I Am Said I (Huruma)

It's December 16, 2008 - almost five months since my mother died - and I'm getting ready to go on visitation to our community in Michigan. Grief inhabits me and I inhabit grief to such an extent that I'm simply not up to the demands of my job, the office of Provincial and I wonder if I can keep going. Is it fair on the Province community for me to continue holding a position of responsibility when I cannot fulfil its demands? I'm plodding around all of this mire inside myself when I get a call from a member of the community who, in the course of our conversation, informs me that the "lads" are unhappy with the way I'm doing the job.  But the "lads" have forgotten that my mother is dead and I'm facing my first Christmas without her - the first in 53 years. I'm sure I've also forgotten other people's grief and need to learn from this. The complaint hurls me nosediving to a decision that was waiting to be made. I will re...

August 10, 2008 It seems that every day now is like pushing an elephant up a stairs . I awake each morning to begin hauling myself up all over again. What was achieved yesterday seems to be of no use for today. I am somehow disconnected from life and fiercely connected to loss. It’s like a massive hangover, without having had the pleasure. “You have veiled the Godhead in a cloud, in the clay of our humanity” (St. Catherine Of Sienna) The Lord veiled His divinity in the clay of Mam’s humanity, most especially in the ending of her time on earth - the final ten days. The Office Of Readings today has the lovely reading from Hosea 11 and I have experienced the tenderness of that love. The night before she died Mam drew me down to her, holding me to her cheek. I had asked her if she knew who I was and she opened her eyes, smiled and said, “you are Eamonn Monson, my lovely son”. She drifted into sleep still holding me, and in her I believe, I know, that God was holding m...

I The dawn Of youth’s confusion And strange awakenings Adrift Astride the heedless tide Drifting out And down and out I am betrayed By wicked fate To open not my eyes In the light of day To hide With kindred souls In shaded spaces Apeing the ordinary Pretending And in the quiet Through my sleep I dream of home II In these last ascending Springtimes To the middle of my life I dream of change In other worlds In other words It might have been different There might have been children To quell the aching In my womb This tomb Devoid of life Its only growth A damned deceitful tumour And in the quiet Through my dreams I dream of home Of strolling pregnant couples III Some times of stress I turn to the empty space And its not there A single bed A single man A man outside In womanlessness And in the quiet Through my sleep I dream of home Of strolling pregnant couples And children children children 

Rainfall  In the evening  Silencing The barking dogs  And screaming children,  Drowning out  The roar of traffic.  And all that roars And screams And barks inside me The traffic of my soul The dogs inside my mind The children of my heart Are to the quiet come In the steady fall  Of heavy rain  It’s easier to pray.

Love cries Because it loves Its tears selfish And not selfish at all It cannot bear absence Not loving the one For whom it would Give its whole life If it could be measured It would have The length and depth Of tears Floods and Oceans For Love is water In all its shapes And temperament And when I die Do not put sweet words On my lips I will not say That I am only gone To the next room I will not ask you Not to cry I should not tell you Anything about how You should grieve But if I would I should ask you to cry And cry as you must Until the time for letting go And I would ask for the flowers Of your garden Cascading their fragrance Like incense all around About us as testament To our loneliness and loving The loving that is perfected In all its expressions

Mind opening out In the wide and safer space Of the deserted road Soul slowing like a river To the estuary come Beyond the hill unseen I can feel the sea Numinous air rising Let me plunge into Its peacefulness and be Ravished by its ocean Ravaged by its waves Wind whipped white horses Softly trampling down The darkness that besets the soul Spirit soaring From the baptised depths The gasp for breath That knows how much I desperately need To live and move To be held by You Who are my atmosphere

I'm told that priests don't have to queue for the Baths in Lourdes but something in me resists such privilege  and I go down as a civilian, taking my place with all the other men and wait. It's easier for men than women because there are not as many of us. It's a very hot day but my time standing under the burning sun lasts only half an hour and then I'm into the shaded, seated area. There's a blessedness in waiting in common with others. Waiting and silent. Present. Some men chatter with each other from time to time and over the distorted loud-speaker people are praying and singing to help us focus. It's an assault rather than a help, so I block it out and pray within myself. Sometimes my eyes are closed, sometimes I simply observe. This reminds me of the pool of  Bethesda in John 5 - the paralysed waiting for the moment of healing. As well as priests and religious the old and infirm get priority over the rest of us and it is truly ...