I had a lovely day and was blessed enough to have, along with others, three hours with Marion Rosen today, a woman who is totally down-to-earth, and yet, truly is an exquisite presence of joy twinkling divinity.
I have been feeling in these last few weeks a bit shaken up like the area of the Earthquake Trail out in Point Reyes. It seems like an earthquake has taken place in me, as I adjust to the trauma of last year, but somehow today, it was like leprechauns were taking root in the newly opened spaces inside and there is new life and light. Lanterns burn brightly within tonight.
I heard from a friend today who has now completed radiation. She has felt her sadness around it as she has gone through it. I'm not sure I did, and I think it is coming through now, a deeper sense of what I went through last year, and the vulnerability of life as we know it here.
Ellen sends me a poem by Robinson Jeffers.
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.
- Robinson Jeffers