, with three hospitalizations since mid-June. He’s had pancreatitis as well as the usual lung problems, and because of the pancreatitis, he’s been temporarily removed from the transplant list until that resolves. He’s now a week into the third hospitalization, and things seem to be moving in the right direction. The fevers he was having a week ago are gone. So are the back pain and nausea. His lipase level is coming down, and that’s a good thing.
He’s still very tired, though, sleeping a lot of the day, still needing to use his oxygen most of the time. I worry about the fatigue, the monotone in his voice, the lack of “Darrylness”, for lack of a better way to describe it. So we wait and hope the improvement continues.
Waiting is a major theme for me these days. We wait for the pancreatitis to resolve so he can go back on the transplant list. We wait for the transplant. We wait for him to once again be able to breathe with ease.
Maybe that’s why I think about Advent a lot these days. Never mind that it’s in the 80’s and 90’s outside, my spirit is often plunged in the cold and the darkness of December. I light candles and wait for the daylight to return.
I think of Mary, waiting for the promised child, waiting for Joseph’s reaction to her pregnant condition, waiting for the response of family and community. I imagine her dread of the difficult journey to Bethlehem—nine months pregnant and riding on a donkey. I see her waiting and laboring through the birth. I think of the journey to Egypt to escape those who would murder her child, waiting for the word that they could safely return home.
Darryl, too, has a long and difficult journey ahead: more waiting; the transplant, when the time comes; the period of recovery from the transplant; the uncertainty about what and when and where and how. It’s a difficult time for those who love him, too.
There were comforts in Mary’s waiting, of course: the reassurance offered by the angel at the annunciation; Joseph’s acceptance of her condition, her visit to Elizabeth and their shared joy in the new life growing in their wombs; the faith that allowed her to consent to God’s will for her life.
There have been comforts for us as well: the love and prayers of friends; the hope of longer life and greatly improved quality of life; Darryl and Carrie’s amazing resilience in the face of so many difficulties; the ministry of so many loving “angels” in our lives; the faith that allows us all to keep moving forward, day after day.
Advent comes at the darkest time of the year, but it ends in a glorious blaze of light and praise and new life. I pray that it may be so for Darryl, however long this Advent season might last.
He’s still very tired, though, sleeping a lot of the day, still needing to use his oxygen most of the time. I worry about the fatigue, the monotone in his voice, the lack of “Darrylness”, for lack of a better way to describe it. So we wait and hope the improvement continues.
Waiting is a major theme for me these days. We wait for the pancreatitis to resolve so he can go back on the transplant list. We wait for the transplant. We wait for him to once again be able to breathe with ease.
Maybe that’s why I think about Advent a lot these days. Never mind that it’s in the 80’s and 90’s outside, my spirit is often plunged in the cold and the darkness of December. I light candles and wait for the daylight to return.
I think of Mary, waiting for the promised child, waiting for Joseph’s reaction to her pregnant condition, waiting for the response of family and community. I imagine her dread of the difficult journey to Bethlehem—nine months pregnant and riding on a donkey. I see her waiting and laboring through the birth. I think of the journey to Egypt to escape those who would murder her child, waiting for the word that they could safely return home.
Darryl, too, has a long and difficult journey ahead: more waiting; the transplant, when the time comes; the period of recovery from the transplant; the uncertainty about what and when and where and how. It’s a difficult time for those who love him, too.
There were comforts in Mary’s waiting, of course: the reassurance offered by the angel at the annunciation; Joseph’s acceptance of her condition, her visit to Elizabeth and their shared joy in the new life growing in their wombs; the faith that allowed her to consent to God’s will for her life.
There have been comforts for us as well: the love and prayers of friends; the hope of longer life and greatly improved quality of life; Darryl and Carrie’s amazing resilience in the face of so many difficulties; the ministry of so many loving “angels” in our lives; the faith that allows us all to keep moving forward, day after day.
Advent comes at the darkest time of the year, but it ends in a glorious blaze of light and praise and new life. I pray that it may be so for Darryl, however long this Advent season might last.
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