Just before settling in to sleep last night, I learned that my therapist and friend -- the man I call "Jack" in
Dancing on Mars -- had passed away. Whatever meanings "passing away" might hold, it means to me that he's longer in this physical world. I have all faith in his capacity to adjust to new circumstances in a dimension we cannot see and to welcome whatever wondrous things await him there.
I can't imagine it was easy for him to leave this world though; he was so alive in it. And he had so much love for his wife and family and such peace-centered passion for life in general. He purposefully and purposely lived it fully.
I had not cried -- not a gut-wrenching, gully-washing cry -- in a long time. But the dam burst last night, and still today I'm weepy. Although I knew he had been dealing with cancer, his death has left a hole in my soul -- a hole in my solar plexus, for sure. (I can almost hear him asking me to describe that hole in my solar plexus.) But we can't grieve in advance, believing that our pain will be lessened in the end. It doesn't work that way, or it doesn't for me.
His beautiful obituary had this to say about his work as a clinical psychologist:
"He loved the landscape of the brave soul willing to find more self, and to help remove the weeds which choke out the light, to assist in moving the boulders which stifle breath and life."
As I was coming to the end of a decade of work with him, I wrote a poem about reincarnation -- in part, to celebrate him and honor our work together. He helped me learn to live. He helped me move massive "boulders" and rid my life of some "choking weeds." He helped me begin to like myself, even love myself. He helped me understand the power of forgiveness. He helped me understand many things. He taught me to go deeper, to expand my life. I have no doubt I have known him in other lifetimes. I will stop here and share that poem with you, as a tribute to "Jack." I will miss him terribly, yet I know he is part of who I am now. And my gratitude is immeasurable.
You
If from a mist over some foreign sea
you spiral your Self into being,
or in a field of daisies dance into life
on the four leaves of a green clover
or come from the bones of a great silver fish
or as a raindrop falling
on a place long rainless,
whether you appear as liquid light
in the eyes of an old man
or emerge from a deep river bed,
red clay kissing your fingers,
whether from a mother’s belly
or the belly of a huge round ship,
I would know you
though I might not read the text of your face
I would surely know you.
If in centuries beyond this time
you take birth
whatever body, whatever circumstance,
whether in this place or far away,
through a door hidden altogether from me,
I will know you are here or there,
back
beyond names, beyond language,
beyond the shadows of reason.
I will know
and once again my heart will be glad
you are.
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