SIMPLE QUESTION:
WHAT. . .uhhhh, WHO GIVES YOU HOPE
THEY SAY:
That watching inspirational films or short clips
goes a long way in settling and grounding us
especially if
in some way
WE KNOW
the person in the story
or if we dare flip through the pages of our own personal biographies
WE ARE THE
H O P E
THE MORAL:
WHEN YOU CAN’T FIND HOPE–BE IT
THE YEAR OF NO GRUDGES
I never met Andrea Gibson, but when I first heard of her, literally in this poem a little over a year ago, I YouTube’d her and read everything she’s written and yes, sadly followed her tragic battle with cancer. A week ago on Monday, July 14, there was something that died and escaped from me, but not her words. . .
The following is a post from August 26, 2024 as a way of remembering, honoring and celebrating Andrea:
I love this slap you in the face, gut punch, knee to the crotch, raw poem. I couldn’t find the written words to this poem so that you could read it, but it makes you listen a little bit more intently as the words of this poem appear as they are read and more importantly defined in you; seen through your lenses.
So what’s your favorite line? Which one resembles you the most? Do you need to listen to it again, feel it in another way, with the lights on or off, or with or without sound canceling headphones? How do you finish this poem that is now begun in you? These are not questions I’m asking you so that you can gain some kind of special insight. I am asking these questions because you’ve asked yourself so many times before and the answers are there and here’s the best part about those answers: They change with time; they take on different meanings under different circumstances with different people. So how do you answer them now or 20 years ago or next year or 20 years in the future, or now in this moment. How do you answer them?
“THE YEAR OF NO GRUDGES” was written as a love letter to a friend Andrea was furious at. Several months ago, in the thick of anger, she reluctantly began writing down what she most appreciated about her friend. By the time she stopped typing she was so overwhelmed by gratitude she had no room in my heart for a single grudge against him. So this past week, again, quite by accident when I wasn’t even searching this came in my INBOX from another poet/writer, Phyllis Cole-Dai who was moved enough to move it my way, i.e. ONE BEGGAR SHOWING ANOTHER BEGGAR WHERE THEY GOT THE FOOD. So Miss Andrea is sharing this poem now as a writing/feeling prompt for all of us, and for herself, in hopes that we move through our days vigilantly awake to the fact that none of us are ever promised a tomorrow. Whatever needs healing, today is the perfect day. (Music by Chris Pureka)
No Free Lunch, But Breakfast. . .
Well, is there really such a thing?
A FREE LUNCH
Weren’t we all told that as we were growing up,
but maybe not growing
as quickly as the Some O N E
who told us to “GROW UP?”
“T H E R E ‘ S N O F R E E L U N C H , K I D D O!”
Probably true. . .
but what about a F R E E B R E A K F A S T?
I’ve known Hank for about six years;
Hmmmmm. . .know him?
I know his name is Hank.
I know that he meets for Breakfast Monday through Friday
at a Bob Evan’s with three other of his buddies. . .
I know that he likes the same waitress, Jody,
as about 6 other of us and we all sit in the same spots. . .
I know that he had recently lost a lot of weight
that he never really had to lose. . .
I know that he doesn’t eat much any more;
a cup of coffee and dry toast. . .
I know that he has cancer.
I know that he’s on Chemo.
I know there’s no free lunch,
but breakfast. . .
We all take turns including his coffee and dry toast into our bills
ever since Jody stopped charging him;
He makes jokes about not getting a free lunch,
but breakfast is another matter
and his favorite meal, too. . .
I’ve been thinking about Hank more than just the Tuesday’s I include his $1.79 into my bill. . .
I’ve been thinking
T H A T
is the only thing Hank gets for free;
He talks about his kids taking turns bringing him in for his treatments.
He speaks of his neighbors bringing over dinner several times a week.
He shares about how nephews take turns cutting his grass or shoveling the snow from his driveway.
What’s he ever pay for?
Nothing?
Well, not so much from his wallet,
maybe. . .
Hank gives great smiles
Hank gives warm hugs
Hank gives firm handshakes
Hank gives simple
H O P E
just by showing up every day;
“I don’t know if I’ll see my next birthday in January,” he raspily says.
“And. . . ,” I offer up.
“And. . .
that just means I’ll treat everyday like a Birthday,” he laughs.
“Besides with all of you, it’s kind of hard not to see it any other way.”
“Who knows how my story will end,”
he offers with a shrug of his shoulders and his arms stretched out, palms up?
Who indeed. . .
But I kind of like how
Hank’s story has now become a part of the pages
of my own story without his ink,
pen or pages;
just his gentle,
indelible impression.
He becomes even more iconic
n o w. . .
Hank died a few weeks ago
and meals will no longer take on the meaning for him
as they D O
for us
or even as they once
d i d
A free lunch?
Maybe not. . .
but for a buck-79,
it’s about as priceless as it gets. . .
and a cup of coffee has never tasted better;
Join us!
Where’s the Hank you’ll get to meet. . .
or have you already?
Pssssssssssssssst;
Go meet him
a g a i n
A Living
A LIVING
Now, that’s the Hmmmmmmmm of the Day, isn’t it:
A LIVING
Just what is. . .
A LIVING
There are some that say, you don’t really know
A LIVING
until DYING
Oliver Sacks, died this past weekend. . .
he knew THAT was going to happen. . .I suppose we all do, because none of us have ever met anyone who’s ever lived for ever and the chances of us…any of us…being the first are severely unlikely.
Oliver knew a little bit more specifically that he was going to die. He had cancer. He had multiple metastases in his liver. Nearly 10 years ago he had a rare tumor of the eye, an ocular melanoma. He knew then that about 50% of those with ocular melanomas actually metastasize. . .he was of THAT 50%
Early this year, Oliver. like he so often did, wrote about this situation in the New York Times under the Title of:
“MY OWN LIFE
May I?
. . .”I have been increasingly conscious, for the last 10 years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate–the genetic and neural fate–of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death…I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers. . .above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”
IS THAT IT?
A LIVING
Would you have written; felt those sentiments of Oliver’s?
Do You?
What would you add?
What would you subtract?
The Scientific Study is sound and sure and Universal:
ONE OUT OF ONE OF US DIES
Go ahead. . .research it. . .refute it
One of my favorite quotes from Robert Frost, is also one of my favorite quotes about Life:
“All I know about Life can be summed up in three words: IT GOES ON
One thing that the many countless funerals I conduct teaches me–each of them– is:
ONE DAY THIS WILL BE ME
Does KNOWING that
make me live any differently?
More generously
More kindly,
More lovingly,
More forgivingly,
More appreciatively,
More graciously,
M O R E
M O R E
M O R E
Well. . .that is the Life long question for all of us. . .
because metastasized melanoma or not
we are all…even at this very moment…one heart beat less than having even just one more. . . .
and that, perhaps most of all, defines
A LIVING
A Caring Catalyst
https://youtu.be/t4WwcGq91VQ
You don’t need a tissue, after watching Dr Levy and Chloe’s story, do you?
Uhhhh. . .maybe a towel. . .perhaps even a blanket. . .
but not really for the reasons that make us cry.
Dr. Alex Levy is a
Caring Catalyst
Who Cares * What Matters
Pssssst. . .it’s not because Dr. Alex is a Doctor. . .
You are a
Caring Catalyst, too
and it has nothing to do with your vocation or occupation. . .
Impacting Another’s Life
(Which we are all more than capable of doing)
is a
C H O I C E
And when made, consistently,
You are much more than a just an
Earner of a Paycheck. . .
You become more fully a
Caring Catalyst
Who Cares * What Matters
and automatically
The World Changes
and so do the people who live in it. . .
especially the ones you intentional
T O U C H
(and in return. . .the Lives that are then intentionally stirred)
Shhhhhhhhhhh. . .Listen. . .A Wedding March is beginning. . . .
( Get in IT! )
Sand Art and Baseball
Cancer and kids don’t mix; never should. In fact, cancer and people, no matter how old the KID, never mix.
She just turned nine. She has cancer. I got to meet her and her sister and mother today, the first and most likely for the last time.
It was a Supervisory I made with a colleague, who was superb. We read a story about the different colors we often feel and are. We put different colored sand in bottles, carefully layered. We drew pictures, laughed, talked and laughed some more and then left.
I felt Compassion. It was a light-baby-blue color that lapped over me like warm Caribbean waves.
Cancer and kids don’t mix; never should.
I left there and drove 45 minutes to a nursing home and visited a 79 year old kid. She has cancer, too. She was eating her lunch and watching her TV with the volume almost up to the max. We didn’t read stories, make sand art or draw…but we did laugh. She told me of how some hospice volunteers and staff took her to a Cleveland Indians game and how she didn’t have A hotdog or A beer, but TWO hotdogs and TWO beers. With a huge, mostly toothless smile, she gushed about how a ball boy reached over the railing and gave her a ball–which she had secretively hidden so that it ‘wouldn’t roll away into someone else’s keeping.’