Today was one of those kind of days that we loved when we lived in Marquette--bright sunshine, crisp air, snow, the eternal enemy, beaten into submission by the Toro, looking all white and pretty. It also reminded me of the U. P. 200 Dog Sled Race. Gwen and I helped out as volunteers, she, with her nursing background, worked with the veterinarians, who made sure the dogs were healthy and treated humanely. With my limited skills, I got to help park cars. My fondest memory of that event has to do with when we were back at our home after the race had begun. We lived south and east of Marquette in the town of Harvey, and the trail to Munising ran right through our back yard. Most of the time in the winter we hated having the trail so close to our home because snowmobilers used it and would go racing through any time of day or night. The dog teams were the complete opposite. We would get a hot cup of coffee or cocoa and sit on our back deck to await their arrival. In contrast to the roar of the snowmobiles, the pat, pat pat of the dogs' paws and the whisper of the sled's runners were all we heard as the team would glide by with the musher standing straight and tall on the back; often, a light snow might be falling, adding to the ethereal effect. As I continue to review and relish my life with Gwen it is those kind of moments that I look at again, cherish and the carefully stow away. The process of grieving involves having to do that with so many precious past moments, and, at least for me, it's good to do that.
My brother, Dick, gave me a book of meditations by Teilhard De Chardin. Seeming to fly in the face of what I just wrote about those fond memories, this quote appears on the front cover: "The future is more beautiful than all the pasts." Now that is comforting and hopeful. Apropos of finding myself reminiscing about winter, I found this meditation in the book that speaks directly to the twin topics of grief intertwined with hope:
Do not brace yourself against suffering.
Try to close your eyes and surrender yourself,
as if to a great loving energy.
This attitude is neither weak nor absurd,
it is the only one that cannot lead us astray.
Try to "sleep" with that active sleep of confidence
which is that of the seed in the fields in winter.
One of the songs we chose to have sung at Gwen's funeral was The Rose. We all know the final lines. . . .
.just remember,
in the winter,
far beneath the bitter snow,
lies the seed
that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.
Gwen loved roses. I am beginning to feel spring emerging in my soul; soon it will be time to awake from that "active" sleep of winter and work in Gwen's Garden in the back yard. You can bet there will be a rose bush, dear.
This Blog honors my wife, Gwendolyn Ann Bayerl, who died on November 12, 2010. It also honors the years of love that we enjoyed and is a tribute to our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. We all benefited from her love, care and support in ways she never imagined.
Lover's Key, Florida
I WILL FIND OTHER SEAS.
1 comment:
A further thought about what lies under the snow covered soil. Seeds indeed. But consider bulbs like lilies and tulips and daffs. They are in fact not dormant but alive, waiting for the warmth to begin their growth. A good friend, Dr Bob Griesbach, says that the bulb contains every detail of every leaf and blossom and pollen and fragrance. This is true for daylilies, and roses I suspect. Containing all that beauty and fragrance in the root or tubor structure. And what I think is so interesting is that the growing period is the time when the plant is using its living cells to build new bulbs and roots for the next year, using its very essence to do this creative work, or maybe it is just playing.
Brother Dick
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