Memento Mori: Messages from beyond the grave
I woke up to my dear friend Jen recounting a strange tale of four crows taunting her and her hound from the fence posts this morning, she wanted to know if her soulmate, my daughter Thandi, had any insights into the matter. It reminded me of the old Irish ballad Twa Corbies which I taught to my Grade 11 High Schoolers as we undertook our Parsival Journey each year...also of my brother who frequently visits us from beyond the grave in the form of a black bird.
The haunting ballad is a conversation between two hungry crows about a newly slain knight. Their gruesome discussion of pecking out his bonny blue eyes and using his golden hair to line their nests is a powerful memento mori.
The final verse keens:
'Mony a one for him makes mane
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
One of my bird brother's more dramatic appearances was when I reached the top of Skeleton Gorge with my last batch of High School students and my own two children. My daughter spotted him as she so often does ("He visits me at school every day," she mentioned off hand once) and when he flew away there was a heart in his place. She claimed it was his gift for our mother. I knew she was right.
Then as I went about my day I might have been tempted to forget these messenger birdies if not for listening to Gabrielle Bernstein's talk this week about how some wild turkeys brought her a significant message:
As it so happened I was listening to the latest installment of my favourite podcast - The Moth - while taxiing about this morning.
Each story is compelling and the first account of a haunting reminded me of my own experiences with what some might call the supernatural, though really it's quite natural. Once upon a time I lived in my mom's Yoga studio in Pretoria -- the cat Puddha and I would awaken many a night and look at one another round eyed as the poltergeist rearranged the kitchen yet again.
It also reminded me of the wonderful novel Lincoln in the Bardo which is a fascinating exploration of that in-between place. And such a bold experiment in style. I remember thinking "What?" for a while, then "Really?" then "Oh my! He's actually going to do this!" and eventually "Wow! He did it!" And I'm so grateful that he did.
The second Moth story in this week's episode is about losing someone to HIV and her last days which brought another dear friend to the forefront, Tracey, who is currently watching her father fade in our local hospice, which also brings our mutual friend Kath to front of heart because she lost her love to cancer, which in turn reminds me of my dear friend Basho who worked for hospice and frequently sends me messages from beyond the veil. In case you need to see what an Earth Angel wrestling cancer looks like, watch this:
Speaking of angels...the third Moth story is a moving account of Run DMC's struggle with depression and a powerful realization. Since I don't want to spoil it I'll just say that it links back to my daughter.
I had worked/wept my way through all these moving stories by the time I needed to pick her up from her sewing course and as we drove home she said, "Mom, there's a whale!"
We live between two oceans here in Cape Town and it is indeed whale season. They come to calve here and it has made us famous for the best land based whale watching in the world. Heck, you could find yourself swimming with more than the penguins (which is glorious!) as these two lucky peeps did the other day. But when T called out "Whale!" we weren't within site of either ocean, rather at this horrendous crossroads where ongoing roadworks have exacerbated traffic snarls. It's also the place where my two friends died in a car accident, that watershed moment of my life, that moment of which there was a before and an after self -- the two bear little resemblance.
In front of us the beautiful and devastating carcass of yet another whale caught in fishing lines. We have lost a whole slew of whales just these past few weeks.
We sat there overcome by the awful sight.
Just the fact that everyone carries on when something so great has died, when such a travesty has happened right here, under our noses. It felt like the roads should be lined with mourners. That the city of Cape Town, if not the world, should observe at least a moment of silence.
Yet this is the thing about death. It is so much a part of life. I'm not saying that it's in any way excusable when man's greed leads to the death of our Earth's most majestic mammal, nor when a drunk driver snuffs out a young mother's life, nor when a young man succumbs to suicide...but one thing is certain, the wheel keeps turning.
 |
| One of my student's manuscripts |
The final verse keens:
'Mony a one for him makes mane
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
One of my bird brother's more dramatic appearances was when I reached the top of Skeleton Gorge with my last batch of High School students and my own two children. My daughter spotted him as she so often does ("He visits me at school every day," she mentioned off hand once) and when he flew away there was a heart in his place. She claimed it was his gift for our mother. I knew she was right.
 |
| Jason the blackbird's gift |
As it so happened I was listening to the latest installment of my favourite podcast - The Moth - while taxiing about this morning.
Each story is compelling and the first account of a haunting reminded me of my own experiences with what some might call the supernatural, though really it's quite natural. Once upon a time I lived in my mom's Yoga studio in Pretoria -- the cat Puddha and I would awaken many a night and look at one another round eyed as the poltergeist rearranged the kitchen yet again.
It also reminded me of the wonderful novel Lincoln in the Bardo which is a fascinating exploration of that in-between place. And such a bold experiment in style. I remember thinking "What?" for a while, then "Really?" then "Oh my! He's actually going to do this!" and eventually "Wow! He did it!" And I'm so grateful that he did.
The second Moth story in this week's episode is about losing someone to HIV and her last days which brought another dear friend to the forefront, Tracey, who is currently watching her father fade in our local hospice, which also brings our mutual friend Kath to front of heart because she lost her love to cancer, which in turn reminds me of my dear friend Basho who worked for hospice and frequently sends me messages from beyond the veil. In case you need to see what an Earth Angel wrestling cancer looks like, watch this:
Speaking of angels...the third Moth story is a moving account of Run DMC's struggle with depression and a powerful realization. Since I don't want to spoil it I'll just say that it links back to my daughter.
I had worked/wept my way through all these moving stories by the time I needed to pick her up from her sewing course and as we drove home she said, "Mom, there's a whale!"
We live between two oceans here in Cape Town and it is indeed whale season. They come to calve here and it has made us famous for the best land based whale watching in the world. Heck, you could find yourself swimming with more than the penguins (which is glorious!) as these two lucky peeps did the other day. But when T called out "Whale!" we weren't within site of either ocean, rather at this horrendous crossroads where ongoing roadworks have exacerbated traffic snarls. It's also the place where my two friends died in a car accident, that watershed moment of my life, that moment of which there was a before and an after self -- the two bear little resemblance.
In front of us the beautiful and devastating carcass of yet another whale caught in fishing lines. We have lost a whole slew of whales just these past few weeks.
We sat there overcome by the awful sight.
Just the fact that everyone carries on when something so great has died, when such a travesty has happened right here, under our noses. It felt like the roads should be lined with mourners. That the city of Cape Town, if not the world, should observe at least a moment of silence.
Yet this is the thing about death. It is so much a part of life. I'm not saying that it's in any way excusable when man's greed leads to the death of our Earth's most majestic mammal, nor when a drunk driver snuffs out a young mother's life, nor when a young man succumbs to suicide...but one thing is certain, the wheel keeps turning.
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance, fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of
dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
― Maya Angelou
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Thanks :)
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance, fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of
dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
― Maya Angelou
Subscribe to Foot Sore & Fancy Free by Email
And please verify your email address (check your junkmail!)
Thanks :)
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