Wednesday, June 27, 2012


Earthmaker, our mother,
Covers the ground with flowers
And breaks open the soil to make way
For the sprout bending its head
Dreaming of the sun.

She releases the seeds of Aspens
That dream of their someday leaves,
Shivering in the wind,
Their undersides silvery and flashing.

Earthmaker, our mother,
Holds in her embrace
Her giant Sequioa sons
As well as the memory resting in the fossils of their prehistoric brothers.
She holds the buried acorns that will be her
Sturdy Oaken daughters,
As well as the memory of those long ago first fern-like plants
About which so little is known.

Earthmaker knows.

Earthmaker, our mother
Sees every child of hers grow or not grow.
She mourns the ones who leave her embrace
She wraps herself in a fourfold robe of night sky, fire, water and loam.
And nurses her sadness for the lost
In the old soul company of the stars.

The love of Earthmaker, our mother
Like every mother,
Is never less than a mountain.
The strength of every mother’s love
Contains the force of oceans,
The weight of seas,
The might of rivers in flash flood,
The depth of springs,
The quiet endlessness of acquifers beneath clashing tectonic plates.

This is love that outlasts death,
This is love with a geologic age,
This is love that embraces every child,
Found or lost
And takes the lost one, and holds him up to the stars
Where he will take his place among them.


I thought apocalypse jokes were funny before I was in one.

Knock knock, who's there?

No answer.

I don't have answers for anything anymore because for me, the world that I knew ended last April when Rachel's baby died of an umbilical cord accident while she was in labor.  It was an accident that no one could have prevented or predicted.  

Rachel's baby's death was an accident like a meteor falling on your head and killing you dead as you were going out to get the mail. You could not have prevented that.  There isn't even anyone for your loved ones to rage against in the aftermath. Who are they going to hate? God?  The Universe? That doesn't work. Your loved ones aren't simpletons.

So all the disappointment and pain and disbelief lay waste to everything anyone felt was true about safety and security and purpose.  You can plan and do the right things and make all the wise decisions and still you could end up in a wasteland.  Choose your own adventure. But sometimes you don't get to choose. Not when Oliver died and this summer that was supposed to be the summer of a newborn boy is the summer of desolate nights and me reaching across the parched earth for my friend Rachel who didn't deserve this.

Things go wrong in pregnancy.  Children die of stupid things for no reason.  I knew this.  I'm grown.  But for it to happen, though.  For it to happen.

Nothing to say about it.  Nothing to do for it.  Nothing but reaching across the sad ground for my friend. Giving the wasteland the finger. Wishing our arms weren't empty.

Wishing for life.