'I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder'
On passing time, finite existence, and the wonder of it all
Encounter
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive.
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
—another of my favorite poems by the great and dear Czeslaw Milosz
He wrote this one when he was 25; he wrote the passage I shared with you last week, about how you can stop worrying now, at the very end of his life. It was a life of trouble, strife, and sorrow, but in all his work, you can touch transcendence.
Today I just want to ask you:
- how this poem makes you feel,
-and what it makes you think of,
-and who do you think is the old man who made the gesture? and who is the love to whom he is writing? (I’ll tell you my thoughts, in the comments section.)
Reading the poem, three times, made me cry; it felt so close to home. My husband and I were always pointing out the beauty that we were seeing, often quietly with gestures, or bringing back photos. He died suddenly one month ago today. Here is part of a poem I wrote 3 days after he died after my morning walk along the sea cliff:
Look, Dana, the waves are getting higher as winter approaches
The geese are flying
The monarchs are coming back to Lighthouse Field
Look, Dana, an otter is slapping the water in the sparkling sunlight of morning.
But you can't hear me. Can you hear me?
I did not see the man as father I saw him as a older person who had learned to appreciate the simple things. To delight in the moment. I was a caregiver to my husband who died of ALZ. In the years of care I learned to enjoy the small and immediate thing to maintain my outlook. I believe when we leave this earth there is not the attachment to the questions of this world. There is peace and, because I’m a Christian, communion with Christ. Having two sons die in childhood, the burning need to know “why” has left me. I’ll take the delights of today. Good friends, good family, good food and a warm safe home with my little old blind dog to keep me company.