"Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.
Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell where it is, and you
can slide your way past trouble.
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell where it is, and you
can slide your way past trouble.
Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path—but that’s when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on the earth, again and again". William Stafford
always bar the path—but that’s when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on the earth, again and again". William Stafford
I have long since lost the poem. I really wish that I had kept it, but I didn't. I wrote the poem from a depth of love and of great pain. The poem was about life, only it was about life in its most basic forms. It included the word "primordial". I know I used the word primordial.
When I read the poem to friends at the bed and breakfast in New Bloomfield, Pennsylvania, Molly's mother said, "How could you have known?"(since I had never met her daughter). And I asked how could I have known what? And she said, "That Molly had a thing for amoebas and hydras and stuff like that". I told her that I had had no idea, the poem just bubbled up and I wrote it.
Molly LaRue and my best friend Geoff Hood were engaged. They were celebrating their engagement by through-hiking the Appalachian Trail. At the official halfway point near Duncannon, Pennsylvania, on September 12, 1990, they were murdered. New Bloomfield is the county seat of Perry County, Pennsylvania. The murders had taken place in Perry County, so the trial was held in the courthouse there. The week of the trial in the spring of 1991 was simultaneously one of the most wonderful and horrible experiences of my life. It was wonderful to be with Molly's and Geoff's families. It was wonderful to meet so many officials of the trail and to meet so many of the hikers who had known Geoff and Molly along the way. It was wonderful to sit outside in the cool spring evenings with the hikers over Rolling Rock and laughter, and to hear their stories of the trail - to hear their stories of Clevis and Nalgene. The courtroom was horrible. It was agonizingly painful in many different ways. So all week I felt like a two headed monster. One head filled with the beauty of life and human love, and the other confronted daily with the reality of cruel death and human evil. And there was little relief from the pain of the survivors--parents, siblings, friends and acquaintances all dealing with their losses in their own way.
One way I dealt with the stress of the courtroom and my own pain was to get up early and go jogging before breakfast. My running introduced me to some marvelous countryside. I made friends with some horses and goats along the way as well. One morning, the third day of the trial, as I was running, a small puddle in the weeds got my attention and I stopped for a closer look. The puddle was beautiful as puddles go. It wasn't a mud puddle; it was fairly deep and as clear as crystal and looked like someone had lovingly created it. There was water, of course, and green grass and weeds surrounding it and growing in it. In a flash I realized the the puddle was teeming with life. That small puddle contained billions time billions of life forms. It was like I felt their presence, like they were trying to tell me something. The puddle also contained a few empty beer cans. My poem included a line about "the cans of Saturday night laughter."
It was a really good poem. It ended with "there is more life in you than all the death in all the world." As I wrote those words in April of 1991 I did not mean them as a metaphor. I meant it then and I mean it now that there was more life in that puddle than all the death in all the world.
It's not important that I don't remember the words of that poem. It is important that I remember its meaning. I have lost many more family and friends to death since 1991. But in every loss I never forget that life survives. Life will always find a way. And that "sometimes from sorrow, for no reason, you sing."
One way I dealt with the stress of the courtroom and my own pain was to get up early and go jogging before breakfast. My running introduced me to some marvelous countryside. I made friends with some horses and goats along the way as well. One morning, the third day of the trial, as I was running, a small puddle in the weeds got my attention and I stopped for a closer look. The puddle was beautiful as puddles go. It wasn't a mud puddle; it was fairly deep and as clear as crystal and looked like someone had lovingly created it. There was water, of course, and green grass and weeds surrounding it and growing in it. In a flash I realized the the puddle was teeming with life. That small puddle contained billions time billions of life forms. It was like I felt their presence, like they were trying to tell me something. The puddle also contained a few empty beer cans. My poem included a line about "the cans of Saturday night laughter."
It was a really good poem. It ended with "there is more life in you than all the death in all the world." As I wrote those words in April of 1991 I did not mean them as a metaphor. I meant it then and I mean it now that there was more life in that puddle than all the death in all the world.
It's not important that I don't remember the words of that poem. It is important that I remember its meaning. I have lost many more family and friends to death since 1991. But in every loss I never forget that life survives. Life will always find a way. And that "sometimes from sorrow, for no reason, you sing."
No comments:
Post a Comment