More of one thing leading to another / "Something nameless which is beyond language because it's instinctive and then you can't do it."

 

Listening further. (from 4:00 to 22:12)

*

Transcribed by am from the interview:

"I am someone who doesn't have faith in terms of religious faith but before I woke up out of my coma, I had the most extraordinary experience.  I mean, to make it easier to sort of explain because I can't really explain but I know, absolutely, that at that point I was given a choice, "This way it's going to be very hard.  Are you sure you want to go this way?  Or go this one, it's going to be very easy and it's all going to be fine" and I don't want it to sound like some people might, like, choose not to live and, like, I don't know [am's note:  The interviewer interrupts Clemmie's train of thought here] and it's going to be hard but it's your choice and the amazing thing was that I was given that choice."

*

Reminded of this:

Love Itself
The light came through the window Straight from the sun above And so inside my little room There plunged the rays of love In streams of light I clearly saw The dust you seldom see Out of which the nameless makes A name for one like me I'll try to say a little more Love went on and on Until it reached an open door Then love itself, love itself was gone All busy in the sunlight The flecks did float and dance And I was tumbled up with them In formless circumstance I'll try to say a little more Love went on and on Until it reached an open door Then love itself, love itself was gone Then I came back from where I'd been My room, it looked the same But there was nothing left between The nameless and the name All busy in the sunlight The flecks did float and dance And I was tumbled up with them In formless circumstance I'll try to say a little more Oh love went on and on Until it reached an open door Then love itself, love itself was gone Love itself, love itself was gone

-- Leonard Cohen (from "Ten New Songs," released October 9, 2001)

*

Then I listened to what the only nephew of one of my oldest friends and the only child of one of my newest friends had to say about what inspired him to become a musician and listened to him play the piece by Bach that made all the difference in his life:

*

Then I remembered:

Unbeknownst to me because we had been out of touch since August 2002, my R had a brainstem stroke in September 2007 and was in a coma for two weeks in a VA hospital in Northern California.  When he came out of the coma, he was unable to speak or feed himself or walk.  He was blind in his right eye which looked like a beautiful clear blue sky with a few white clouds.  

Something, inexplicably, prompted me to send a Christmas card to one of his two younger sisters that December.  She replied with a note letting me know about his stroke, saying that she had had no way to get in touch with me, and suggested that I call the VA Hospital because, she wrote, "He would love to hear your voice." My attempts to do that weren't successful.  I decided to write to him.  That was the key.  Although he couldn't speak, he was able to read and to write but with great difficulty.  He wrote down what he wanted to say, and a compassionate nurse wrote down what she thought he was trying to say and had him sign it.  Next to what he wrote he drew a rose.  He could draw better than he could write.  How grateful I am to that nurse who took the time to write that letter for him and mail it to me!

After listening to Clemency Burton-Hill, I am absolutely certain that my R was given a choice to live long enough so that I could be with him in the last days of his life, let him know I love him and say goodbye.  He went back into a coma after I said goodbye and died a week later.

Now I am in tears.  Grateful to my R.  Grateful to Clemmie.  Grateful to be alive.  Taking nothing for granted.  

*

Mother and sons in displaced persons camp in Kabul.

Nameless Day / December 22 / Love Itself / Holy Places

 From The Wisdom of Trees, by Jane Gifford:

One day remains completely unaccounted for in the Celtic Calendar, December 22nd, known as the "Nameless Day."  This is the extra day that features in so many folk tales where the story takes place over a year and a day.  On this day, when the King of the Waning Year was dead and the New King of the Waxing Year not yet born, it was the custom to fast to appease the goddess in her darkest aspect so that she would permit the sun to return to the world and the cycle of the year to recommence.  This darkest of days has neither tree nor name and is sacred to Morrigan, goddess of death and destruction.  Her name means Great Queen in Irish.  She appears in Arthurian legend as Morgan le Faye, sister of King Arthur: "le Faye" means "the Fate." This dark queen took the form of a raven and was feared and respected by everyone.

                                    "Love Itself"

The light came through the window,
Straight from the sun above,
And so inside my little room
There plunged the rays of Love.

In streams of light I clearly saw
The dust you seldom see,
Out of which the Nameless makes
A Name for one like me.

I’ll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
Until it reached an open door –
Then Love Itself
Love Itself was gone.

All busy in the sunlight
The flecks did float and dance,
And I was tumbled up with them
In formless circumstance.

I’ll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
Until it reached an open door –
Then Love Itself
Love Itself was gone.

Then I came back from where I’d been.
My room, it looked the same –
But there was nothing left between
The Nameless and the Name.

All busy in the sunlight
The flecks did float and dance,
And I was tumbled up with them
In formless circumstance.

I’ll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
Until it reached an open door –
Then Love itself,
Love Itself was gone.
Love Itself was gone.

From "Holy Places," the December 22nd chapter of A Winter Walk, by Tolbert McCarroll:

... A child's intuitive sense of the sacred often helps us understand spiritual fundamentals.  When my daughter, Holly, was almost seven, a fatally ill infant came into her life.  We all knew the child would die, but it was a shock when it happened.  Holly received the news one morning as she was setting out to school. She told me that we would need to do something before she could go to school. "We have to go to a place where people pray," she announced.  I walked her to a nearby Catholic church where a Mass was in process and asked if this would do.  "No," she said, "we have to wait 'til the priest leaves." In the after-service silence of that space, Holly somehow came to terms with the death.  I think she also said good-bye.  After a while, Holly told me, "We can light a candle and leave now." We did ...