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Archive Number 1033 | ||
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Date: Sat, 9 Mar 2002 21:38:49 -0800
HEALINGSTORY Digest - 5 Feb 2002 to 6 Feb 2002 (#2002-28)Jena, I am so sorry for the loss of your friend. Here are some poems, thoughts = and such that were sent to me when my mother died... From Kate Dudding: I am comforted by the African tribe tradition (I think I have the continent correct) of dividing the dead into two groups: the living dead and the honored dead. The living dead are people who are remembered by those still alive. One does not join the honored dead until no one living remembers you. Diane Wyzaga sent: Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die. Life is eternal & love is immortal & death is only a horizon & a horizon is nothing more save the limit of our sight. Kirk Avery wrote me: "I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says "There, she is gone." "Gone where?" "Gone from my sight. That is all." She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at that moment when someone says "There, she is gone" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout - "Here she comes!" And that is dying." by Henry Van Dyke From Nan Gregory: Ring out the bells that still can ring Put away your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in. (This is from a Canadian musician whose name escapes me) From Kimberley King: Here is a poem I like. It is written by Mary TallMountain. Bio notes say that Mary TallMountain was born in Nulato, Alaska, to a Koyukon-Athabaskan mother and a Scotch-Irish father. "Sokoya" means = "aunt," specifically "Mother's sister." THERE IS NO WORD FOR GOODBYE Sokoya, I said, looking through the net of wrinkles into wise black pools of her eyes. What do you say in Athabaskan when you leave each other? What is the word for goodbye? A shade of feeling rippled the wind-tanned skin. Ah, nothing, she said, watching the river flash. She looked at me close. We just say, Tlaa. That means, See you. We never leave each other. When does your mouth say goodbye to your heart? She touched me light as a bluebell. You forget when you leave us, You're so small then. We don't use that word. We always think you're coming back. but if you don't, we'll see you some place else. You understand. There is no word for goodbye. by Antoine de Saint-Exupery 'The Little Prince': In one of the stars I shall be living In one of them I shall be laughing And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing when you look at the sky at night! Gaelic Blessing Deep peace of the running wave to you Deep peace of the flowing air to you Deep peace of the quiet earth to you Deep peace of the shining stars to you Deep peace of the Prince of Peace to you May the road rise to meet you May the wind be always at your back May the sun shine warm upon you face May the rains fall softly upon your fields And until we meet again may the Lord hold you safely In the hollow of his hand. Allison M. Cox www.dancingleaves.com/allison also see www.healingstory.org Story crosses over all boundaries for it speaks the language of the heart | ||