Under Sonoran Skies
Prose and Poetry from the High Desert
by
Bill Black * Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Susan Cosby-Patton * Kay Lesh
Patricia Noble * Larry Sakin
Copyright © 2012 by
Bill Black, Jeanne Burrows-Johnson, Susan Cosby-Patton, Kay Lesh, Patricia Noble, Larry Sakin
Copyright © 2012 Cover design by
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Copyright © 2012 Photographs by
David K. Patton
Unless otherwise noted
This publication is protected under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions, and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. All rights are reserved, including resale rights. Retrieval, printing and storage of a single copy of the entire book contents are permissible for research and personal use only. This permission does not extend to producing or reproducing hard copies or electronic copies for (1) general distribution, (2) republication (3) alteration, (4) resale, or (5) any uses other than academic or personal use. Quotations may be used in literary reviews.
Published by Jeanne Burrows-Johnson at Smashwords
Summary: This anthology of fiction and non-fiction includes general, historical and reflective essays, poetry and short stories presented in eleven themed chapters.
~~~
The mark of a true writer is their ability to mystify
the familiar and familiarize the strange.
Table of Contents
Susan Cosby-Patton
Susan Cosby-Patton
Patricia Noble
Bill Black
Larry Sakin
Bill Black
Bill Black
Bill Black
Susan Cosby-Patton
Pima County’s Historic Courthouses
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
It’s Such a Tiny Patch of Green
Susan Cosby-Patton
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Susan Cosby-Patton
Early History of Tucson and Her Cemeteries
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Bill Black
Bill Black
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Susan Cosby-Patton
Susan Cosby-Patton
Bill Black
Bill Black
Susan Cosby-Patton
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Adventures in Middle-Aged Dating
Larry Sakin
Bill Black
Kay Lesh
Susan Cosby-Patton
V. Family, Friends, and Other Loves
Susan Cosby-Patton
Bill Black
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Kay Lesh
Susan Cosby-Patton
Kay Lesh
Susan Cosby-Patton
Patricia Noble
Larry Sakin
VI. Health, Wealth, and Happiness
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Patricia Noble
Bill Black
Bill Black
Larry Sakin
Susan Cosby-Patton
Susan Cosby-Patton
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Susan Cosby-Patton
Larry Sakin
Bill Black
Kay Lesh
Bill Black
A Flowing River Gathers No Moss
Patricia Noble
Bill Black
Larry Sakin
Bill Black
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Bill Black
Kay Lesh
Patricia Noble
A Declaration of Complete Independence
Larry Sakin
Bill Black
Susan Cosby-Patton
IX. Myth, Magic, and Inspiration
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Prologue to “Prospect for Murder”
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Bill Black
Patricia Noble
Bill Black
Bill Black
Bill Black
X. Business, Culture and Society
Susan Cosby-Patton
Susan Cosby-Patton
Bill Black
Larry Sakin
Patricia Noble
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Patricia Noble
Susan Cosby-Patton
Bill Black
Patricia Noble
Bill Black
Susan Cosby-Patton
Susan Cosby-Patton
Bill Black
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Larry Sakin
Susan Cosby-Patton
About the Book and Its Authors
Eye World, Public Domain
I.
A poem
is like a kitten’s purr
starting deep within its throat,
bubbling up from contentment,
rumbling through despair,
until it becomes a lion's roar.
Susan Cosby-Patton
. . . is not obscure.
It is art,
a picture
composed with words
Similes
Metaphors
Imagery
Carefully chosen
by this artist
to evoke emotion
to give life to an idea
Never to confuse.
If you, the reader,
wish to interpret,
feel free.
If you need to ruminate . . . so be it.
But first
immerse yourself
in the poem,
luxuriate in the
warmth of the words
Relish
the tingle of the analogies,
let them titillate the senses.
Only then,
if you must call on
Freud . . .Jung. . .Erickson
are you welcome
to turn my
painting into
sophomoric rhetoric.
Are you a music lover? You may feel that your favorite kind of music seems to touch something mysterious within you and bring you great fulfillment. You could say that music touches the soul.
Music is personal. For some people today, the music of the soul is a Beethoven symphony. For others, the soul music is jazz. For still others, it is the pulsating rhythms of dance music and the movements of the dance that are deeply fulfilling. There is something inherent in the human personality that causes us to relate to certain kinds of music. Music fulfills a spiritual need. Music has been a form of spiritual and cultural expression from the beginning of time. In the Dances of Universal Peace, from the Sufi Muslim tradition, the purpose of the dance is to liberate the music of the dancer’s soul.
Where do the sounds of music come from? When we look at a musical instrument, we can’t SEE the sound. When playing, do we put the music INTO the instrument? No – we bring the music OUT of the violin or the piano, or the singer. The music is already IN the instrument or the vocalist. When we play or sing or dance, we “liberate” the sound. The player or the singer becomes as one with the music. In a way we ARE the sound.
I’ve been thinking that music is like prayer. Both prayer and music bring us joy, peace, and harmony, and touch our souls. We often use similar words to describe our experiences with prayer and with music. People whose musical ear is not well developed may say, “I can’t sing,” or “I must be tone deaf,” or “I just don’t understand music.” Those with little experience with prayer may say, “I don’t know how to pray,” or “God never answers my prayers,” or “I don’t know what spirituality is all about.”
The fact is, whatever our experience with music, we can learn to hear and appreciate the meaning of the music – if we are willing to learn something about it and to let ourselves respond to it. The same goes for prayer. Practice improves our experience.
Music of the soul is the Spirit within us, always ready to break free, only waiting to be liberated. In the same way, the elements of creation are already there, within us, waiting for us to use them in unique ways to express our own individual soul music. We sing and play and dance to different music for different purposes, but the objective is the same as that for prayer: joy, peace, harmony, love, deep fulfillment, and a feeling of unity with the sacred.
Do you feel the music rising and pulsating within you? YOUR soul music is ready to break free. YOUR creativity is ready to be tapped. YOUR life is ready to sing and play and dance to the music of your soul. Go for it!
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
Take the train to a Hundred Eighty Second Street,
From the stairs go two blocks east for a treat.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
Go up the stairs by the candy store,
The door’s on the right on that floor.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
The bar stretches along the left,
The stage is crossways in the corner cleft.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
Nights of Blues and Jazz float in
The smoke and bar scent skin.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
Night music dwells in this room
As we worship in this ghetto tomb.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
As dawn breaks, we must retreat
But music stays in our heartbeat.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
The day awakes as we are weary.
The music lives as we go bleary
To the daily grind to get the pay
That keeps us fed and lets us play.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
Scotch and bourbon pick-me-ups
Discreetly fill coffee cups.
With eggs and grits as our chow,
We stir to another day somehow.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
In a generation, our nights become legendary
As late night sessions and a smoky music vocabulary,
But no one will really be able to see
The worlds we created at quarter to three.
Ya’ll come, ya’ll come.
In 1993, I was tour manager for a famous rock band from the Chicago area. They had several hit songs in the seventies, eighties and nineties, but now, the boys were past their prime charts-wise, and were reduced to being an opener.
The audience heckled the band mercilessly as they blithely played their hit songs and some new material as the audience roundly ‘booed’ them and acted with ADD-like impatience for the main act to climb onto the stage. After each show, the lead singer of my intrepid band, Rodney, and the guitarist, Robert, would see the disappointment in my eyes. They surrounded me, and gave me a couple of crazed looks as they put their hands on my shoulders. Robert chortled a bit and said “Relax, things are going to get better when we reach Asia.”
I was not comforted by this positive affirmation. The band played twenty-five more shows in the U.S., all to the same effect. In Dallas, one idiot in the audience threw an empty bottle of Bud at Mike, the bass player, hitting him in the eye. Mike, still playing his bass with one hand, reached down, grabbed the bottle, and hurled it right back at the guy, knocking him on the temple. A fight broke out in the guy’s row. Security had to break it up and kick everyone from the row out. The show finally ended, and I was even more depressed about being involved with this tour. Robert and Robin patted me on the back as they exited the stage, Robert saying, “I know what you’re thinking, but things will definitely get better in Asia.”
We ended the U.S. tour at Lollapalooza LA. From there we went to Asia, and the boys continued to reassure me the crowds would be much more receptive. Our first stop was in Seoul, South Korea, where we had a three-night gig. We played at the official state theatre, which was a moribund venue with lousy acoustics.
The boys came out on stage each night, and just played their hearts out. Robin jumped and danced around on stage as did Rick the guitarist. Brad beat the hell out of his skins. The song would end, and the crowd of selected kids, mostly academic powerhouses, politely applauded. No whoops or whistles, no commentary and certainly no dancing -- just polite applause. It was disheartening. No one could tell if the kids really liked what they heard. After the show, a few very select kids got to come backstage and meet the band. They'd shake the boys' hands and say in their best English, "Thank you for your most entertaining show," bow, and then move next to the door while the others had their chance. Everybody's mood dropped like a pall after the gig was over except for Robert and Rodney, who were upbeat as usual. They looked at me and before they could tell me things would get better, I just shook my head at them and said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
Next up was a show at the Budokan in Tokyo. In Japan, the band is equivalent to the Beatles, so we knew the concert would get a large and very appreciative crowd.
That was certainly the case. The stadium filled to capacity the night of the show, and fans screamed and yipped like rabid coyotes during the first part of the show. I was beginning to feel better about the whole tour as the boys would look at me on the sidelines, winking, or giving me the thumbs up sign, telling me they had reached a temporary Nirvana as they played.
But something told me it wouldn’t last, and I was right.
Halfway into the set, a huge monsoon visited the stadium, soaking fans and giving flight to microphone stands, monitors, several small amps and a couple of members of the road crew. The audience dispersed, while those crew members still standing flitted about the stadium, trying to salvage whatever they could of the equipment strewn to the four corners of Tokyo. The band members stayed on stage, splashing each other by stomping on the huge puddles of mud coagulating on the stage.
I met the band back at the downtown Tokyo hotel. Even with the disaster we just experienced, Robert and Rodney mugged stupid grins at me while my blackened mood used my blue eyes to stare them down, rebuking them for their childlike enthusiasm. Robert came right up to me, hugging me this time, and whispered, “Courage, Camille, it’s not over yet. You’ll see -- it will get better.”
The next day, Tokyo took on beautiful orange and blue hues while we packed the equipment trucks. The band and I took the Shinkansen bullet train to Narita Airport. I couldn’t help thinking what a nightmare the whole tour had been -- from Chicago to Tokyo. It was hard to imagine that this band would ever be welcomed back to play anywhere again. As much as I liked everyone in the group, I figured this was the death knell for a band that had made a twenty-year career out of an initial fifteen minutes of fame with a one hit wonder from their first album.
As we walked through the gate, we were mobbed by a hundred Japanese girls grabbing our clothing and screaming at the top of their lungs. The airport police were called, and the girls had to be dragged away from us, still screaming and crying at the sight of Robert and Robin. As we turned to walk towards the exit to the waiting bus, Robert bumped into me, grabbed me by my shirt collar, smiled his wacky smile and said, "See, I told you things would get better in Asia."
Nearly eighteen years after that horrible tour, the band still plays live all over the world. When I read they’re playing some county fair in Kansas or heading for a gig in Vietnam, I think of all the cynical tour managers they’ve endured, and how Robert and Rodney teased and taunted smiles from them when things seemed at their worst. And whenever things seem at their worst for me, I remember Robert bear hugging me, whispering, “Courage, Camille.” And suddenly, the dark clouds of the monsoon break up and my day is filled with orange and blue hues.
Courage indeed.
Juan strummed a well-worn guitar
In a smoke flavored room
Of the Mount Eldon Bar
Till smoke changed color with each tune.
Notes linked to phrases
Then phrases to lines, then stanzas.
These turned to songs of older days;
Memories projected onto smoky haze.
Old eyes became young in memories,
As songs helped images to clarify.
Old joints remembered moving with ease.
Old loves became youthful and spry.
Some found ways of life long gone
With songs of earlier days to reassure.
Some found ways for love to be strong
With stories of loves that mature.
Music flowed from strings to hearts
As the smoke and scents diffused.
Drinkers reveled in Juan’s soft art
Touched by a magical muse.
Yes, smoke changed color with each tune
In the Mount Eldon Bar.
To this mystery, none were immune,
As Juan strummed a well-worn guitar.
Water Walking©, David Patton
[Photograph, 2010]
II.
Home is
Where your story
Begins. You can decide
If, how or why you will tell your
Story.
Bill Black
I cannot find sanctuary,
Though I wander the world across,
Though I seek to know the places,
Though I seek to learn the thought.
I cannot find sanctuary.
Pilgrims have a start and goal.
Pilgrims’ paths have lessons to learn.
Pilgrims travel a circuit to home.
I cannot find sanctuary.
Refugees seek different stops and stages.
Refugees have no home to which they return.
Refugees seek sanctuary to reestablish lives.
I cannot find sanctuary.
Sojourners seek the path, the road.
Sojourners wander but are not lost.
Sojourners know sanctuary is a myth.
I cannot find sanctuary.
The path is my home.
The movement on is a refuge,
And sanctuary cannot be my goal.
My patio is an enchanted place
Away from the world, my private space.
There is a towering date palm tree
Inhabited by a squabbling quail family,
And, yearning doves perch on the wall
Listening for their lovers’ call,
A flitting hummingbird stops at a rose
To drink his fill before he goes.
Tiny bird and heaven scented flower
Kissing at this mystical hour.
A miniature lawn, my patch of green
Where I dance on my toes, a fairy queen.
In this magical moment at the end of the day
I hear what my garden has to say.
I listen for the fairy duster’s awed sigh
As a crimson sunset fills the sky.
I know azalea wishes for rain
To freshen her crimson mane.
A day lily whispers an evening song
While a dandelion sprout hums along,
A little off-pitch, slightly off-key,
Wishing he knew the melody.
Yes, my patio is an enchanted place,
A magical world filled with grace.
Pima County’s Historic Courthouses
If you’ve ever wandered through downtown Tucson, Arizona—or seen pictures of the Old Pueblo on the Internet—you are probably familiar with the image of the Pima County Courthouse that stands at the corner of West Pennington Street and North Church Avenue. The grand building features one of our country’s finest mosaic-tiled domes, which contributed to its being designated as a national landmark in the United States National Register of Historic Places in 1978.
The vision for this artful architecture came from Roy W. Place, a San Diego architect who moved to Tucson in 1919. Other local civic projects of his include: design of Tucson High School; design collaboration on El Conquistador Water Tower; and reconstruction of Roskruge Bilingual Elementary School. While the quality of these projects alone would have distinguished his career, he is primarily remembered as the architect of over 40 classic brick buildings on the west side of the University of Arizona and Pima County’s third courthouse.
Pima County’s First Two Courthouses
In 1863, Arizona became a United States Territory and Tucson was named county seat for Pima County. Initially, business was conducted in rented buildings. But when the town became the territorial capital in 1867 (which it served as until 1877), every aspect of government and commerce changed. To meet the complexities of the growing community, a county courthouse was built on a $200 parcel of land at the juncture of Ott Street and Court Avenue the following year. The single-storey structure had recessed doors and windows to provide relief from the desert heat and was built with the historic staples of local construction—stone for its foundation, baked adobe bricks and mesquite timbers.
In 1880, the Southern Pacific Railroad arrived in Tucson and commercial life bloomed with new, cheaper and fresher goods. With the County’s population surpassing 17,000, the number of court actions increased considerably, and within a year, a new cruciform-shaped edifice was constructed to the north of the first courthouse (at the corner of Church and Pennington streets). The second courthouse was an imposing two-storey Victorian fabrication set on a stone block foundation, with red brick walls, a tower with central cupola, and two side wings with gabled attics. At that time, North Main Street was considered the outskirts of Tucson and the building’s cool, oiled flooring is remembered as a highlight of summer excursions into the city center.
Building the Distinctive Third Courthouse
For nearly half a century, the Second Courthouse of Pima County proudly served the area’s legal needs, but by 1927, the County had enough documents and books to overload its second floor. After engineers proclaimed the building unsound, Roy W. Place was contracted to design its replacement.
Construction of this centerpiece of the growing urban core proved complicated. Although an initial bond election raised $300,000, additional funding of $50,000 was needed by the project’s completion in 1929. Excavation to position brick piers exposed remnants of the southwest corner and a wall of the old Presidio de San Agustín del Tucson (c. 1783). Then human remains were unearthed. Even today, installation of water or gas lines, or routine road repair, often reveals graves of the ancient Huhugam* people, as well as those from the time of the Presidio.
While the inner fabrication of the early twentieth-century courthouse is steel and modern brick, the appeal of Place’s expression of Spanish Colonial Revival architecture has impressed visitors since its conception. Originally facing Court Street, the building was initially fronted with a wide expanse of grass and distinctive gas street lighting. Most notable from a distance, are the colorful mosaic tiles that cover the cement dome that rises above traditional pink stucco walls with periodic plaster accents. Across the face of the structure, black metal grillwork and lighting fixtures provide distinctive adornment. East side balconies and a Moorish arcade with elaborate portal façade frame an inviting courtyard and, originally, a colorful octagonal tiled fountain.
Changing Usage and Renovation
Like its predecessor, the “new” courthouse initially accommodated all of Pima County’s Superior Court divisions, jail cells, and offices of the County Attorney, Sheriff, and School Superintendent. Through the decades, the public conducted its individual, familial and corporate business: Marriage licenses, as well as certificates of birth and death, were obtained and recorded; civil lawsuits and criminal proceedings were conducted; and generations of citizens registered to vote.
For over 70 years, joyous celebrations have rung through its halls and courtyard: Individuals have married, the shooting of movies and television shows has featured innumerable celebrities; and residents and visitors have attended concerts, plays and holiday events. Its windows have also observed times of sorrow, such as property foreclosure auctions, and civil demonstrations for and against war and to decry the continuing plight of the homeless.
As the nature of Pima County’s business has changed, so have aspects of the property’s physical structure. The 1930s saw the removal of the original courtyard fountain. In the 1950s, removal of surrounding trees and gardens provided space on the south to accommodate construction of an addition to house both the Superior and Justice courts.
At that time, the Square and Compass Crippled Children's Clinic commissioned a local artist to build a new blue-tiled concrete fountain in the courtyard as a creative fundraising project. From change donated by community children, and $10 bills contributed by newly-married couples posing beside it, the fountain raised thousands of dollars to help Southern Arizona’s children. Unfortunately, the fund-raising stopped when the vandals who had been stealing coins from the fountain started beating county employees who were trying to collect the money that had been donated.
Eventually, most county departments were relocated. The early 1970s brought a new, modern cement Superior Court building (at the corner of Congress Street and Church Avenue). Roy Place’s tribute to Spanish Revival architecture became known as the “Old” Pima County Courthouse.
In 1992, rehabilitation began anew. From general painting to recasting crumbling finials, the work was undertaken with civic pride. Unfortunately, the mid-twentieth century courtyard fountain was inadvertently demolished. Following public outcry, a replica of Roy Place’s 1929 fountain was constructed. His original designs helped fabricate colorful glazed tiles and a brass fountain with four spray bulbs for the stone centerpiece.
Today, business in the building is limited to the Pima County Consolidated Justice Court, and offices of the County Treasurer, Assessor, and Recorder. While marriage licensing has moved to newer quarters, marriage ceremonies still take place on the romantic grounds. A granite line running through the courtyard shows visitors the location of one wall of the historic Presidio. A section of the wall rests in its original position as a memorial to early settlers of the Old Pueblo.
As with any historical building, the process of structural and landscaping maintenance, rehabilitation and remodeling is unending. Although varying interpretations of urban renewal have impacted it, Tucsonans are fortunate that the Third Pima County Courthouse continues to stand as a lasting reminder of superb Southwestern American architecture in the early Twentieth Century.
* A new transliteration of Hohokam.
It’s Such a Tiny Patch of Green
Hardly the size of a picture window.
Yet with loving hands
I nurture it, protect it,
cajole it into growing
in a climate that yearns to destroy.
I stand barefooted,
feeling the tickle of tiny green blades.
Each stroke a memory.
I cherish the few moments it takes to mow,
breathing in the fragrance of home.
Green is such a vibrant color
in this land dominated by shades of brown.
A hospital is a difficult place to be, for patients, for their families, and sometimes for the professional staff. I certainly found it so during the summer I spent as a Chaplain Intern at a medium-sized general hospital in the Denver area.
A hospital chaplain is charged to minister to patients without regard to religious belief or non-belief, to be compassionate without preaching or imposing his or her religion or spirituality on the patient, in other words, to be “transparent” so that the patient can find his or her own answers. My constant question for myself that summer involved my efforts to be “transparent” and to demonstrate compassion as I strove to fulfill my call to the ministry as a hospital chaplain.
In this hospital, one of the items to be checked off before a heart patient could go home was a visit from a chaplain for the purpose of discussing how the patient could reduce stress after returning home, in order perhaps to avoid a return visit to the hospital. Today I was to visit Ethylene and talk to her about stress. This was my first “stress lecture,” and I really didn't know what to do. When I asked the head nurse for guidance about what the “stress lecture” was supposed to cover, she just smiled and told me I was on my own.
Ethylene was an African-American woman in her mid-fifties who had been admitted repeatedly for chest pains, but that’s all I knew about her. When I first walked into her room she was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking out the window, her back to the door. She was wearing a hospital gown. Her shoulders were slumped. She turned to look at me as I walked to the bed, and then resumed looking out the window. She seemed not much interested in having a visit from the chaplain.
Trying not to be put off by her disinterest, I opened the conversation with some small talk. Dutifully I asked about her church affiliation. She said she was a Baptist and an active participant in her church. I started to ask questions about her family, and she began to tell me about her life.
Ethylene was married and had several children, all grown. She and her husband seemed to have a good relationship, her children loved her, and life, until recently, had seemed pretty good. Her family had provided the perfect respite from her stressful job at a U. S. immigration detention center where she processed illegal immigrants who were scheduled for deportation. Her oldest son (her favorite child, she told me), age 20-something, had a good job and a bright future. He had been engaged to a lovely woman whom Ethylene had embraced as one of her own. The future had looked like a place where Ethylene would want to be.
That is, until one day her 20-something favorite child was struck by a car and terribly injured. In the hospital the doctors and nurses tried valiantly to save his life. The young man was hooked up to all kinds of equipment; a ventilator kept him breathing. It was terrible to look at him, Ethylene said, because his face had been so badly disfigured in the accident, and also because of all the bandages and tubes.
Ethylene sat by her son’s bed for three days. Finally, when it became very clear that he could not recover, she gave the order to stop the life support and turned off the machines herself.
Since then, she told me, she had spent her spare time standing on the corner where her son was hit, just on the next street behind her house. Sometimes her husband would come and take her home. But she kept on going back to stand there and think about her son and grieve his death. Life had lost its meaning for her. There was no future now -- only the pain of losing this beautiful child. And the excruciating agony of her memory of him as he lay in the hospital, bandages and tubes and mangled face and body in place of the beautiful young man she had cherished. No one else can ever know, of course, the pain a parent feels at losing a child, and yet in those moments as I listened to her story I felt Ethylene’s anguish as if it were my own. In my mind’s eye, I saw what she was seeing. In my own heart I knew, as if it were my own experience, her inability to arise from the morass of her grieving, her unwillingness to let go and move on with her life, her fear that if the horrible pictures faded from her memory there would be no memories at all.
Yet in her pain, Ethylene was concerned for the rest of her family. She said she knew she was neglecting her husband, and still she just could not let go. She felt compelled to stand on the corner and remember. There was no medical diagnosis of a broken heart, yet that was what had happened to her.
Listening to her recital of this poignant story that she must have told many times before, I felt my own sense of helplessness rising. What could I say to this woman that would make a difference? How could I help her assimilate her experience, terrible as it was, without doing violence to her memories? Silently I prayed for the right words to come.
Suddenly, an idea glimmered. “Where is your son, now?” I asked. Time stopped while I waited for her answer.
Patiently, yet confidently, she replied, “He’s in Heaven.”
Softly, almost whispering, I asked her, “What does he look like, now?” I remained silent. Our eyes met. Her expression was one of shock, the shock of realization of a new way of thinking. She turned back to the window, then, and a smile began to play on her lips and a light appeared in her eyes. She looked at me again, this time showing some energy in her body, and replied, “Why he is perfect!”
She continued to smile as this new idea played in her consciousness: her son without his bandages and tubes, his beautiful face perfectly repaired, his handsome smile restored, standing tall and proud in his new home, the Heaven that her religion promised as the reward for having lived this life as a good person, a believing soul, a loving and beloved son. God’s grace had been fulfilled, as promised. This new picture of her son now became the one she would hold in her heart. She now could feel the joy of connecting again – with her son in his new life and with her family in this one – while letting go of the painful images of injury and death and the excruciating guilt of having been the one to take him off life support.
We sat quietly together for a few minutes and then I left the room, silently, without saying anything further. What was there left to say?
The next day when I visited her, she was sitting, not on the bed but in the chair where I had sat the day before. This time she was dressed in a robe that was obviously her own. No hospital garb today. Her hair was combed. Did I see a little makeup on her face? Her depression had lifted, and she smiled at me as she told me she was waiting to be discharged, maybe tomorrow.
I sat down on the bed. Ethylene then said she had made some decisions about her life. As soon as she was able, she would resign her stressful, violence-filled job at the detention center. She would spend time fishing, something she loved to do. She would join a grief support group, too. She asked me to give her a follow-up phone call so she could let me know how things were going. I was not sure that contact with a patient after she was released was permissible, or even desirable, but we exchanged phone numbers.
As much as I would like to have known how the story unfolded after Ethylene went home, I felt complete with our encounter. I was saying goodbye to a woman who had found herself in a new way. Her life now was just beginning, all over again. What had been old and ugly was now made beautiful and fulfilling.
In A Spirituality Named Compassion, Matthew Fox, priest and professor, has written eloquently about compassion as spirituality, as a way of life, as a platform for making connections for the purpose of healing. Compassion, he says, is hardly a religious concept but provides the underpinning for a life lived with insight and attention in our relationships with others. Compassion is an energy that empowers the imagination and creates change. If compassion constitutes the power to imagine with another person and be willing for both to be changed by the imagining, Ethylene and I together had experienced the creativity of compassion. Neither of us would ever be the same. As I said good-bye and left the room, I felt a deep and exhilarating sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. Life was good.
At Pymatuming
Whiskered carp
amass at the spillway
like living
Munch’s
mouths agape in