Spanish Moss
the Morning After Loss
Spanish moss
tucked into leaves and branches dangles from the live oak and sways a bit with
the morning breeze.
Birds trill
early morning sounds.
A young man
rides a bicycle path and sings a quiet song to greet the day.
Poles
and tackle box in hand, another man moves to the lake edge to claim a spot in
the life circle.
Clouds,
heavy and low, obscure the sun, but like tears unshed brimming at the edge of
the eyes, the rain remains suspended, not quite ready to let loose and fall.
Neither
clouds, nor birds, nor Spanish moss, nor fish in the pond know the depth and
dimensions of your grief.
But
as integral pieces of the cosmic plan, they, too, participate even if unaware.
The slight movement of the moss reminds us that the breeze brings facets of
life and takes them away, just as other elements of life take their place in
the universal plan, of which we are far too often unaware.
Birds
will continue to sing us awake and soothe our weary hearts with a lullaby at
evening’s approach.
A
young man will send the notes of his song to the Earth, which will hear and
become aware, even if human ears are not present.
A
line will catch a fish, which quells a hunger.
Clouds,
like eyes, will fill and release, raindrops and teardrops alike changing the
landscape of the Earth and the heart.
I
believe the creatures, plants, and moisture of the Earth are sentient. They
wait with patience until those tears fall from your eyes and moisten all that
is precious around you.
You,
too, enrich the Earth every time you grieve because all that is present becomes
aware of your love and care. Your sensitivity to all that is holy and precious
and thus, its loss, affects the Earth, sustains the Earth, and takes its place
in the revolution of life within and around us.
* * * * *
In the early morning hours the day after my father died, as I sat on my granddaughter’s balcony, I realized just how in tune we are with the Earth, and the Earth with us, even as we mourn.
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