image from letstravelradio.com
“Life gives us experiences, teaches us lessons, gifts us with
wisdom that is not for us to hoard selfishly. Most people
accomplish this this through parenting. I have no children,
so I write.”--My Mystery Poet.
What some of us discover as we age
and mellow a bit, blunting the rancor we once
were so willing to share with the world at large,
as we find ourselves forming cyber-fellowships
with other poets, begin reveling in the reality that
poetic communities are peopled with wonderful
folks whose homes are dotted all over
this planet, & are privileged to share rich
experiences vicariously through them;
their fabulous words,
their world views,
their personal faith,
I do adore so many of my fellow poets,
feeling strongly that we all are extended
family. One of the poets I truly admire
is a woman with such a zest for life it permeates
everything she does, thinks & writes, but this is not
just a prairie pollyanna--no, her pragmatism is legendary.
She once wrote,
There is no joy without the care that comes with pain.
Shakespeare did indeed scribble--
”get thee to a nunnery”--
this is not something just every
young girl would be willing or able
to do, but this woman spent 23 years
serving her faith
and her heart; becoming a nurse
within the Order.
Later in her eventful life, she was an
RN, specializing in hospice care, giving comfort
to the dying, smiling in the face of death, removing its
mask, sharing that beyond pain & fear
death can be a glowing door, as gentle
as taking a loved one’s hand, or a warm
breeze blowing in off the high desert in
July, that death, much maligned, can be
a lovely way station, a focus point for divine
transition. Her own mother, now quite frail & mostly
unfocused, has made appearances in
several of her poems:
Yes, Mom, all is well. You can move on when you’re ready.
My own mother-in-law turned 90 last July,
and we drove down to Texas to celebrate it
with her. Three days after we left, she let go of
her pain & slipped away--so this is a scenario that
has become all too familiar to many of us.
This lovely & loving poet faced death herself in 1996, and only
a kidney transplant allowed her to live & write on. I think she has
the creative flare of a Virginia O’Keefe, yet the joyous cowgirl’s
heart of a Dale Evans. May her poetry, short stories & novels
continue, for those of us who celebrate her wondrous words and
her compassionate heart, years & years yet to come.
She has two dogs in
the yard, & once lived in France,
but still wears underpants.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"