In this week’s episode, open for all - a reading of two Sunday Kitchen Letters, A Pīwakawaka At The Kitchen Door and An Addendum, on the death of my father. Finally, some poems on love, remembering and a liturgy for sleeplessness. Thank you for joining me as I walk the halls of grief and wonder about what the future holds. A Liturgy for Sleeplessness At the counting of the hours and as the ‘un’s’ collect before my eyes The undone, unsaid and unfinished things in my body The work of my hands The unsolved puzzles of my day May there be rest in knowing there is always something undone that we might sleep and rise tomorrow The unfelt, unheard and unspoken things that haunt Swirling in the soft, shadowy edge of the mind Not enough to wake us but enough to jostle us from deepest slumber Let my slumber be the safe and soft space for all that is un- To become part of tomorrow, safe for tonight without needing my concern, my worry, my energy. For today, I have given all portions and allotments that belonged to it. But for the catchment of hours left in the night before dawn, grant me abundant mercy as I wander long hours in the small darkness, awake or dreaming. Give me strength for the dawn. Satisfy even the curiosity of the deep night I find myself aware of. May the alchemy of body and mind, mystery of eyes responding to light and noise relent — to the tonic of sleep; the easy weighted fall of eyelids, the slowing rhythm of breath. I lay down into the rhythm of the hours and surrender to them, even the most unwilling parts of me. Grant me mercy in slumber and keep me there. I offer my evening prayer to the morning and ask for the unknown knitting together of fibres, for entering the healing of deep rest. For the peace and end of the day, done and undone, and for sleep. Pax. Remember is Quicker than Forget. i. Remember is quicker than Forget on the track of a mind. You are easy to forget to think about if I walk quickly in a forward direction if I do not look back – I do not think to think about you. I do not write you down, I do not imagine words to shape you Out of the nothing, back to the mind. I do not remember to make you from memory, I would not remember to forget. I leave nothing in memoriam, but everything is left behind regardless; in nothing-ness. But – if I stop or pause, if catching my breath on an airport concourseat a train station; driven but not driving and left to wonder interrupted by a red light – if I do not propel myself forward from you in every moment unceasing; then Remember is quicker than Forget – and catches up to me. I encounter the memory of youwho taps me on the shoulder, I collide with you, the thought and thinking of you. Remember is so quick, Forget so slow. Love is Not. Before I knew anything hard or cruellike the world isI believed in fairy taleswith one dubious eye open – but even thennever wanted onenever thought Love would look a certain height or weightor would gaze at me through eyes a certain colourwith skin a certain hue I only hoped Love would be nothinglike I had seen in a movie or read in a book.I hoped Love would be a new idea. – I hoped Love would be an anchor,as steady as concrete or steeland at the same time warm,I wanted a paradox of my own to explore. I hoped Love would feel strongand sound like a cheerleaderbelieving each of mymad, genius, over-sized and wonderful ideaswas in fact, wonderful. I wanted to Love to find me wonderful, an endless curiosity.An unending conversation. – Later the hard natureof the world taught mehow I did not knowcould not knowthe touch or voice of Love,the sound or the feel of it. I spent long hours talking tothe stars and the moon insteadto the curve of the earth and rippling seacheeks made damp bymy own ocean of salt watermy days poured out like sanda broken hour glass I spoke aloud and askedhow I could not know thesound of Love’s voiceafter listening so longunless I had never heard Love at all. – Before the Universe answeredin that long silent pause of breath that islight reaching between two stars within my sight –that long of a breath I was left waiting. The Universe still did not answer mebut a feather fell at my feet saying‘Love is itself, warm and waitingstretched from the stars to the moon.’But this truth I refused, my body shaking. – I climbed to my high placestared out into the seain my smallest voicewhispered to the Silent in my silence. ……. It occurred to me perhapsI knew what Love should bebecause I knew so wellwhat Love was not.I said to the Love strung betweenthe stars and the moon and the sea‘Let it be kind, strong and generouswhen Love comes to me.’ – I met Love on a Thursdaybut we did not recognise each other.I was following feathers andby the time I did see Love inkindness, strength and generosityI had learned that when Love is strong,Love will probably be stubborn andnot all kindness is admirable butthere are other things that Love is.Even kindness takes some getting used to. Love was busy telling mewhat Love is and is notand Love didn’t want me. I leaned in and learned the lesson anywaywhat is was to listen and talk to Loveand then I returned to my high placeas close to the moon as I could standfar above the sea, and said to the Universe Now that I know what Love feels like,sounds like and looks like –I think I must talk to Love no more. It occurred to me that silent or speaking,telling me what is and what is not,Love and the Universe are much the same. And the Universe was still silent. The Parting Glass is a Celtic ballad, a farewell song often credited to the Irish but in true Scottish form - we claim the true origin. For many years, this has echoed as the song in my head when Dad wandered close to passing. Just a glimpse of the haunting lyric - Of all the money that e'er I hadI have spent it in good companyOh and all the harm I've ever doneAlas, it was to none but me And all I've done for want of witTo memory now I can't recallSo fill to me the parting glassGood night and joy be to you all So fill to me the parting glassAnd drink a health whate'er befallsThen gently rise and softly callGood night and joy be to you all Get full access to Sunday Kitchen Letter at sundaykitchenletter.substack.com/subscribe
