Memento mori

Everything I see is a memento mori, a reminder of impermanence. Not just the skulls, the rotting fruit, the dead birds and bubbles of classical artwork, but also the delicate flowers, the clouds, the newly born animals, the shadows on the mountains, the light on the water. I see a reminder of impermanence in the dimpled knees of a baby as much as in the spotted and veined hands of a crone. Everything is changing, all the time. I look at my face in the mirror and I hardly seem like a solid thing. This too shall pass. This body, changing and aging all the time, will soon be gone. Life passes in the blink of an eye. Why pretend otherwise?

This is reality. I don't find it sad or depressing, but rather beautiful, right and perfect. Without death, each moment of life would not have the immeasurable value that it does. We value precious metals because they are a finite resource. So is this life.

My mind runs over these well worn tracks again and again. Am I repeating myself? Perhaps. But this is one of the most beautiful truths of my life, a message well worth sharing.


2017-05-13

the day I learned what grief is

the day I learned what grief is

that bone-deep agony

every part of my body aching and throbbing with pain

my mind a keening wail of misery

that moment of remembering, upon waking

the incontrovertible fact

that I’ll never again

look into those eyes

hear that voice

feel those arms around me

hear those familiar steps

and just as I was emerging from

that dark pit

where no light could reach me

I was plunged in again

even deeper than before

for a while, all I could do

in my dreams

was to float in a place of gray mist

shrouded by fog

as if wrapped in cotton wool

neither thinking, hearing, seeing, nor feeling

I had to drag myself back

back into life

back into pain

written 2016-05-11

about April 17, 2009

October Dance

I’d been having such a hard couple of days. October is always that way now, you know. The grief surges up and chokes me, drags me down into the depths.

And then I danced. In spite of that part of me that was whispering that I’d rather curl up in bed, read poetry and cry, in spite of October, I danced.

Dancing reconnects me with my joy, with my sensuality, with my spontaneity, with play. It connects me with the other dancers and to the world at large. My heart opens. How quickly dance has once again become essential to my being. How did I ever stop? My Sunday mornings are now reserved for dance. It is my church. My spiritual communion with myself, with my body, with my community.

For me, every dance is a memento mori. I walk out onto the dance floor every single week mindful of the fact that I can dance, that I am healthy enough to move my body on the dance floor. That this is not a given, not to be taken for granted, ever. Every week, I walk out into the sunshine afterwards so grateful that I was there, that I danced, that I am well, that I am alive.

Yesterday, as I was dancing, I remembered all those I’ve loved who will never dance again, especially my two lovers who are now gone. I sent my love out to them. In that moment, I did not dwell on my grief at their passing, but rather the lives they lived. When we laughed together. Times of bliss and lovemaking and splashing in the ocean and dancing and joy.

The grief is still there, still gnawing at the inside of my ribcage, but now it is back in balance with my joy, with my love of life. This is the way of October.

2015-10-19

“Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”

- Rumi