I learned
In the college class
Taught by a nun
We turn to poetry
When it’s the only way to touch
That delicate, delicate place
Floating somewhere between inside and outside ~ Marsha Hahn
Marsha, thank you for your poem and for reminding us that sometimes poetry is the only way to touch that delicate place.
In the Nursing Home
She is like a horse grazing
a hill pasture that someone makes
smaller by coming every night
to pull the fences in and in.
She has stopped running wide loops,
stopped even the tight circles.
She drops her head to feed; grass
is dust, and the creekbed’s dry.
Master, come with your light
halter. Come and bring her in.
Oh, my! What a description of that final, delicate journey home.
- smaller pastures
- pulled-in fences
- no wide loops
- no tight circles
- dusty grassland
- dry creek bed
And, of course, that final delicate act:
“Master, come with your light halter. Come and bring her in.”
Oh! To have finally gotten to that delicate place of pulled-in fences, barren pastures, light halters and the anticipation of being led home.
But getting to that place is hard, isn’t it?
It took me half my life.
Truth is, don’t most of us yearn for endless pastures and fences we can easily jump?
I claimed I was a stallion long after my prime. I chose to ignore all fences, grazed on pastures that weren’t mine and managed to get my head stuck in any number of life’s feeding bins.
- too much ego
- too much excitement
- too much importance
- too much grooming
- too much drink
I was a horse that refused to be be broken.
Until life unceremoniously broke me.
It was in the fall of 1979 when I was beaten to within an inch of my life and left for dead in a parking lot in Washington, D.C.
It was then I first began to recognize I was born with a halter. If I’d ever allowed myself to be led I would have found the bridge to that delicate place between my inside and outside.
After almost losing my life I wised up, began to humbly accept my halters and recognized my fence-jumping days were over.
Then I had a remarkable moment with my mother.
She and I visited that delicate place in one conversation shortly before she died in 1991. At the time she was living at Mt. St. Vincent’s nursing home in Seattle. She was recovering from yet another mini-stroke. Generally, when she had them it never failed to agitate her.
But this time it was different. She wasn’t agitated at all. Instead, she had an air of sublime peace. For me, seeing my mother in this state was a real shock. I never remembered Mother at peace. She was born into a difficult world and dealt a difficult hand.
To Mother, life was a perpetual struggle with a never ending to-do list. She mastered the art of carrying her cross but knew little of the empty tomb.
I thought she’d end her days just as she lived them — agitated.
But no!
On this day, on this visit, I met a women who serenely waited to be brought in. A woman perfectly at peace with her dusty grassland and her dried up creek bed.
Mother was finally ready to wear her light halter and awaited the coming of the Master to lead her in. Three days later she was gone, brought home at peace.
My last moments with my mother, in that delicate space, were the best moments we’d ever spent. It brought closure to what had been for us a turbulent relationship.
Mother offered a wonderful witness to the delicate place so beautifully captured in Jane Kenyon’s verse.
Just a thought…
Pat
P.S. I keep the book Vanish, a collection of poetry by Kevin Miller, on my night stand. It’s the perfect way to finish off my day. The book can be found here.
Copyright © 2023 Patrick J. Moriarty. All Rights Reserved.
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