Saturday, August 30th, 2016.  My father died.

Remembering sitting with him and with my spouse at a restaurant in Albuquerque. And he shared with us this poem as he shared reflections on dying.  Today, evening came to him.  I was, as always, far, far away – here in Illinois with him in Albuquerque.  But, remarkably, he is now closer than he has been in years.  Larger than life.  Largest in life.  Flooding my heart with love and sorrow, flooding mind with memories that are monumental and yet so mundane.

David Whyte calls life “a high stakes pilgrimage.” Indeed. As I age I see that the temple at the end of the pilgrimage is death in all its mystery.

May there be peace for him now and healing, in time, in my heart.

For evening has come…

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles 
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.