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A well-crafted poem is a world unto itself: each word crafted upon the anvil of precision, then blasting psychic space for the inexperienced.
Such was my experience reflecting upon the poem, “We Should Be Well Prepared,” found in Mary Oliver’s collection, Red Bird (2008), fitting end-of-the-year advice for us all. It’s about endings that stay ended.
What a subject, you might ask? Only Oliver’s acute sensitivity and observation, honed since a child, taught her to voice the inexpressible, in the multi-valiance of life teeming around her. Therein, she dipped into the pool of metaphor and the ordinary became extraordinary.
So in this poem, she selected nine metaphors that brush the reality of death, inherent in all created life, and invited us to look with her: the plovers’ cry of goodbye, the stare of the dead fox, the falling of leaves and long wait for their return, the ended relationship, the effects of mold and sourness upon foods, the rushing of river water and days – “…never to return.”
The final metaphor bites hard:
“The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.”
Whatever shape our diminishment comes, it will come. Mary Oliver’s life-long experience reflects her commendable attitude and willingness to teach others. I’m sure she was well prepared the moment of her last breath, January 17, 2019.
At 9 A.M., I awoke with this coaching dream:
Someone gave me a gift. I pull apart the tissue paper and discover a large folded rectangle of peach cloth, my favorite color. I shake it out. In my hands, it becomes a belted leisure gown, something that Mother would have enjoyed wearing in the 1930s when it was fashionable. Later, my brother Mark joins me and explains the artistic significance of the designs woven into the luscious fabric. I’m touched.
This view into my personal unconscious heartens me. The Someone suggests Creator God, giver of all gifts wanting the best for me, even to the color of the garment, peach, a blend of orange, yellow, and white that symbolizes the divine feminine.
The belted leisure gown speaks of change, given my aging and illness and less need to adhere to my daily routine of self-care. Fit in what is possible—the essentials—and let everything else go; they’ve served me well, together with two years of on-going hospice care. My body has special needs now, and my Dreamer has dressed me comfortably in a garment that enhances my wounded femininity.
The memory of Mother in the dream recalls her love for the color peach. As a young married woman and unable to afford a form-fitting crocheted dress, the fashion at that time, she bought a pattern book and made one on her own, in peach, with long sleeves and calf-length skirt. When home alone as a child, I used to open the cedar chest in her closet, pull out that dress, and put it on—it never fit.
And my brother Mark’s expertise that informed me of the garment’s added interest speaks to my undeveloped interest for the arts, thwarted by poor health. In the dream, I was glad for his company. He just showed up.
My gratitude for my Dreamer’s coaching continues encouraging me as I trek, alone, toward my eternal destiny. It is working out …
From a heavy sleep, I awoke at 7:30 A.M., with these stunning dreams:
It is Sunday afternoon, visiting time in the hospital. Many relatives fill Mother’s room where she lies in bed, awake and animated. I notice a smiling tiger looking at me from under her bed, its furry tail wagging, occasionally thumping on the floor.
I’m awake in my hospital bed as a clerk hands me a box wrapped in lavender tulle and silky ribbons. Inside is a deep-throated white orchid. There is no card.
These dreams contain sparks of hope from my Dreamer, a restoration sorely needed from yesterday’s severe grief.
Sunday afternoon refers to a period of receptivity, comparable with Creation’s Seventh Day, with opportunities for new learning. The image of hospital suggests a milieu of care and treatment for the new learning to occur. Mother, my extraverted shadow, although ill, welcomes her relatives seated and standing around her bed. No one seems to notice the smiling tiger, a spirit animal with multiple associations. This one is tame and serves as guardian into the unknown. I claim it as I continue moving through the symptoms of my terminal illness.
In the second dream God, disguised as a clerk, presents me with a gift/grace; its wrappings of regal lavenders speak of royalty, as in the Kingdom Jesus preached in the gospels. But the gift of the deep-throated orchid, a rich feminine symbol, heals some scars of the wounded feminine in my psyche, more of the beautification process before my transition—but more still to be done.
Once again, the dreams evidence God doing for me what I cannot do for myself. I’m humbled.
Heart Whisperings 