Heartsong Studio

First came the words, in poetry, as I witness the prolonged death of my husband in: Transformation Trilogy — Part One. My thoughts on an afterlife follow in: Part Two.   My next step comes crystal clear in: Part Three — Starting Now.

I am admittedly staggered at my own transformation. Though it has taken my whole life ’till now, I am stunned by the speed of it’s expression, and the strength of its final conclusion.

Transformation Trilogy — Part One

My feelings long neglected, my plaints unheard,
I absorbed his rage against the agony of slow descent,
feeling his anguish,
the shredding of his understanding,
watching him shrink
bit by random bit,
caught by sparks of humour and terror
that stuttered out into
the black tunnel of an endless nightmare,
with only one terrible prospect of relief . . .
I had expected time enough to pass through grief
before death finally called.
But there wasn’t.

We cannot know how another’s death will come upon us,
only gasp as raw reality rolls over us,
creeping to the edge of the abyss to watch,
while music eases the tumble of laughter and tears.
Absent is any comfort held out by well-meant wisdom.
We move helplessly among mysteries,
longing for a holdfast,
trying to stay open to life,
though this ‘becoming real’ grinds us without pity,
until, eroded and bared,
resistant or ready to let go,
we too will stride, stroll, stumble or sleep,
transforming, in spite of ourselves,
into renewed and renewing essence,
the stuff of earth.

Transformation Trilogy — Part Two

What of our spirit, does it not stay on awhile?
Living life to the full, or suffering a long drawn-out end,
who would want to hang around after death,
unseen and unable to take part,
along with so many others amassed over eons,
what room would be left for you,
without a voice, face or body to feel or express?
I do not long for anonymity, immobility, or silence,
witnessing over and over the non-stop carousel of life
that I’ve already ridden to excess.
My aging eyes hold time’s increasing blur,
as a promise to one day tuck my worn remains
into blissful eternal sleep.
The ultimate out-of-body experience for me
would be a zephyr of my spirit –
a momentary glow at sunset –
and then sleep.

Transformation Trilogy Part Three — Starting Now

I wondered when life would start for me,
not knowing I’d keep on evolving,
or that transformation never stops,
wounds can be healed and dissolved.
Entrusted duties completed wholeheartedly,
now is my time to rest lightly awhile,
then continue to follow the healing paths,
interwoven, dovetailing, begun long ago,
renewing my quest to be whole and authentic.
Though determined to count plain evidence alone,
delicious miracles have not gone unheeded,
nor is there need to try to name sources;
instead, with a newfound certainty,
I choose to join the dance of perfect steps
that carry me into my cherished present,
and expand into my full-fledged lovely self,
starting now.

After the words, next I would expect images. Actually, they might have already shown themselves ahead of the words and even ahead of the experiences, in my paintings such as:

Awakening  48″ X 36″

The Long and Winding Road  18″ X 24″

Make of Yourself a Light  30″ X 24″

Patiently awaiting what visual images will next express themselves,
I wish you all the best, Celeste.

Can you grieve in slow motion and rejoice in life at the same time?

Seeing a dark sunset, sadness overcame me. Was it something I was trying to avoid? I was reluctant to go deeper into my own sadness and loss. It seemed too selfish to give into the occasional bouts of grief, because for me there was always the promise of a continuing future.

I had to stay strong for Bill’s suffering a very long, agonizing decline into Alzheimer’s disease. Recovery after each visit to him in the rest home was hard for me, but probably nothing compared to my husband’s losing himself.

Part of my reluctance was coloured by a wish that I’d done things differently; made other decisions; recognized my anger; and so on. There’s no benefit in revisiting the past of “what if’s”, I told myself.

Once I saw into my reluctance, I started to work inward to explore my own incompletely allowed sense of loss, resulting in this painting. No surprise that it was difficult for me to work with such dark colours. Technically and emotionally.

Though my intention was to explore my own loss, I learned that there’s no separating losses. Grief is grief. Once given space to be felt, these feelings stopped looming over me.

This painting is named from a line in a Beatles’ song: “The Long and Winding Road” which conjures up years long ago, when we first met.
Click picture to enlarge.

The Long and Winding Road 18″ X 24″

As I play with poetry lately, I have seen an old humour come back. Who knows, maybe there’s a chance that opening myself to my own losses, may in some way have eased his letting go too.

Let me introduce you to Bill. He would often introduce himself this way:
“They call me: Sweet Old Bill, or sometimes just the initials”, he used to joke.

Sweet Old Bill

Deep within the earth, where pink worms thrive,
tender shoots and fertile seeds are sprouting.
Digging up the pesky weeds, contrary fools like me
cannot stay eternal spring from its reckless splurge.
From somewhere in his crumbling mind, rare shards of humour spark:
“I’m in here still”, he seems to say.
Despite the loss of words and grasp, yet embers stay alight.
An air of baffled absence hangs, the power of choosing gone,
reverted childhood beckons him to rage against the night.
In this the harshest winter of his suffering,
might some relief come gently,
like an ever certain spring?

As he faded further away, Bill seemed to be beyond the suffering of recent months. That was a real mercy. He was unable to speak at all for weeks, yet 3 weeks before the end, after we’d wheeled him to see the boats at the water front and eat chocolate ice cream, he spoke his last words. He looked up and said: “It’s magic.”

Now, as I post this, blessed relief has been given to dear old Bill. On 24 August, 2011, he left this place enriched for his unique and generous life.

He finally got what he’d always wished for — a “green” burial in a coffin he built for himself, and a New Orleans style funeral, adapted to Pender Island.

I read “Reluctance”, a Robert Frost poem to start, as six of his dearest friends carried his coffin, topped with a gorgeous spray of scented, star-burst lilies, while the band played bluesy versions of jazz classics like “Just a Closer Walk With Thee” and “Basin Street Blues”. Then I read “The Earth is Waiting for You”, by Thich Nhat Hanh at the grave. Then, after he was lowered, I read this from Dostoevsky:

“And so we will remember him all our lives, how good it was once here, when we were all united by loving feelings, which made us, for the time he stood among us, better perhaps than we are.”

Then the band played “Saints Go Marching In”, and other very upbeat jazz classics, as we twirled white ribbons, New Orleans style and danced to the hall where we held a Memorial celebration of Bill’s life. In sharing “Bill” stories, we found the mixture of tears and laughter, eased our loss and lightened our load.

As we left, music from WW2 played — a very young Frank Sinatra singing: “I’ll be seeing you” and Vera Lynne singing “Auf Wiedersehen”.

Now I am exhausted, after caring and staying strong for him for so very long. Now it is my time to grieve for my own personal loss.

Bill and Celeste’s wedding Dec 22 1977.

Bill on his 90th Birthday, Feb 8, 2011.