Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old men should burn and rave at close of day.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
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I thought that you were gone
But now I know you’re with me
You are the voice that whispers all I need to hear…
I know that I am you and you are me and we are one…
I know that I’ve been blessed
Again
and over again
Sweet Honey in the Rock, ‘Wanting Memories’
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Three years ago on this day, my father left off all ‘burning and raving’ at the close of his day. His rage spent, the cancer deathgripped upon him, he spared one last long look at the wife whom he loved. Then, leaving his ravaged body heaped upon the bed like so much discarded clothing, he sighed, closed his eyes, ascended the ’sad height’, stepped quietly into the black-winged embrace of death the merciful, and faded into the bright mystery of ‘the dying of the light’.
And I miss him. I miss his smile, his laugh, his bouncing efficiency, his booming bass voice. I miss his counsel, his insights, his uncanny ability to pick through problem sets and find the best solution. I miss the squeals and shrieks of my children playing with ‘Grampa-Monster’. I miss the smell of him, the solidnessof his shoulder, the bantered jokes and contests of wit between us. I miss his singing. Yes, even that annoying habit he had of latching on to a random snippet of song and singing it over and Over and OVER. It’s the little things about a person, that add up to one big hole where that person used to be.
When first he died, I felt him very close around me, like a Jedi-ghost hovering just behind my shoulder, visiting my dreams, speaking his thoughts quietly into my shadow-consciousness. Over time, gently, lovingly, that closely-present sense has faded. He has gone on, I believe, to the Communion of the Saints, and until such time as I may join him in their company, I hang on to an almost-impressionistic afterglow, tinted in warm crimsons and firegolds, the colors of his soul. I hang on to snippets and snapshots of memories, bits and pieces of good and bad, funny and angry, laughter and tears, all those jumbled-together emotional crazyquilt pieces that are family, and life, and relationship, and love.
My father was not a perfect man, and he was not a nicey-nice man; but he was a good man. A man of integrity, a man I’m proud and honored to be told I resemble more and more, the older I get. He was warm, he was resonant, he was real. He was, as the song says, “the wind beneath my wings”.
It’s been hard to fly without him; in fact, it’s seemed darned near impossible at times. For three years’ worth of empty-echo heartbeats, I have asked myself, “How can I fly, now, without him?” And for three years, the empty echo was was the only reply. But recently, in this between time, when I feel more keenly than ever the need for my father’s wisdom and insight, there is something within and behind and besides that empty echo. An answer stirs the airless darkness beneath my feathers – light, whispered, a single word, spoken in my father’s remembered voice:
Blessing.
You see, my father left me with more than blue eyes, short fingers and a skewed sense of humor. My father left me with a blessing. Six days before he died, he called me to him, took my hand, and spoke to me…a blessing. Simple. Powerful. The words of the blessing are mine, but suffice it to say, they are a powerful talisman which I hold close to my heart – they are my first, last, and best line of defense against doubt and despair. In the materially-obsessed, meteorically-rising, career-climbing value system of my culture, I do not, at the moment, seem blessed at all…but when doubt and despair move in and start to unpack suitcases, my father’s blessing is better than any thing that I, or anyone else, could have.
At a time when it has pleased the Lord to do some fairly extensive remodeling on my interior castle, my father’s blessing is a comfort and a challenge, a breath of buoying air and a gust of ruach under the tail when I need it most. I don’t know what comes next, or how, exactly, I’ll be a blessing to others…but I know, I trust, on this third anniversary of my father’s death/birth, that I will be a blessing, somehow.
Because my father was a blessing. And I take after him.
Love you, Ol’ Man. Love you. Love you.
Tags: birth, blessing, depression, dying, family, grief, parenting, seasons, self-image, Spirituality
