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February 25, 2012

The Way After

Sometimes we find ourselves in a time and situation  where there is no "how" to be known or found.  There are no instructions for letting go--aside from those two words themselves. 

Julie Stuckey wrote the following poem  in response to a dear friend's journey throughout her first year of life without her husband. 

In this poem, we learn of the benefits  and blessings of letting go, also of the possibility  of finding a sense of peace and continued communion after loss if we can,  when we can ...

             to Lin
Joe is beyond
          being dragged along…
this heavy burden you carry
is not him.
He is weary
          of being millstone,
knows the heft of his verity
was not meant to be worn
as a sheath          obscuring
your own authenticity.

That sharp, keening pain
          is not Joe…
He is lightsome feather mantle
          of whispered grace.
He is pileated flier urging winged passage
through piercing eye communion.

He is dawn’s recollection of cradled oneness.

He is faintest breeze caressing your cheeks
…cannot permeate this ponderous cloak
out of which you have fashioned
          your shield of worldly indifference…

carries his presence
known only within the haven
of surrender. 

Poem copyright Julie Stuckey, all rights reserved.

Julie Stuckey grew up in Pennsylvania, earned a bachelor’s degree in business from the University of Delaware, and currently lives in Pawling, New York. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in many literary journals and anthologies, including: Apropos Literary Journal, Dead Mule, A Handful of Dust, Into the Teeth of the Wind, Moonshot Magazine, Prairie Wolf Press Review, Seven Hills Review, Verdad, WestWard Quarterly, and Wilderness House Literary Review

You might also be interested in visiting some of our posts on friends being present in times of grief here. Or, type "friends" in the search bar above.

February 19, 2012

Combing for Meaning

From sea to seashore, we move from Shirley Smothers' dream to Lamar Hankins' musings on the winter of life, as he strolls along the shore at Matagorda Bay in Texas. Sometimes, even imperfection is a sign that, as Julian of Norwich once wrote: "All is well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."