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.