Gaelic Poems in Memory of Muff

The Dream of the World without Death.

Now, sitting by her side worn out with weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:

Crying aloud, "The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.

And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,
Saying, 'Thy wanderings on earth are ended."'

And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle
Even at the silver gates of heaven,
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,
And puts his silence among men no longer.

*

The world was very quiet. Men in traffic
Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen
Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;

And women barred their doors with bars of iron,
In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise
Trembled behind the husbandman afield.

I could not see a kirkyard near or far
I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision
Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.

But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,
And felt the cold wind of a lost one's going.

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,
And faded in a darkness; and that other
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish

One struck his aged mother on the mouth,
And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearth-stone.
One melted from her bairn, and on the ground

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.
And many made a weeping among mountains,
And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,
Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,
Crying, "I am grievous for my children."

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean
Crying, "Burial in the breast of me were better,--
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals."

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,
Saying, "The thing ye cursed hath been abolished--
Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!"

And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,
And men and women feared the air behind them;
And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.

*

Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:

Saying, "O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.

"I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanished upon God!

"I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,
And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.

"I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.

"And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.

"The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;

"And we can sit above them where they slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.

But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grow the silence and the distance.

There is no space for grieving or for weeping
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!"

*

Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut
Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,
And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.

Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;
Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow
Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.

And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,
But red light scorched their edges; and above her
There was a soundless trouble of the vapours.

"Whither, and O whither," said the woman,
"O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,
My little ones, my little son and daughter?

"For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,
And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths
Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes

"Looked violets at the violets, and their hair
Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing
Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;

"And suddenly my little son looked upward,
And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going
Was like a blow of fire upon my face.

"And my little son was gone. My little daughter
Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;
But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it

"By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one
Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,
Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.

"And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,
And I sank among my hair, and all my palm
Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.

"Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither
Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly
By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.

"I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight
I sought him in great forests, and in waters
Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me.

"And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,
Though her voice was like a wild-bird's far behind me,
Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.

"And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward
To the forest where I missed him; and no voices
Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,

"And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,
And no mark of little footsteps any farther,
And knew my little daughter had gone also."

*

But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,
The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,
And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.

And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,
The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,
And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.

And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,
The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,
The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.

The dog in lonely places cried not over
The body of his master; but it missed him,
And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.

The traveller's horse lay swollen in the pathway,
And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller
Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.

The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind
Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,
And the father's bed was empty in the morning.

The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,
Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,
And wakened,--and the cradle there was empty.

I saw a two-years' child, and he was playing;
And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,
And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother.

The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,
And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;
And another white bird flitted round and round it,

And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,
And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,
Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.

*

So far, so far to seek for were the limits
Of affliction; and men's terror grew a homeless
Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.

There was no little token of distraction,
There was no visible presence of bereavement,
Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.

There was no comfort in the slow farewell,
Nor gentle shutting of belovéd eyes,
Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.

There were no kisses on familiar faces,
No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering
Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.

There was no putting tokens under pillows,
There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,
Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.

There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking
How near the well-beloved ones are lying.
There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,

Till grief should grow a summer meditation,
The shadow of the passing of an angel,
And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.

Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

*

But I woke,
And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,
And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,
And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.

I eased my heart three days by watching near her,
And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,
And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.

And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,
And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth
Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.

And I cried, "O unseen Sender of Corruption,
I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,
Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.

"I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,
The bloomiess face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers.

Muffs Favorite Music

As we near the anniversary of my best friends death last year at the end of March, I keep thinking of the things she loved to talk about and that engaged her lively mind.
One of those things was her Irish heritage and her love of Irish music.
Though she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, Muff dreamed of singing the old standard Irish songs of the Dubliners, the Chieftans, the Irish Rovers and the Wolftones. She would roam about the campus at Clarke, humming Celtic tunes off key, thinking her thoughts and reveling in the campus' Irish feel and heritage.
When we went to Ireland together in March 2001, Muff and I enjoyed the nightly music in the Gogerty Pub in Temple Bar.
She would have adored this web site, and it makes me sad that I can't send it to her.
But here it is anyway, in honor of my dear friend, may she rest in peace and be enjoying many evenings of Irish story and song.

Somewhere a Voice is Calling: American Irish Musical Interpreters, 1850-1975
"Through the lives and careers of a few public musical figures, this exhibit shows some of the breadth of 'American Irish' vocal and instrumental music." Features essays, images, and sound clips of music by P.S. Gilmore, John McCormack, Michael Coleman and James Morrison, Francis O'Neill, Annie "Ma" McNulty, and the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. From Boston College University Libraries.
URL TRUNCATED, SEE LII ITEM
LII Item: http://lii.org/cs/lii/view/item/27558

Birthday and Christmas Blessings

Tomorrow on my 48th birthday, I'd like to think that my best friend will look down on me from heaven and bless me with her kind thoughts and hope for a better year in 2009.
Last year she sent me a beautiful celtic-knotwork leather appointment book and a shamrock book mark that I still use. But Muff was thoughtful like that, she was always finding a book I'd like, or a journal, or something celtic-looking that she knew I would love and then sending it to me on a whim. She practiced random acts of kindness, generosity and beauty all the time, and, though I tried, I felt that I could never overtake her in the race to procure and send the perfect gift or surprise.
It always amazed me that she had such an eye for quality. Muff could spot a cheap knock off a hundred miles away. She always preferred to buy things that were handmade, well written, intelligently designed or just plain beautiful.
She once scolded me for giving a bottle of shampoo that I'd already opened and tried (and disliked) to a food and sundries drive for the homeless. "Why would you give the homeless something that wasn't good enough for you? Don't they deserve quality products that work well, too?" I burned with shame for days after that incident.
Muff enjoyed Christmas, too, and was always regaling me with tales of the gifts she and her siblings purchased for one another. I gather it has already snowed quite a bit in Iowa, so they won't have to worry about a white Christmas, but ours isn't coming until this weekend, when we're supposed to get a light dusting of snow that is sure to send the city into a state of panic, because no one in Seattle or surrounding burbs has any idea how to deal with the white stuff. It immobilizes them every year.
But this year I will be prepared, hot tea at the ready, books lined up to read and snuggly blankets deployed on my person in case I am snowed in for the weekend. I'd like to think of Muff in heaven doing the same thing, sitting quietly and reading, enjoying a hot cup of tea and musing over her latest re-reading of Barchester Towers. If only St Peter handed out cell phones to new arrivals, I could chat with her on Christmas eve as the snow was falling, and we'd laugh together about life, love, and good books. I miss you, my friend.

My friend the Distinguished Alumni and Humanitarian

I got an email and several letters from Clarke College urging me to nominate someone from my class (1983) for the Distinguished Humanitarian Alumni Award. Muff immediately sprung to mind, and I found myself recalling all the things she'd done her whole life to help others.
When we were in college, Muff regularly helped me by typing my term papers and running lines with me for the shows I was in. Once she graduated, she worked as a nanny to help a family raise their children...she was an expert at this since she often told me she felt she'd raised her three younger brothers, Michael Bear and Danny. She also told me time and again that she worked not only for herself, but to help her mother and siblings financially whenever needed. Then she adopted a child in a third world country and raised her from childhood to adulthood with monthly donations and care packages or extra checks for various holidays and celebrations. This, when she often had to skimp on things for herself. This past year Muff adopted a platoon of soldiers in Iraq and wrote each of them letters every week. She sent them care packages and included poems and humorous books that she felt would keep their spirits up. She was always lending a hand with the folks at the Marshalltown Library, and she regularly babysat her nieces and nephews and her nieces new son. She was a humble and kind person who was generous with her time and money and whatever else she had that she felt you might need. So I sent in the forms, the Clarke alumni gal asked for more information, so I asked her brother Michael for more info, which he got from BJ and Mrs Jean Russell Larson, Muffs mom, and all was sent in to Clarke. The alumni gal told me that they'd never tried to give a posthumous alumni award before, so she wasn't surprised when the committee picked two living people to give the awards to. I felt terrible about it, though they told me they'd have Muffs name in the booklet of nominees at the presidents dinner during homecoming, but I somehow felt that I'd let my friend down. I wrote and apologised to Muffs brother Michael and he hasn't written me back, so I'm afraid that the Parks-Larson clan isn't too happy with me either. That makes me terribly sad, because I love them all dearly.

I did do something the other day that I think Muff would have heartily approved of. During my volunteer hours at the Maple Valley Library (I work on the book cart, doing intake of donated books and then getting them priced and onto the cart) I had to go through some boxes of aged books, most of which looked like they were just swept into boxes after the passing of some elderly parson or priest. Another guild member was helping me, and figured that many of these really old books would never sell on the cart, so she wanted them tossed into the recycle bin.
I couldn't bear the sight of the Bobsey Twins hitting the dumpster, nor could I bear to see an old turn of the century manual of "Necessary Knowledge" go to waste. And then there was a book of poetry that I just could not pass up. It contained a poem that I know poem Muff would love (she was fond of Robert Louis Stevenson). I am sure she would also have appreciated me rescuing those 5 books that I brought home from an untimely demise.

"The infinite shining heavens
Rose and I saw in the night,
Uncountable angel stars
Showering sorrow and light

I saw them distant as heaven
Dumb and shining and dead
And the idle stars of the night
Were dearer to me than bread.

Night after night in my sorrow,
The stars stood over the sea
Til Lo! I looked in the dusk
And a star had come down to me."

Robert Louis Stevenson

A Reference for my Friend

I was going through my old files on my computer when I happened across several letters I'd written to Muff. One was this reference letter I wrote for her back in 2004, in hopes she'd be able to get some scholarship money to continue her education.
Here it is:

February, 2004


Dear Business and Professional Women of Iowa Foundation,

I am writing on behalf of Rosemarie Larson, whom I have known since 1980, when we both attended Clarke College in Dubuque, Iowa.

Ms. Larson graduated with a degree in history and literature, and no student could have worked harder than she did to obtain her degrees. While most students sought ways to lighten their work load, Ms. Larson would consistently add to the already weighty reading lists, look for ways to do more research, or to further enrich source material for class. Her professors and classmates at Clarke always found her diligence remarkable and admirable, and Ms. Larson was a popular study partner and friend of many on campus, setting an example many tried to follow.

She is currently working hard to become bilingual, with Spanish language study, she is on the Deans List for academic achievement, a member of Phi Theta Kappa and has completed, with the highest marks, four criminal justice courses. Ms. Larson voluntarily left a dead-end job to improve her skills and gain more knowledge so that she might obtain a better job in the medical or criminal justice fields.

I’ve been the lifestyle and business reporter for the Mercer Island Reporter, a well-respected weekly newspaper in Washington State for nearly 7 years. I’ve won 5 awards for journalism from the Washington Newspaper Publishers Association and the Society of Professional Journalists, Western Washington Chapter. I’m also a published freelance writer with 17 years of experience, writing articles on everything from cooking to CEOs for local and regional newspapers, magazines and web sites. I am married to a broadcast journalist and have a four-year-old son, Nicholas, who is Ms. Larson’s godson. My husband and I felt that her strong spirituality and intellectual integrity would be beneficial to our son.

I highly recommend Ms. Rosemarie Larson for the Professional Women of Iowa scholarship. During her management career, I know that Ms. Larson exemplified the dignified and polished professional woman, and I believe strongly that she will become an even greater force in whatever company is fortunate enough to hire her after graduation. Her intelligence, faith, compassion and professional demeanor will serve to make her an employee who rises to top levels wherever she goes.

I hope that your organization will consider becoming a part of her journey back to the workforce.

Sincerely,

DeAnn G. Rossetti

Great Quote from Plan B by Anne Lamott

"I have survived much loss, as all of us have by our forties.
Rubble is the ground on which our deepest friendships are built.
If you haven't already, you will lose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and you never completely get over the loss of a deeply beloved person.
But this is also good news.
The person lives forever, in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through, and you learn to dance with the banged up heart. You dance to the absurdities of life, you dance to the minuet of old friendships." Anne Lamott

There is a song out by a Natasha Bedingfield called "Unwritten" that I think Muff would have loved.
Here are some of the lyrics:

I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined.
I'm just beginning
The pens in my hand
ending unplanned.

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
so close you can almost taste it
release your inhibitions..

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it on
One one else no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
the rest is still unwritten.

I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
are outside the lines

We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way, no no.

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
so close you can almost taste it
release your inhibitions..

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it on
One one else no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
the rest is still unwritten.

Muff would have agreed with that song, as a writer and a creative person, just as I identify with it as a journalist.
So this dance is for you, my friend. You're still there in my broken heart.

White Shoulders

Yesterday I stopped at a sidewalk sale in front of our local Bartells Drug store, and as I was sifting through various items, I came across a White Shoulders perfume gift set.
I picked it up with the intention of purchasing it, because I immediately remembered how Muff loved that particular perfume.
A few seconds later it hit me that Muff is gone, and I can't send her any gifts.
I felt like someone had pierced my solar plexus with an ice pick.
My husband came to ask why I was standing in the same spot he'd left me, crying, and I all I could say was "She loved White Shoulders."
Just when I thought the pain of losing my best friend was receding, suddenly the loss is as fresh as if it only happened yesterday.
That pain, the horrible midriff-exploding pain, just came right back and reminded me how fragile our lives are, how fortunate I am to still be alive, and how alone I feel without Muff.