And then there was Raisa

The news this week of Mikhail Gorbachev's death reminded me of a poem I wrote 23 years ago when his wife died (Raisa had been diagnosed with leukemia). The news report that she died in Germany with her husband and daughter by her side was a moving image for me, seeing their humanity and also thinking of the hope for a new world that I had a glimpse of at the time.

For Raisa Gorbachev
 
In a hospital room in Germany
She quietly slips away
As a human life is distilled to its essence.
 
Working with her best friend and husband
In her remarkable life,
She assisted a man with such power and insight
That they were able to dismantle the system
As Christ dismantled his own need for survival.
 
New avenues were sought
Amidst times of intense activity and intrigue.
In swirling eddies of Old Guard retribution,
Fragile hopes and possibilities kept their foothold.
She confused all sides with her confidence in life.
 
In quieter times as she lay dying
Humanity is distilled to its essence
As devoted husband and daughter
Wait by her side
Exemplifying tenacious affirmation
Of love and connection
Which extends to all boundaries of human existence.
 
9/99                                                                    ~ CK

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For a deeper look at Mr. Gorbachev and Raisa, see Steve Rosenberg's article Mikhail Gorbachev: Remembering a warm-hearted and generous man.  “…he came across as a warm-hearted, decent man, who was still deeply in love with his wife and desperately sad that she had gone. Raisa was everywhere: in his books, in framed portraits on his office wall... and in the music.”

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Saturday Haiku: Accidental Memorial

 

my friend's name appears
a Facebook birthday notice
as if they still lived

______________________

(Getty Images photo)



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“Were You There?” A Palm Sunday Reflection

[This essay was first posted in 2016 with the title, "Crafting, the Cross and Holy Week"]

“I could not help thinking that when the slaves sang, 'Were you there when they crucified my Lord?' they actually were there. They were there in a way that neither the plantation owners then – nor nice church people now – could realize.”

On the day after Palm Sunday, I made some palm leaf crosses similar to the ones pictured here (I got the pic from Sermon on the Sidewalk blog). I went online and found a great YouTube guide for making them, as I had done last year. 

In the past, I found it to be a good remembrance of Holy Week and its message, as I kept the cross in the car throughout the year. This year, I made the crosses because I had to do something with my hands to calm the emotions I was feeling and to put my thoughts into perspective.

You see, the Palm Sunday service did an unexpected number on me. I don’t know why I say “unexpected” because Palm Sunday usually has a profound effect on me in some way. This year, though, I thought it would be different because I have not been especially attuned to the season until this week. Sometimes the beauty of church liturgy, whatever the season, is that it is there when you want to truly engage, but if you are not up for deep engagement, you can still take part in the rhythm of the service in a lighter, more peripheral manner. I thought this year would be one of those peripheral participations.

The Liturgy Drew Me In

So we processed into the church with palm branches, participated in a liturgical reading of the passion narrative from the Gospel of Matthew,  heard a brief homily, celebrated the Eucharist, and it was all very nice. I didn’t get all emotionally caught up in the rejoicing stage or in the “crucify him!” moment. It was all nice and pat. Then came the closing hymn, “Were You There?”

“Were You There?” has long been a powerful and moving song for me. It is one of those Negro Spirituals that has made its into many hymnals, Catholic and Protestant alike. It was not the first time I have had mixed emotions about Negro Spirituals, often noting their simple beauty that arose from such hardship. 

During Sunday's service, however, I glanced down at the bottom of the page and read the source of the song which was listed as from “Old Plantation Hymns.” The loaded term, plantation, was just too much to keep me on the periphery. I could not help thinking of the hardship inflicted upon the slaves by the plantation owners. I could not help thinking that when the slaves sang, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” they actually were there. They were there in a way that neither the plantation owners then – nor nice church people now – could realize. 

The institution of slavery was oppressing and “crucifying” people, not for our salvation, but so that they could have a bowl of sugar on their table, abundant crops in the field, and money in their coffers. How often does our society still oppress or take advantage of workers just so we can have goods in the market and food on the table? “Sometimes, it causes me to tremble…” 

Craft Time

I had to get still and quiet Sunday night after the service. I couldn’t just shake it off; I had to dwell with it for a while. Then with a new day come Monday, I needed another routine to put me into a productive rhythm. I knew if I let the morning be “craft time” the use of my hands to make things would get me grounded again. 

The other thing that helped my perspective was having just seen the BBC documentary, “How Art Made theWorld.” In one episode, it was pointed out how cultures around the world had used art to come to terms with people’s awareness that we will all face death. Many cultures have incorporated religious art that acknowledges death. One of the things that art can do is to find an object that acknowledges death and at the same time provides comfort and hope. The Christian cross was given as an example of such a symbol.

So I busied my hands, steadied myself, and practiced an age-old art form whereby I could come to terms with death and celebrate life at the same time. There was also the factor that this was a fun thing to do, like so many projects we did as children. There is still the reality of suffering and death, but a little bit of art can give us courage to live. A day of crafts can give us a steady hand to work for change in the future. 

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When I Die - A Poem by Rumi

Rumi's poem recited in his native Farsi, with written English translation

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On Death and Gratitude

Billy Collins said that every poem is about death and gratitude. Recently I had the privilege of attending a small discussion group examining the works of the English metaphysical poets. John Donne was discussed one night. While reading his famous poem, “Death Be Not Proud,” we discussed the way Donne addresses death. He personifies death and seems to use his traditional Anglican faith to show death to be an insignificant thing – “one short sleepe past, we wake eternally.”

As I looked at the poem, however, it struck me that Donne does not actually seem to be acknowledging his own mortality. He belittles death and says things that one would think appropriate and expected when affirming one’s religious faith. But does he really come to terms with the fact that he indeed will die? How does his recognition of death affect the way he lives his life?

As synchronicity would have it, on the same day we discussed Donne’s poem, one of my blogger friends posted the following poem by Mary Oliver. Perhaps it is due to the times in which each poem was written – Mary Oliver is a contemporary American poet, John Donne a 17th century English poet – but it seems to me that Oliver demonstrates a healthier recognition of death, and a more overt expression of gratitude. Read the two poems for yourself and see what you think. Feel free to disagree or offer a different opinion on the topic.



Death Be Not Proud
By John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

***

 

When Death Comes

By Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

*****

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When an Estate Sale Becomes a Memorial Service

Touring the Estate of the Late Harry E. Tibbs while Contemplating Life and Death

I went to an estate sale last Saturday at the residence of the late Harry E. Tibbs. Dr. Tibbs was well known in the academic and music community. His talents as a church organist and college music professor were legendary. Touring his estate turned out to be a reflection upon a life well lived.

Items for sale at the estate included a lovely grand piano, bookcases, fine china and works of art that the professor had gathered from around the world. I had gone to the estate sale looking for a pedestal dining table, which was not to be found. What I did, which is usually what I do when I come upon an estate sale, was to tour the house and consider what the deceased owner’s life must have been like.

Over a year ago I went to an estate sale in a nearby neighborhood. Though the house had obviously been in a state of disrepair for some time, as I wandered through the house and adjoining garage I kept repeating to myself, “Here once lived a craftsman!” I saw so many tools and items to be used in making all kinds of things. At that sale, I ended up buying a small red metal tool box filled with an assortment of tools. I also bought a slab of black marble, probably the remnant of some counter top project.

On this day as I toured the Tibbs estate, I marveled at the view overlooking the city from the mountainside of that upscale Altamont Road residence. Two stories and a full basement were filled with artifacts that spoke of a full and elegant life. In addition to the piano, fine china and art work, there were wine racks, kitchen equipment, a vast array of cookbooks (including one on medieval cuisine). There were many scholarly books and classical recordings.

I found three items to purchase:

1. A hardback copy of the Viking Portable William Blake.
2. Machlis’ The Enjoyment of Music, a comprehensive reference book that had a library card holder labeled, “Dr. Tibbs Reserve.” It had apparently been in use at the university library for Professor Tibbs’ students to use. The card inside contained the dates and signatures of the last students to check out  the  book.
3. A CD of various classical Christmas music recordings.

I spent exactly five dollars. As I left the estate I said to myself, “My death will definitely be less complicated than that of Dr. Tibbs.” That is what I tend to do at estate sales – I treat them like a funeral, contemplating the life of the deceased while at the same time reflecting upon my own life. Self assessment seems to go along with respect for the dead.

As I left the estate, I got into my Ford Ranger and put in the CD I had just purchased. Though it was the end of March and a bit warm, the weather was gray and overcast with a slight mist. I turned on the AC and for about 20 minutes listened to some of the finest classical Christmas compositions and imagined it to be a December day.

Contemplating the passing of a remarkable man and considering my own brought to mind a poem I had written almost 30 years before when as a young man I had tried to broach the subject of my own demise:

                     I Shall Go Quickly 

                     I shall go quickly from this world

                    With traces left behind;

                    As a fragrance lingering

                    To be dispersed by the wind;

                    As an image upon the retina

                    To fade as new sights are seen.

                    Today, mine is a slow and steady gaze.

                    I stand still before the flow of creation

                    Pulsating joy and wonder in stillness of thought.

                    Today I linger in the greenwood and listen,

                    But I shall go quickly from this world,

                    With traces left behind.

                    11/82                                Charles Kinnaird

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Remembering Those Who have Gone Before Us (Part 2)

“Death ends a life, not a relationship”
– Robert Benchley


Special bonds that exist in life do not dissipate with death. I am finding more and more that the dynamic of a meaningful relationship continues. Sometimes we hear of instances where someone who is grieving over the loss of a loved one has an encounter of some kind with that one who has gone before. The most significant people in my life who have died are my grandmother, my father, and my mother. I name them in the order in which they departed for that unknown country. I have never had any kind of vision of any one of them appearing in any form or dream. I have been aware, however, that somehow I continue to interact with them. Their personalities and influence continue to affect my responses to situations in life. I believe that those relationships, especially close familial relationships will, for good or ill, continue to hold sway in our lives, even after that person has left this world.

There are times when I become acutely aware of my father’s continuing presence. Often my own actions bring on this awareness. I find myself standing a certain way, or positioning my body a certain way that suddenly reminds me of my father. Or, I may call to mind how my father might have reacted in a situation similar to one I may be facing. Many times I may recall the words that my mother or father said to me at one time or another.

My daughter, Elaine, now a sophomore in college, said it better than I could many years ago. When she was four years old she showed me a truth of remembering our loved ones. One day my wife, Vicki, was moving a cedar chest which had belonged to Vicki's grandmother. She commented to Elaine that her grandmother had left the chest to her when she died.

"Were you sad when your grandmother died?" Elaine asked.

"Yes, I was very sad," Vicki replied.

"Did you cry?"

"Yes, I cried a lot."

"How long did you cry?"

"I cried for days and days, "Vicki told her.

"You mean you just cried and cried and cried until you knew she was in your heart?" Elaine asked as she looked to her mother for confirmation.

I can think of no better way to summarize love, loss, grief and remembrance.



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