tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281859032024-01-31T03:32:03.969-05:00alpha beta parking lot...better than your garden variety parking lot...Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-59838282715930952132011-01-31T00:20:00.001-05:002011-01-31T00:23:26.003-05:00Follow the breadcrumbs to my new blog, The Unwedded Widow.This blog is ended, go in peace...and follow me to my new blog, <a href="http://unweddedwidow.blogspot.com/">The Unwedded Widow</a>. It's just too much work to maintain two blogs at the same time right now. And the person who started <i>alpha beta parking lot</i>...well, she's me as I was, but not me as I am now. I kind of miss her. She was so full of hope and optimism and other things I can't find nouns for.<br />
<br />
We had a good run, this blog...2006-2011. I miss the life I used to have, before the love of my life died. That will never make sense to me.<br />
<br />
Fare thee well, my only love, and fare thee well a while <br />
And I will come again, my love, though it were ten thousand mile<br />
~Burns <br />
<br />
I hope that you will follow me to my new blog, where the story continues...Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-39804105094106113312010-07-17T02:50:00.000-04:002010-07-17T02:50:49.177-04:00Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo is apparently a complete sentence in English."<b>Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.</b>" is a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grammar" title="Grammar">grammatically valid</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sentence_%28linguistics%29" title="Sentence (linguistics)">sentence</a> in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_language" title="English
language">English language</a>, used as an example of how <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homonym" title="Homonym">homonyms</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homophone" title="Homophone">homophones</a> can be used to create complicated linguistic constructs."..."<br />
"The sentence can be clarified by substituting the synonym "bison" for the animal "buffalo" and "bully" for the verb "buffalo", leaving "Buffalo" to refer to the city:'Buffalo bison Buffalo bison bully bully Buffalo bison', or:'Buffalo bison whom other Buffalo bison bully, themselves bully Buffalo bison'." (Source: Wikipedia article linked to above).<br />
<br />
But actually, I digress...I'm trying to figure out how to maintain two blogs at once. And I'm working on a very complicated application with future career ramifications. Thus, blogging has been slight. Much has moved to my slightly more anony-blog that I pointed out in my last post (ahem). (http://unweddedwidow.blogspot.com)<br />
<br />
Actually I just posted a poem there.<br />
My slightly more experienced blogging friends, if you have any advice regarding copywright whatsits, I would appreciate the advice...There seem to be apps for it now. How convenient. What do I do?<br />
<br />
I forgot that this blog was supposed to be poetry and the other prose. Oh darnit. Well I will figure it out eventually....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<dl><dd> </dd><dd> </dd><dd> </dd></dl>Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-25441797834255335412010-06-04T20:47:00.001-04:002011-01-28T17:42:13.436-05:00The Unwedded WidowSo...I've just started a new blog, called <i>The Unwedded Widow</i>. I want to be slightly more anonymous than I am now, so I can write a bit more, and promote it a bit more. I'm planning to keep this blog going too...The other blog is going to be more exclusively focused on The Whole Grief Thing. The Whole Widow Thing. The Whole Miserable Ball of Wax.<br />
<br />
So these are my bread crumbs to the new blog...the new blog won't have bread crumbs back to this one. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://unweddedwidow.blogspot.com/">http://unweddedwidow.blogspot.com</a><br />
<br />
It will have more poetry, and a lot more prose. Although it seems that when I'm in the thick of some deep emotion, it only comes out as poetry. Maybe that's why, at 7 months (as of today), I've gotten more prosy. Who knows? Grief is even harder and more confusing than I expected it to be, and I was expecting a doozy.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-34818191109282322452010-05-31T04:16:00.000-04:002010-07-17T02:24:32.688-04:00Punchy Tips for Great Unsolicited Advice<span style="font-size: small;">Hey kids! My tens of readers know by now that I'm going through what I'm starting to call The Whole Grief Thing. I may just start abbreviating it as TWGT just like the kids in <i>Prince Caspian</i> started calling their dwarf companion our Dear Little Friend, whic became DLF, and then they forgot what it had stood for...But I digress. But I digress because this whole post is a digression, sorta...The wonderful and inimitible Supa Freshwidow posed this question on Facebook: </span><br />
<h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span class="UIStory_Message">NEWS FLASH: Some widowed people are "difficult!" -- Is it hard to deal with a grieving person? Do we have ridiculous standards, are we needy friends, and subject to mood swings? Are you more or less of a pain in the @$$ since your loss? Is that going to change, d'you think?</span></i></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">One of the responses to the question dealt with the issue of how annoying it is as a widowed person to get unsolicited advice. It being the wee hours of the morning (hello insomnia, my old friend), and I being a bit punchy, started coming up with ridiculous pieces of advice that could be offered. Because in some ways, a lot of the advice that one gets in this situation (no matter how sensible it may seem) often comes across just as ridiculous as some of the silliness I'm about to share. </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">On a more serious note, before I launch into The Silly, I think people are driven to offer advice because they are discomfited by their friend's sorrow/pain, and want to Fix It. Sometimes this is driven by concern for their friend, sometimes this is driven by the desire to make the friend's pain go away so they can stop worrying about their grievng friend...They're ok? Ok, I can stop worrying now and all's right with the world...To have someone suffering on and on and on can feel something like a bystander watching the horrible BP Gulf of Mexico oil spill...you want to make it stop, but you don't know how, and you don't have any power over what gets done. And that can be enormously frustrating. </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">I think people genuinely do want to help (for the most part), and whatever bits of advice they can think of, they throw your way, just in case it will help. Often, unfortunately, it has the opposite effect of what is intended (Cf: Law of Unintended Consequences). For the most part, people genuinely mean well, but hit a wrong note hard enough, and oh it is ouchy...Of course the whole "I'm going to avoid you because I'm at a total loss as to what to say" approach doesn't help so much either... </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">Therefore, in the full spirit of Punchy Tongue-in-Cheek silliness, let me present (*drum roll please*):</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message"><b>Unsolicited Advice Gone Wild!</b></span></span></i></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">Cause if it's gonna be useless, it might as well be funny!</span></span></i></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">1. Paint your house. Every week! Start with fuschia. You can accessorize with turquoise trim! Your homeowner's association will thank you!</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message"> </span></span></i></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">2. Join the French Foreign Legion. Because, well, why not?</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">3. Go on a round the world trip, visiting only cities and countries starting with the letter 'E.' Ekaterinburg, Estonia, and Ecuador, anyone?</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">4. Show your love for your dearly departed by cutting your hair very short and then shaving all your hair except that which spells out his or her name. Then dye it blue, because you are blue. You can declare your grief to the world and be hipster and avant garde too!</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">5. Tattoo his or her name on your forehead.</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">6. Start wearing your dearly departed's clothes, become a street person, and build a church brick by brick every night. Oh wait, that's already been done. (Cf: St Ksenia of St Petersburg)</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">7. Take up llama farming. Or alpacas. Lovely wool! Plus, they spit. What more could you want?</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">8. Make sure that you live in a yurt while doing your llama farming. </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">9. Move to the northernmost part of Alaska and live out of an igloo in the winter and a sod house in summer. Insist on being called "Bubba." Even if you are female. </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">10. Play the complete works of Johann Sebastian Bach with a kazoo. </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">11. Found a kazoo symphony in order to pull off item 10.</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">12. Eat only your loved one's favorite foods. Especially if they were, say, friend liver and lima beans. The nastier the better, in fact. As a bonus, you get to guilt trip over it if you don't!</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message">That's all I can think of at the moment...Please help me out and suggest more! Thank you, my tens of readers! :)</span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message"> </span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="UIStory_Message"> </span><i><span class="UIStory_Message"> </span></i></span></h3>Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-72512420273571580162010-05-31T03:31:00.000-04:002010-07-17T02:24:32.690-04:00Rejoice? O Unwedded Widow...I've done a lot of connecting with widows online lately, and I'm feeling more and more comfortable self-identifying as such. It's liberating. There's a word for me! I'll just add a modifier. "Unmarried widow." It reminds me of the classic Orthodox hymn, "Rejoice, O Unwedded Bride" (otherwise known as "Agni Parthene" in the Greek). If the Holy Theotokos (God-bearer) and Ever-virgin Mary can be called Unwedded Bride, why can't I be an Unwedded Widow? Not so sure about the "Rejoice" part...But if somebody can write a hymn called "Glory to God in all things" (which is beautiful, by the way) in the Gulag, starving to death in a concentration camp in Siberia, maybe at some point I'll be able to actually rejoice. (How on earth did he DO that? Well, I also wonder how St Gregory the Illuminator of Armenia managed to survive over a decade in a black basalt pit underground without losing his mind...I visited it once...Darkness, dampness, and silence...)<br />
<br />
But one thing I can rejoice at: there is a word for me! Widow! Unmarried widow, unwedded widow...Add a modifier, I have a phrase. Xera Animfefte (Greek), Vdova Nenevestnyaya (Russian/Slavonic)*, Unwedded Widow. :) <br />
<br />
*If these are totally off, could somebody let me know? Thanks.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-9232894964572737282010-05-27T01:53:00.000-04:002010-05-31T04:36:48.653-04:00The Ochlophobist: against a "personal relationship with the Lord Jesus"<a href="http://ochlophobist.blogspot.com/2010/05/against-personal-relationship-with-lord.html#links">The Ochlophobist: against a "personal relationship with the Lord Jesus"</a><br /><br />This is good and thought-provoking. Don't let the title scare you off.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-21529763683023274022010-05-21T17:17:00.000-04:002010-07-17T02:24:32.692-04:00coal and diamonds...written todayI hope that<br />
all this pressure<br />
has a purpose.<br />
If that ream of coal<br />
were sentient<br />
would it cry out<br />
as it's made into diamond?<br />
Let this be for something.<br />
Oh, let this be for something.<br />
If I'm to be crushed--<br />
and I am crushed--<br />
I am utterly crushed,<br />
I am brought very low--<br />
Let it turn me into diamond.<br />
But oh, how it hurts.<br />
Let it turn me into diamond.<br />
Amen.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-11515773749264510842010-05-14T21:59:00.002-04:002010-07-17T02:24:32.694-04:00written today, May 14, 2010Where the meteor fell<br />
In Montana<br />
There is now<br />
A beautiful lake.<br />
May my crater of loss<br />
Someday also be<br />
Something beautiful.<br />
Amen.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-30698817669299038802010-04-24T01:30:00.001-04:002010-07-17T02:24:32.695-04:00So true.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-35790379080095223522010-01-28T03:05:00.000-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.697-04:00My life closed twice before its close--a poem by Emily DickinsonMy life closed twice before its close--<br />
It yet remains to see<br />
If Immortality unveil<br />
A third event to me<br />
<br />
So huge, so hopeless to conceive<br />
As these that twice befell.<br />
Parting is all we know of heaven,<br />
And all we need of hell.<br />
<br />
~Emily DickinsonHira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-32805591599101301442010-01-28T02:14:00.000-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.699-04:00Lamentations of the Theotokos<a href="http://www.anastasis.org.uk/HWSat-M.htm">This page</a> contains the hymnography for the Matins of Holy Saturday, celebrated on Good Friday evening. The service contains the hauntingly beautiful Lamentations of the Theotokos, the Mother of God's lament for her Son in the tomb. <br />
<br />
This year, fittingly, Nelson's birthday falls on Good Friday. I am sure I will get choked up singing the Lamentations. As the Theotokos wept for her Son, so I weep for my Nelson. I have more than three days to wait til I can see him again--but in Christ's resurrection is Nelson's resurrection. Unlike the Theotokos, I have more than three days to wait, but she didn't know she only had three days...<br />
<br />
Grief is grief. Thank God our Church's hymnography recognizes that, and gives words to human suffering--words shot through with both pain and hope.<br />
<br />
Through the prayers of the Theotokos, O Savior, save us.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-67653740415121301652010-01-28T01:45:00.004-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.701-04:00grief poem. written Monday, January 25, 2010. 2 months, 3 weeks, 3 days.Port-au-Prince,<br />
You metaphor for my soul<br />
Not one stone <br />
Laid upon another whole<br />
Earthquake, turmoil, wreckage<br />
Despair, disaster—so!<br />
Everything’s flattened,<br />
Nothing is left.<br />
No one cares for my soul.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-84656921395123537402009-12-21T15:43:00.002-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.703-04:00grief poem. written Monday, December 7, 2009, 12:52am. 1 Month, 2 Days. posted on FB Monday, December 7, 2009 at 9:28pmHow can you be dead, my love?<br />
You crackled with life<br />
It sparked off your fingertips<br />
Your gaze was like a thousand suns<br />
How did you not set trees alight<br />
With just a glance?<br />
How did you not start forest fires?<br />
You were like a living flame<br />
Vibrant, like lightning--<br />
But why just as brief?<br />
How could you die?<br />
You artist of subtle instruments,<br />
You made them dance.<br />
You played me like an instrument,<br />
You set the universe ablaze.<br />
How can you, with so much life, be dead?<br />
How can my tower of strength be broken?<br />
You rescued me in times of trouble<br />
But I was not there to rescue you.<br />
It was on you that I would lean,<br />
Now I stagger on empty air.<br />
You kept me sane. You held me up.<br />
How can you be no longer there?<br />
Every 'not yet' became 'never'--<br />
Nearly, almost, wait, and soon--<br />
Everything that we had hoped for<br />
Is gone now, and gone forever.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-55873252047582738462009-12-21T15:38:00.000-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.705-04:00grief poem. written Sunday, December 6, 2009. 1 Month, 1 Day. 10:30pm. After driving past the cemetery. Originally posted on Facebook Monday, December 7, 2009 at 9:19pmTrampled, crumpled, storm-tossed, torn<br />
Wrenched and wrecked beyond repairing<br />
Burnt and broken, pocked and pitted,<br />
Shattered, crushed, beyond all caring<br />
Ripped to shreds, gone rotten, rancid, ruined<br />
Pincered, mutilated, splintered<br />
Drowning, flailing, weeping, wailing<br />
Smashed and scattered, smeared and smattered<br />
Bruised, bewildered, battered, broken<br />
Shrunken, shaken, overtaken<br />
Avalanched and buried under,<br />
Ambushed, waylaid, beaten down,<br />
Shivering, shaking, broken and still breaking,<br />
Waves and billows have surrounded<br />
Me, and trapped me under, drowning<br />
Weary, past caring, dried out, spent<br />
Rent into pieces past all mending<br />
Mortally wounded, yet not dying<br />
Lost in the bleakest arctic winter<br />
Lost in darkness neverending<br />
The rack, the wheel, the bed of nails<br />
Torturing, tearing, racking, rending<br />
What's already rent--How can<br />
My shattered bits still cling to life?<br />
I cannot follow where he went<br />
Feel widowed, who was never wife<br />
Feel dead, yet still remain in life<br />
I wander, wounded and bewildered<br />
Like a homeless refugee<br />
All is foreign yet familiar<br />
And every light is dark to me<br />
I walk unseeing, seeking succor<br />
I cry out, but I cannot hear<br />
Am I struck dumb? Blind, deaf, and numb--<br />
Let every mirror now be shattered<br />
The end, the end's already come<br />
My life's been stopped, that was beginning<br />
The battle's lost, that I was winning--<br />
I cry for help, but cannot tell<br />
If I've been heard or not; my ears<br />
Can't hear, my eyes can't see;<br />
Familiar paths are alien<br />
And every road is dark to me.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-13511911338826475022009-12-21T15:37:00.001-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.707-04:00reflection poem. written Friday, Dec 4th, 2009. 4:24pm. 1 Day Short of 1 Month. posted on Facebook Monday, December 7, 2009 at 9:00pmNo man chooses the hour of his going hence.<br />
Only to a few saints is it given to know it<br />
If we knew it, could we bear it?<br />
We could not.<br />
Many would choose the hour of their going hence,<br />
To quit rather than be fired--<br />
To retain their illusion of agency,<br />
In charge of your little world.<br />
But know--<br />
What more than death serves to remind us<br />
Who wish to control our little worlds,<br />
That the world is out of our control?<br />
Our vaunted technologies are all towers of Babel,<br />
Vanities of vanities,<br />
Futilities of futilities,<br />
Chasing after the wind.<br />
Have you caught it yet?<br />
Sometimes, we can slow death, but not stop it;<br />
And sometimes it cannot even be slowed.<br />
There is more on heaven and on earth, Horatio,<br />
Than you know, or are even able to know--<br />
We can split the atom,<br />
We cannot create life.<br />
We cannot prevent the hurricane<br />
From making its landfall,<br />
And we often misguess where it will land.<br />
We cannot still the earthquake,<br />
For all our Richter scales.<br />
Reinforce your architecture,<br />
And your buildings still fall down.<br />
We can hem in the forest fire,<br />
But it will still eat its trees.<br />
Man cannot prevent his going hence.<br />
All his strength and all his science<br />
Are ultimately laid low by it;<br />
Try to defeat it all you want,<br />
But you will overreach.<br />
Lay siege to it all you desire,<br />
It will force you to retreat.<br />
Tell me, with your fishhooks, O man,<br />
Have you yet caught Leviathan?<br />
<br />
When the elderly die, it's a pity;<br />
And sometimes it is a mercy,<br />
If their dying is slow and painful;<br />
A mercy, if you love and must watch it.<br />
When the young die, it is tragedy,<br />
Something past understanding.<br />
Why would they die in their youth,<br />
In their prime? When they have not yet<br />
Had full measure of time?<br />
When their life should still lie before them?<br />
<br />
This we know: that you, man, are mortal,<br />
And the hour will come for your going hence.<br />
When the Bridegroom comes at midnight,<br />
Will your lamp be found alight?<br />
When the Son of Man comes like a thief in the night,<br />
Will your soul be found watching?<br />
Let us look to the parable<br />
Of the rich man with all his storehouses.<br />
He was not called a fool for his storehouses,<br />
He was not called a fool in that he was rich.<br />
For what then was he called a fool?<br />
For assuming that all he had came from himself,<br />
Assuming that forever he'd live with his wealth.<br />
But the Lord said, You fool,<br />
On this very night<br />
Your life will be required of you.<br />
God lays claim on you,<br />
Whether you claim him or no.<br />
<br />
And then James says, If you say<br />
That today or tomorrow, we will go<br />
To such-and-such a city, spend a year there,<br />
Buy and sell, and make a profit--<br />
This is foolish arrogance,<br />
For you do not know<br />
What will befall you tomorrow.<br />
For what is your life? It's a vapor<br />
That appears for a time<br />
And then fades away.<br />
So instead, say,<br />
If the Lord wills, we shall live<br />
and do this or that. Do not boast<br />
Of tomorrow, for you do not know<br />
What even today will bring forth.<br />
Why is such boasting called evil?<br />
We cannot claim tomorrow.<br />
Yesterday, we cannot change.<br />
We have only Today.<br />
This is why Hebrews says,<br />
While it is still called Today,<br />
Do not harden your hearts<br />
In the deceitfulness of sins.<br />
We are become partakers of God<br />
If we hold steadfast<br />
Until the end.<br />
And the day that God lays claim on us,<br />
Will be called Today.<br />
After that there will be no more tomorrows,<br />
And all times will be now.<br />
For with God, all times are Now.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-87362798699359731622009-12-11T03:51:00.003-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.709-04:00grief poem. written Friday, December 4, 2009, in the afternoon. 1 Day Short of 1 Month.I.<br />
<br />
He's gone-- he's gone!<br />
Come back--come back--!<br />
He's gone beyond all coming back<br />
Those suicides of Shakespeare plays<br />
And operas are fools<br />
To see him again-- some day-- some day!<br />
I must bend with the wind and endure;<br />
To do myself in is to shut myself out.<br />
But I wish I could die of grief,<br />
So easy to do before penicillin,<br />
When knocked out immunity<br />
Quickly'd do you in...<br />
But there is no easy relief<br />
I must bend with the wind<br />
And lean into the grief<br />
I would weep--I would wail--<br />
I would swoon and shout--<br />
I would storm heaven's gates--<br />
Let me in! Let him out!<br />
But this is all vanity, all futility,<br />
This is all chasing after the wind.<br />
I need to learn how to live<br />
Without my heart--it was buried with him.<br />
He'll surely live again--resurrection<br />
Will come. There's no power on earth<br />
That can break our connection.<br />
But who'll resurrect me?<br />
I am blind, deaf, and dumb;<br />
Sore weary, and numb.<br />
<br />
II.<br />
<br />
While he is in heaven, this earth is my hell.<br />
He's wearing his crown; I carry his cross.<br />
We should have been crowned together<br />
Ere he was crowned thus; but now, never.<br />
Woe is me! Woe is me! Who'll burst my bonds?<br />
Who'll loose me from Hades?<br />
Ezekiel, tell me, shall these bones of mine live?<br />
His bones shall rise, but mine are dried up;<br />
He lives in Christ, while I wander half dead.<br />
I moan like a zombie, while I seek my heart;<br />
Like a ghost, like a shadow,<br />
Crying, Where is my love?<br />
Like a ghost who is doomed to wander the earth,<br />
I lie down in my sleepless and empty bed;<br />
All thy waves and billows are gone over my head.<br />
My ship has no harbor, my soul has no berth.<br />
Where is my love? Where have you taken him?<br />
Tell me, that I may go to him,<br />
And anoint him with myrrh.<br />
<br />
III.<br />
<br />
Christ is risen from the dead,<br />
Trampling down death by death,<br />
And upon those in the tombs, bestowing life--<br />
But I, though alive, am dead in this world;<br />
While he, although dead, is alive in Christ;<br />
Without harbor, without rest,<br />
The whole earth's become my tomb,<br />
I, the widow who never was a wife.<br />
<br />
Have you no blessing for me, Father?<br />
Or have you love for Jacob only?<br />
I mourn like Jacob did for Rachel--<br />
Three other wives, but he was lonely.<br />
<br />
<br />
IV.<br />
<br />
Better our parting'd been a breakup<br />
And he'd lived 60 more years<br />
Happy, surrounded by his children,<br />
And me, barren with bitter tears--<br />
I wanted him alive and happy<br />
I wanted him, at least, alive--<br />
I wanted him, altogether<br />
As a woman wants a man<br />
I loved him, with everything in me<br />
More than I could understand<br />
I hoped we'd always be together<br />
Sharing a home as man and wife<br />
Now he is gone, and I am left<br />
With pictures, memories, lovely gifts,<br />
A diamond necklace, a promise of more,<br />
Before he from my side was reft--<br />
I'd rather have him than all his stuff<br />
Though I had all, it were not enough--<br />
I want him only, and never can,<br />
The world's most unattainable man...<br />
<br />
V.<br />
<br />
His viola's silent now. His violin<br />
Now sits forlorn. I cannot bring them<br />
Back to life. I cannot play a single note.<br />
I cannot make them sing<br />
As he could. He could play;<br />
Instead, I write, and wrote--<br />
Though all my words stick in my throat.<br />
<br />
Play, play, lovely violin! Play, viola, play!<br />
Like me, they sit alone, untouched;<br />
They are waiting still for him<br />
To work his magic with his touch.<br />
Come back, my love! Play me again!<br />
I sit as silent as your violin.<br />
<br />
All music sings to me of you,<br />
Especially the lovely strings,<br />
But none will ever ring as true<br />
As when your bow danced upon the strings--<br />
Come back to me! Play me again;<br />
I'd gladly be your violin.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-45884185185751028722009-12-11T03:50:00.002-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.711-04:00Reflection. written December 3, 2009, 4:30pm. Two weeks, 5 days. ShareI am reminded of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which CS Lewis was unashamed to call allegory...well if it was good enough for St Gregory of Nyssa, why not CS Lewis? It is clear who Aslan represents...he is the Christ figure in the story.<br />
<br />
What was never clear to me until recently--but let me backtrack.<br />
<br />
What struck me, when saying goodbye to Nelson in the flesh, was how like a statue he looked and felt. It was still my Nelson, only turned to stne. I'd never had such a reaction to a dead person before. They had always looked different to me from their live selves, sometimes enough as to seem like another person...or like a wax figure. Not so with my Nelson. Maybe because I'd memorized every line and pore of his face and his hands. I'd caressed that same face a thousand times. For the first time it did not relax at my touch, nor did he get that little smile that he would get...turned to stone. He was familiar to me, so even dead, he still looked like himself. And the makeup was an obscenity. (I could just picture him sputtering, "I'm a man! I don't wear makeup!")<br />
<br />
It was still my Nelson, only turned to stone. His face still looked like his face, still felt like his face. The shape of it, all the pores, all its character, they were all the same...Still my Nelson, only turned to stone.<br />
<br />
Back to CS Lewis. Lewis fought in the First World War, and grew up in an age without penicillin. He must have seen a lot of people he loved die. I'm sure they didn't use makeup on the dead then either...so they would have looked like white marble-like statues.<br />
<br />
So back to The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. What is the first thing Aslan does after he rises from the dead, breaking the stone table? With "Deeper Magic from Before the Dawn of Time"--I always loved that wording--which overruled the "Deep Magic from the Dawn of Time" that he had submitted to voluntarily, that had put him there.) What is the first thing Aslan (Christ) does after rising from the dead? He storms the White Witch's castle. What has the White Witch been doing throughout the book? She's been zapping people with her wand, turning people into stone, and using them to decorate her castle. Into statues. Statues, made of stone, cold, unfeeling, unmoving, resembling who they had been but unresponsive...stone statues.<br />
<br />
Again, the first thing Aslan does after rising from the dead is storm the White Witch's castle, which he does effortlessly. Immediately, once inside, he goes from statue to statue, breathing on them and bringing them back to life.<br />
<br />
The White Witch's castle, clearly, is Hades (Hell/Death). The statues are the dead, whom Aslan (Christ)breathes on and brings back to life. It is Christ storming Hades, destroying death by his death...Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs, bestowing life...<br />
<br />
Funny how I never caught that metaphor before...I must have read that book a thousand times as a child and never picked up on it.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-66297802359424875482009-12-11T03:30:00.001-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.713-04:00grief poem. written Wed, Dec 2, 2009. Two weeks, 3 days.Crushed, spindled, broken, shattered,<br />
Trampled, splintered, shredded, splattered,<br />
Like roadkill in some unrecognizable mat--<br />
My heart feels--about like that.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-86600598430433500022009-12-11T03:27:00.003-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.715-04:00poem written Wed., November 25, 2009. 3:44pm. 2 weeks, 4 days.I.<br />
<br />
I will pour out my grief<br />
Let no one restrain me<br />
I will not be held back from mourning<br />
Til it be spent.<br />
<br />
My sorrows cannot be numbered<br />
My mourning is measureless<br />
It goes deeper than the deepest ocean<br />
Deeper than its deepest trough<br />
<br />
I seek out any words of comfort<br />
Yes, and any listening ear<br />
Like bread crumbs to a starving man<br />
Like water in the desert<br />
<br />
Two years ago, I was alone;<br />
Nelson-less, yet not desolate.<br />
But he filled up every crevice of my heart<br />
My love for him to the marrow of my bones<br />
<br />
All food tastes like salt to me<br />
And sugar is cloyingly sweet.<br />
I eat that I too do not perish,<br />
For my love would not have it thus for me.<br />
<br />
He was my strong support<br />
He held me up with his strength<br />
How could his strength fail him?<br />
I fell like a puppet without strings<br />
<br />
He was my strong support<br />
And I hoped to bear his children<br />
Lovely curly-haired children<br />
With the stamp of his features<br />
<br />
His features were lovely to me<br />
I cold gaze on them all day long<br />
I was happy watching him sleep<br />
With his hands in violin pose<br />
<br />
We hoped we would grow old together<br />
And would see our children's children<br />
But now you have gone before me<br />
Into bliss, but leaving me desolate<br />
<br />
II.<br />
<br />
You now stand before God with the saints,<br />
And your lovely voice joins their chorus<br />
Teach us to number our days<br />
We do not know the road before us<br />
<br />
Stop all your idiot laughter<br />
Let all foolish babbling cease<br />
I would rather talk to my Nelson<br />
He's at peace now, while I'm in pieces<br />
<br />
No noisy neighbor will trouble you now<br />
No wretched traffic, or cellist, or anything more<br />
As you wished, all things of God are clear now<br />
As you worship God in his glory<br />
<br />
III.<br />
<br />
We had both hoped to wear wedding crowns<br />
And they buried my heart<br />
Putting you in the ground<br />
You are now past all care;<br />
As for me, I would wear<br />
Widow's weeds. I have none.<br />
My clothes all have colors<br />
And I have no funds<br />
To clothe myself all in funereal black.<br />
My heart wears them, however,<br />
The whole world screams your lack.<br />
You are with God forever<br />
I'm without you for now--<br />
But how long? How long?<br />
I don't know how--<br />
There's a future without you<br />
That I cannot see<br />
All my tomorrows<br />
Are darkness to me<br />
And today--it's all grey--<br />
Stupid coworkers laughing<br />
Must you laugh? Go away!<br />
Unless you'd be with me<br />
In my darkest hour--<br />
Small bits of empathy<br />
Seeing me through<br />
And whenever that darkness<br />
Threatens to devour,<br />
I hear you say, "Stop. Don't do this.<br />
Don't torture yourself.<br />
I know that you love me<br />
And you will get through this."<br />
<br />
IV.<br />
<br />
My whole road's dim before me,<br />
My eyes do not see<br />
My world is in darkness<br />
I don't know what's in store for me.<br />
The future I'd hoped for, the love of my life<br />
Is buried, gone from me; I am never his wife.<br />
<br />
I complain of injustice; I'd tear out my hair,<br />
Wear sackcloth and ashes, give the neighbors a scare;<br />
I would wail out my sorrows in loud ululations<br />
Cut my skin, rend my garments and weep, loudly vent my frustration<br />
Scrape myself with a potsherd; he would still not be there--<br />
I'd give him to another, if that kept him alive--<br />
<br />
Come back to me, love! Let's argue! Let's fight!<br />
Your presence is near, close and comforting--yet silent<br />
Your silence is deafening; you were never so quiet--<br />
I want you in the flesh! Why are you not here?<br />
I am writhing, while writing; my desire goes nowhere--<br />
By your grave, it's despised. How am I still breathing<br />
While you're not alive?<br />
<br />
V.<br />
<br />
Why were there not more hours?<br />
Why our measure of days<br />
Was cut short so early<br />
Leaves me lost and amazed.<br />
I am tired and surly<br />
I'm in pain, and confused<br />
So much of my soul<br />
Was buried with you<br />
And what's left of me here<br />
Is bruised, torn, and abused.<br />
<br />
Will there be an end to my sorrow?<br />
I will see this thing through to the end<br />
Let no one try to stop me from mourning<br />
You, love of my life, my best friend.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-5890841125741251332009-12-11T03:26:00.003-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.717-04:00Poem written in 1910 by the Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, Henry Scott-Holland[This was shared with me by my friend David Page, who was comforted by it when a dear friend of his passed away.] <br />
<br />
Death is nothing at all,<br />
I have only slipped into the next room.<br />
I am I and you are you<br />
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.<br />
<br />
Call me by my old familiar name,<br />
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used.<br />
Put no difference in your tone,<br />
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.<br />
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.<br />
<br />
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.<br />
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was,<br />
Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of shadow on it.<br />
<br />
Life means all that it ever meant.<br />
It it the same as it ever was, there is unbroken continuity.<br />
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?<br />
I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,<br />
Just around the corner.<br />
<br />
All is well.<br />
Nothing is past; nothing is lost<br />
One brief moment and all will be as it was before<br />
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-17284574474392302472009-12-11T03:23:00.002-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.719-04:00I wrote this on a scrap of paper last Tuesday, Nov. 24, 2009, at 4:42pm...First posted on Facebook on Tuesday, December 1, 2009 at 10:36pm:<br />
<br />
I dozed off at work this morning.<br />
Probably because I'd gotten about 2 hours of sleep.<br />
I'd had a particularly wretched morning.<br />
I was missing Nelson acutely.<br />
I dozed off, but my eyes were still half-open--it was that weird state between asleep and awake.<br />
As I dozed off, I could hear Nelson whispering in my ear,<br />
"Shh, baby. I love you, baby.<br />
It'll be alright, baby. You'll be alright."<br />
Just like he used to soothe me when he was holding me, in life.<br />
I think he knew I was missing him.<br />
Sometimes I feel like he's very near...Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-13518359580868683332009-12-11T03:20:00.001-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.721-04:00grief poem. written Nov 29, 2009, 11:31 pm. 3 weeks, 1 day.Stupid birds.<br />
Why sing?<br />
Stupid phone.<br />
Why ring?<br />
Stupid sun.<br />
Why shine?<br />
Of all men everywhere,<br />
Why mine?Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-29259327709005461972009-11-28T20:07:00.001-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.723-04:00Helpful Suggestions: Things Not To Say1) Don't tell me we might have/would have broken up. Our mutual love is one of the things I've still got.<br />
2) Don't tell me I'll find someone new. It's not a breakup. We loved each other deeply. When he passed, we were planning on soon being engaged. See above. Our mutual love--and the memory of that-- is one of the few things I've still got.<br />
3) Don't tell me I'll eventually be ready to find someone new, find new love, etc. I really don't care. I found the real thing, I found the man I wanted to get married to, and he died. Whether I get married now, ever, or not, I don't care--indefinitely.<br />
4) Don't tell me I need to move on. It hasn't even been a month yet since his death. From all accounts, the first year is very hard, especially for widows, which I might as well be (albeit not legally).<br />
5) Don't be afraid of mentioning him. I want you to mention him and tell me your memories. They are all precious to me.<br />
6) Don't tell me I need to take, or increase, my psychopharmaceuticals. I can manage that myself.<br />
7) I am coping as best as I can. Please spare me your advice on how I need to cope better. I can walk, I can drive, I can see without double vision. I'm doing much better. Right now I am focusing on getting through one day at a time.<br />
8) Don't tell me it was God's will as if that will make me feel better. I wrote my thesis on the subject. I've probably pondered the issue more deeply than you have. God's will governs all things. Telling me so isn't really going to be helpful.<br />
9) Don't tell me you understand because you lost your mother/father/sister/brother/friend/etc. It's not the same. Or at least, if you do, don't use that as your excuse to give me advice about it. If you use your experience to empathetically listen, though--that's good.<br />
10) The Biblical saying that we are not to grieve as those without hope (1 Thess 4:13) does NOT mean that we are not supposed to grieve. Got that? If you want to get into an exegetical argument with me on that passage, bring it.<br />
11) I believe he is in heaven. I believe he is praying for me. I pray for him. I talk to him. That mitigates the agony. But telling me, "At least he's in heaven now" is not going to make it go away. It's grief. It hurts.<br />
12) Don't tell me I need to a) move on, b) move on faster, c) get over it, c) get over it faster, or ask me, at any point in the indefinite future, if I'm still grieving. I'm on grief's timetable, not yours--not even on mine. “Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to gird yourself and walk wherever you wished; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will gird you, and bring you where you do not wish to go.” (John 21:18) I am being brought where I did not wish to go. Any assertions as to the slowness of grief's timetable, or questions thereunto, are manifestly unhelpful.<br />
13) Don't assume that because I laugh, or smile at something, that it means I'm not grieving. It just relieves the pressure for a second. It's always there.<br />
14) Don't tell me that, because I'm suffering, I need to see a doctor, or a psychiatrist, or a psychologist, or any other such professional, or ask me when I'm going to do so. Please assume I've got that covered.<br />
15) Don't extrapolate your experience with grief, or your friend's, or your family's, onto my own. You may have handled your grief by a) throwing yourself into work, b) retreating into a little cave and shutting yourself off from everyone, c) needing antidepressants or sedatives, or needing the doses raised, d) or buying a farm and raising llamas. Everybody grieves differently. Don't assume that because I'm not grieving your way, I'm not grieving right.<br />
16) Don't assume that because I'm grieving, I want to be left alone. Apparently that's not how I roll. Please call me. Please come over. It's hard to make calls, and it's hard to reach out to people, but when people reach out to me, I really appreciate it. The love and support of my friends and family is helping me get through/survive this.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-87733865776893110262009-11-28T18:26:00.004-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.725-04:00grief poem. Tuesday Nov 24, 2009, 10:34am. 2 weeks 3 days.Every morning I go about mourning<br />
And my tears begin afresh<br />
My wound opens as I remember<br />
And I groan in my deep sorrow<br />
Break all your weights and measures<br />
Break all your instruments<br />
For you cannot measure my grief.<br />
My sorrow cannot be measured,<br />
It would break all your paltry instruments.<br />
My tears could fill up the sea,<br />
And they would not be finished.<br />
The light of my eyes and the joy of my heart,<br />
He was taken from me<br />
I shall not see him again while I live<br />
My love does not mourn now; he is happy<br />
In a place where no mourning is<br />
In the light of eternal morning<br />
Of the Orient from on high<br />
But for me there is only great sorrow<br />
That will bleed yet afresh come the morrow<br />
<br />
Had I known! Had I known this could happen<br />
I would never have left your side<br />
I would have been like a mother hen<br />
Would have hemmed you in from every side--<br />
I would never have ceased looking after you<br />
But I thought you were strong, I was weak--<br />
But now you are gone, I remain.<br />
No one on earth can tell me why;<br />
No one on earth can explain.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28185903.post-13121504064890720352009-11-28T18:25:00.003-05:002010-07-17T02:24:32.727-04:00grief poem. written Mon. Nov. 23rd, 2009, at 3:17 pm. 2 weeks, 2 days.I was already a student of sorrow<br />
I thought I needed no more education<br />
I thought I knew all its ins and outs<br />
And its every permutation<br />
<br />
But the love of my life has now left me<br />
For that most ruthless mistress, Death<br />
She has kidnapped my love, he is stolen<br />
And she mocks me as I stand bereft<br />
<br />
Oh, how could you doubt I'd be faithful?<br />
I was faithful to you to the end<br />
And now that you're gone, I've put a ring on<br />
Where a wedding ring should have been<br />
<br />
My true love and heart's one desire<br />
Is hidden now out of my reach<br />
In no time for him, we'll meet again<br />
But a lifetime ahead is the breach.Hira Animfeftehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12419384315956434645noreply@blogger.com0