If I had to choose
I would choose the blue tractor
sitting in silhouette on the hill,
waiting for my neighbor to decode
the sudden weight of wind and heat
and the murmuration of birds
to determine the day for planting.
If I had to choose
I would choose the tractor and the sunset
And hope.
I walk across rough soil where wild seeds have fallen from spent grasses,
and plants bend down to rest; we wait for rain.
By the house, I count monarch chrysalises suspended, waiting.
I call my dogs, and counsel the rabbits to run.
If I had to choose,
my life wins every time.
It is enough. And I love it.
During the 18 months since I last wrote in this space it has been quiet in my garden, as well as in my writing. Another drought deepened. Few monarchs visited, hence few eggs were laid and even fewer caterpillars and chrysalises formed. In these parched and quiet months, my words seemed to drift in perpetual motion, not waiting to be captured: circling, swelling, swooping like the seeds from the sparce milkweed pods that opened, searching for moist soil in which to settle.
Grief for my friend Grant, that has been present with me since his death two years ago, has resisted my attempts to bring it to heel. I have been learning that grief is here on its own terms. It is a teacher and a friend, as Grant was to me. It is here to sing, to illuminate, to create, and to connect, just as he was.
In the first winter after Grant died, I found myself traveling into space, exploring the trajectory of his passing into the complexity of the cosmos. I could see his passage in my mind’s eye. Since then, I’ve been experimenting with ways to communicate this vision in symbols and paint media: acrylic on acrylic, boundaries collapsing, figures merging and reforming: translucent and transfigured. The struggle to allow those images to flow is a great challenge: beautiful and daunting all at once. The effort to communicate a process that is always changing continues. In this time, Grant has traveled beyond my wish, beyond my desire to hold him in this dimension. I guess it is in what they call “the music of the spheres” that I continue to hear his favorite song: “Butterfly.”
This past winter’s floods finally brought deeply welcome nourishment to the drought-ravaged trees, plants and soils that surround my home. Now there’s a bumper crop of new life, including monarchs and their offspring caterpillars, everywhere in motion. Seed pods on the milkweed plants, on which the caterpillars feed, are full-to-bursting. The cycles continue.
Heading HomeOn the launch of the James Webb telescope on December 25, 2021.
They sent a telescope today
to look for you.
It will peer out from the dark side of the moon,
from unrelenting cold,
to find your heat - your bright being.
And I think you will surprise them, the serious searchers,
with your little chuckle,
your sweet low murmur that will send across time
your wave of delight.
Grief Has Been a Steadfast Partner
Grief has been a steadfast partner these long days
and nights as winter has moved in with its rain and chill,
determined to take your place at the table.
Since you died in autumn, the delicate golden leaves of the birch,
under which we often rested with the dogs on the grass by the pond,
have finally fallen, laying bare a lacework of pale branches,
the majestic marble trunk revealed against a cold blue sky.
In this mid-winter, I watch with an anxious tender gaze
the careful pace of the black and yellow Monarch caterpillar
as it finds its way to a safe place to slough its skin,
to reveal its translucent pale green chrysalis.
Such fragile beauty made to mark the end:
one hungry hearty life transformed into a miracle of flight.
Perhaps I will be ready to begin a new season without you,
without your sure presence to hold me steady.
In this season of grief, I yearn forward.
If Zarafa would sing, if she would share her secret songs for me to hear, I believe today she would sing a medley of familiar American songbook tunes in praise of Grant, our friend who coaxed her into being, gave her a twinkle in her eye to meet the mirth in his own, and who imbued her with grace and dignity. She would reach across time and into space to remind him, with a knowing chuckle: “I’ve got you under my skin; deep in the heart of me; you’re really a part of me.” Yes, dear friend, we are a part of each other.
Zarafa
Stretching her long neck up into the branches of the massive olive tree
Zarafa would sing: “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day.” Then, having warmed to the sound of her own voice, she would invite Grant to a tender, ebullient duet, singing: “On a clear day . . . the glow of your being outshines every star; You’ll feel part of every mountain sea and shore. . . ”
Hearing Zarafa and Grant sing so sweetly, I would invite Billy Joel to join in, and I would sing too: “you should always know, wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away . . . inside this ancient heart you’ll always be a part of me. . . .Someday we’ll all be gone but lullabies go on and on. They never die, that’s how you and I will be. That’s how you and I will be.”
Grant Everett Crowl
In memory of Grant Everett Crowl: June 21, 1954-September 24, 2021
