Tipping Point

It is dusk.
I sit on my parents’ bed and gaze out the window.
A rare treat.
I see a beloved grove of aspen surrounded by their darker pinon-mates,
in a previously oft-visited arroyo.
I do believe I could walk that arroyo blind-folded by heart, if only.
The aspen stand tall and golden in the lingering sun,
bright enough I cannot yet tell if they are still clothed
in their fall yellows or are naked for winter.

A couple of mornings ago, at dawn,

I hobbled up here seeking comfort to find my parents on the spot I now inhabit;

they were sound asleep curled toward each other,
foreheads touching, arms draped tenderly around each other;
they didn’t even awaken when I curled up in a vacant corner of the bed.
During waking hours they suffer greatly,
but they have this shining deep-sleep-comfort;
you can plainly see the over 50 years of unconscious body attunement.

They awaken to this view,

but I don’t get to look outside much—
I have to catch the tipping point of the day—
neither too bright, nor too dark; 
I’m the outdoors type so this is serious deprivation.

Now as the sun lowers,

I discern that the aspen are a mixture of still-clinging leaves and bare branches;
how can I be this out of touch with the basics of this tipping season?

This poem set out to be about the tipping point of my health.

Shall I move toward greater life or death?
Gasp, I have now written That Word.
A recent practitioner described the precariousness of my present condition this way.
It resonated with a gong of truth
I did not want to hear, but cannot deny.
Oh death, whatever you are, do not take me yet.
I cling to this bed, this view.

I want to tip back into life.

My blessed parents have rested in this spot year after year

to restart each day sacrificing long and hard

to help me tip back into life;

one that we may enjoy more fully together;
and so that they might tip away one day, before I do—
a prospect I have long dreaded, but
the “natural order” we all took for granted.

Don’t speak to me of equanimity, not now, not yet.

I am too scrambled to metabolize what is happening.

So, back to the window:

Now pink clouds appear over the mellowing aspen.

I heard in some indigenous culture it is believed
the soul dies if you can’t see the horizon. 
Mine suffers from this loss;
it is rare I can visit this vantage point at the right time.

Now dark, heavier stark clouds streak the sky above—

Oh, please no thunder, no sound of rain!
My being can’t take that.
It unwillingly contracts in response to that which it once embraced.
It barely tolerates the sound of the felt tip marker on the page.

I confess I long to see Papa walk up the driveway this window faces.

I feel safer when he is here, as if he can protect me from my invisible demons.
I am glad he’s getting exercise, though.

Now the light New Mexico is so famous for is fading,
calling for an appreciation of the subtle browns and greens.

I must put down pen and paper soon; the writing isn’t good for me.

Here is Papa now!
I wish his gait were steadier,
and he walked a straighter line.

Deep breath.

I can’t afford to start crying over that now.

He looks down as he walks.

I hope it is to be careful with his footing,
but it appears more like his habitual preoccupation.
He’s not the nature lover I am;
doesn’t relish what every sense can take in as I would.

He enters the house, and believe it or not, I am annoyed. 

More sound.

How do you solve a problem like Molly?

Now it grows dim outside, and my vision is blurry.
And I believe I have committed one of my more recent errors:
My scribble is so messy and small I may not be able to decipher it later.
Aggravating when trying to compose communiques to docs
and I have no idea what I jotted down that I thought was important to convey.

I must get up and face the rest of the tasks of trudging on.

But still, it seems I cannot approach the subject of death.

I naively thought this poem might help us make peace,
even ease me away from IT.

What a lot to load on to a little poem.

All that has arisen is a poem defeated.

At least it used the scary word, and that’s a start.

Ok, now it’s pretty much dark, and though I still appreciate the shadowiness,

I know I am avoiding the suffering that lies ahead,
amplifying it even. 

I don’t want to abandon my perch.

But I will.  I will be careful.  Mindful as I navigate. 
Sit and eat my waiting dinner. 
And then who knows what to get through the evening.
 
Oh world, hold me, keep me, tip me back toward you;
reach for me tenderly or fiercely.  Yank, if you will.

Afterlife, be beautiful, but wait;
push me away for now, out of this limbo.  Push me hard.
But if you must come now, please be kind and swift.

Now, the coyote are making their crazy calls.

Have you heard that sound?
The mind knows that it is an earth-sound,
but it is so eerily incomprehensible it seems from another world.
Some say animals remember the other side.
Is that the language you are speaking now, coyote friends?
Because, oddly, in this moment, it is the only sound that doesn’t rattle my being,
as if it echoes the wail I cannot make.

--Molly Hunt   October 26, 2013