This is beautiful and perfectly timed, for me. Thank you, Phyllis. How fine that we have this life, this breath, to share with one another. My Grandfather always said, “We’ll see you!”, instead of goodbye… feels like the love can just keep going on a good roll, that way.
Love this ... in terms of friends parting, but also in terms of life transitions. I'm still adapting to my husband's retirement and this encourages me to leave a solid bit of me in my former lifestyle while embracing (carrying in my heart pocket) the not-yet-"me" rhythms of constant togetherness.
Your poem is beautiful, Phyllis. Strongly reminiscent of the Jewish ritual of leaving small rocks atop the headstones of the departed following a cemetery visit.
The last time I did this was on a solitary winter trip, a dozen years ago, from Ohio to NYC, to say goodbye to a dear cousin with whom I grew up -- a former marathoner dying of congestive heart failure, and now in hospice care. While there, I took a morning for myself, driving to Long Island to find the graves (no easy task in a NY cemetery, even more packed than 5th Avenue at Christmas) of my parents, buried alongside a group of my uncles and aunts. (Still the closest of families.) As a walked up and down the interminably long aisles of markers, the crisp sunny day abruptly turned into an unexpected, gusty snowfall -- not forecast, or I would have worn more than a light jacket -- with large, heavy flakes blown about wildly by fierce winds. In no time, the stones were obscured by the snow, and I wondered whether I would succeed in locating my long-lost relatives.
With ungloved, frigid hands, I brushed aside snow on several stones, to no avail. Then, suddenly: paydirt. There they all were, waiting to be found. I said a prayer for all, and for each, and then said goodbye for what I was sure was my final farewell. But instead of stones to leave at the gravesite to confirm my visit, I had brought something different for the occasion.
One by one, I placed handfuls of seashells -- cockles, scallops, cowries, whelks, and a lone sand dollar -- on the Schwarz, Bazer, Weinstock, Bell, and Bernstein headstones. The winds had abated and the snowstorm had gentled, and the shells sat securely in their new homes, headstone ledges looking out at a crowded, oceanless beach of distant memories.
For now, at least.
For nothing material lasts forever in the same physical form.
Phyllis, I'm grateful for your heart and soul, and for the images that you revived.
Best wishes to you and your family. Happy Thanksgiving.
What a magnificent dream, and such wisdom offered from Angel Katie and your subconscious, Phyllis. And your poem speaks to our very human tendency to want to collect stones (or shells, or even feathers, some little piece from the earth) and hold it close, now imbued with meaning. The receiving, the sharing, the holding, the blessing…all ways to connect and to remember.
This is my first time to pop onto The Raft, starting with a heart-shaped rock that drew my attention (as one drew my attention on Enchanted Rock in Texas when I fell in love with my late husband). A fine introduction, I must say, and also wow, I apparently have an actual learning curve to figure out Substack and Notes and all these fine folks who list websites and blogs and provide links galore. For now, though, I want to go check on my favorite stones scattered around the house.
This is beautiful and perfectly timed, for me. Thank you, Phyllis. How fine that we have this life, this breath, to share with one another. My Grandfather always said, “We’ll see you!”, instead of goodbye… feels like the love can just keep going on a good roll, that way.
Thank you for sharing this tenderness.
Love this ... in terms of friends parting, but also in terms of life transitions. I'm still adapting to my husband's retirement and this encourages me to leave a solid bit of me in my former lifestyle while embracing (carrying in my heart pocket) the not-yet-"me" rhythms of constant togetherness.
Oooooh
Your poem is beautiful, Phyllis. Strongly reminiscent of the Jewish ritual of leaving small rocks atop the headstones of the departed following a cemetery visit.
The last time I did this was on a solitary winter trip, a dozen years ago, from Ohio to NYC, to say goodbye to a dear cousin with whom I grew up -- a former marathoner dying of congestive heart failure, and now in hospice care. While there, I took a morning for myself, driving to Long Island to find the graves (no easy task in a NY cemetery, even more packed than 5th Avenue at Christmas) of my parents, buried alongside a group of my uncles and aunts. (Still the closest of families.) As a walked up and down the interminably long aisles of markers, the crisp sunny day abruptly turned into an unexpected, gusty snowfall -- not forecast, or I would have worn more than a light jacket -- with large, heavy flakes blown about wildly by fierce winds. In no time, the stones were obscured by the snow, and I wondered whether I would succeed in locating my long-lost relatives.
With ungloved, frigid hands, I brushed aside snow on several stones, to no avail. Then, suddenly: paydirt. There they all were, waiting to be found. I said a prayer for all, and for each, and then said goodbye for what I was sure was my final farewell. But instead of stones to leave at the gravesite to confirm my visit, I had brought something different for the occasion.
One by one, I placed handfuls of seashells -- cockles, scallops, cowries, whelks, and a lone sand dollar -- on the Schwarz, Bazer, Weinstock, Bell, and Bernstein headstones. The winds had abated and the snowstorm had gentled, and the shells sat securely in their new homes, headstone ledges looking out at a crowded, oceanless beach of distant memories.
For now, at least.
For nothing material lasts forever in the same physical form.
Phyllis, I'm grateful for your heart and soul, and for the images that you revived.
Best wishes to you and your family. Happy Thanksgiving.
Jack
What a magnificent dream, and such wisdom offered from Angel Katie and your subconscious, Phyllis. And your poem speaks to our very human tendency to want to collect stones (or shells, or even feathers, some little piece from the earth) and hold it close, now imbued with meaning. The receiving, the sharing, the holding, the blessing…all ways to connect and to remember.
This is my first time to pop onto The Raft, starting with a heart-shaped rock that drew my attention (as one drew my attention on Enchanted Rock in Texas when I fell in love with my late husband). A fine introduction, I must say, and also wow, I apparently have an actual learning curve to figure out Substack and Notes and all these fine folks who list websites and blogs and provide links galore. For now, though, I want to go check on my favorite stones scattered around the house.