Death brings a gift

Death always brings a gift. You knew that, didn’t you? Sometimes it brings a burst of life, appreciation, connection to people from the past, reconciliation. At least a taste so sweet and so bitter of how precious life is, how vulnerable we are, how human. The gift of someone’s memory engraved on a moment of time, a life brought into focus, savored, passed around, a photograph that says so much and so little, the enigma of a human soul no longer available to give explanation. The gifts that come with grief, despair, and unutterable pain are beyond words. The gift of a deep natural silence while we sit in a circle of honoring and releasing. To know that we are breathing, that we hear a bird sing, the sound of a green apple thunking to the ground, the bell or screen door as Fred goes in and out, in and out. To feel the ice cold salt rimming a margarita on my lips, the slide of liquid down my dusty throat. A moment before we are chattering, our hair streaming behind us in the wind from the truck window, the sun hot on my thighs, my silver bracelets glinting. A moment later I feel your arms strongly around me as we both sob. You didn’t even know him, you didn’t know until two days ago what had happened to me, and yet, your heart has swing wide open to take my pain in—a pain you can only try to imagine and can not begin to heal. This is today’s small gift I unwrap to add to the small basket like a pile of shells swept up on the damp sparkling shore of the black cold unfathomable and invincible sea.

My authentic Voice

When I speak from my authentic voice, I never know

exactly what I am going to say or how I will say it or where it will lead me. It is a magic carpet ride, it is a hero's journey to the center, it is an adventure on the yellow

brick road. Sometimes my authentic voice is strong and speaks the harsh truth and sometimes it is filled with tender compassion. My authentic voice is clearest when I walk the tightrope between worlds, between worlds of light and dark, confusion and purpose, wanting and awareness that all is fine. To dance between the living and the dead, this side of the border where I understand the language and that side where language is foreign, and gestures, smiles, tears, and laughter weave us together, between grief and joy, between this life and the one I am creating.

Dia de los Muertos: La Llorona

Who am I?
I am La Llorona, weeping for my children.
They say I drowned my children.
I say not.
They say I will snatch yours.
I say it is a tale to keep your children home.
I am the wind whistling through your fear.
Think carefully.
Do you want to lose your children?
I once was beautiful.
Think carefully.

Impersonating La Llorona at the Dead Poet's Halloween party sponsored by The Loft
Oct 31, 2009

Our Green Card Anniversary: to find the book

Our Green Card Anniversary

You come home dressed in black.
I can’t decide between silk or
velvet. I remember I wore a lace
blouse. It was a warm October day.
In the photographs I am standing
in shadow, you in the light.

You ask, “Where do you want to go?”
I don’t have any appetite, only a desire
to wear stockings and heels and
retrieve the gaze, the way you looked
at me the first time.

I remember how I clutched the flowers,
couldn’t call it a bouquet without wanting
to toss it away. In my room there
are tulips and a note. “I want to make
up,” you write. The storm was still

ringing in my ears. I remember how we
laughed trying on Halloween costumes
at the party store. One costume was
husband, another wife. I ended up wearing
strands of red coral and a gold

mask. It was our first public
appearance as a married couple.
I hadn’t changed my name yet.
The tulips are blooded and I don’t know
if I want to rebel or give in because now

I see though your subterfuge. You stood in
the light where the love reflected
off your face for all the memories
to come. I stood in shadow
promising that the tears I accumulate

would belong to us both. We took it on
despite the clock of abandonment
ticking its warning note.
“I want to make up,” you wrote.

“The way I love you is beyond words,”
I write back. At the table you open the card
and I can’t read the expression on your face.

For Dia de los Muertos your ancestors danced
on the altar with mine. Does that make us family?
Your mother’s spirit came by and blessed me in the
shadowy aftermath of the party when we
drank too much tequila. She said you would

never let me go. You hold on by offering
tulips, dinner out, the red wine I like best.
You never said you believed the
vows we took. You took my tears
and braided them into the rug at the entrance

of our home, where I live with
your name that is now mine and my
disappointments. Dia de los Muertos is
coming and I am afraid the grief will sweep me
away. Once again you

reach out to catch me. I remember
we drank champagne and I went home alone
and happy. Tonight we drink champagne
and you take me into your life
as neatly as folding shut an envelope.

When I told you I need you, you
did not try to negate me. I said
I think it is natural. You said, “Are you
ready for tiramisu?”


from Ceremonies of the Spirit
(c) Wendy Brown-Baez
2009

waiting after midnight

Waiting After Midnight

I wanted white roses. I wanted rain to
come in the window. The sky was gray
and the moon had disappeared,
the cherries were sweet and chilled.

The roses wept, the rain dripped
down the pane and the
phone never rang,
the bowl filled with cherry pits

and my fingers were crimson.
The moon blew away the clouds
and silvered my solitude,

my pearly body opaque and bold.
I remember the tears
you spilled into the cup of my breasts
to drink when I am thirsty,

the scent of damp earth,
the way the white curtains
rose and fell.


(c) Wendy Brown-Baez Ceremonies of the Spirit

In praise of beauty

In praise of beauty

The beauty of tears.
The beauty of a broken heart because I loved fiercely and didn’t want to let go.

In praise of letting go because life is a river and we the fallen leaf swirling to the ocean. Because life is an open sea and when our life raft capsizes, we float until a dolphin rescues us, until we accept salt water as our fate, until we are scorched by sun and condensed to bone, food for fish.

In praise of the life behind me, the trail of farewells that became the time of welcome. In praise of learning that farewell means til we meet again. That life is full of second chances, no true ending to the story because each ending is only a threshold, another point of view, another miracle.

In praise of miracles and the energy to move on.

In praise of rivers and oceans. The tide in my blood. The fog. The darkness, the rain. In praise of the small candle I hold in my hand. The box of matches given to me the day I was born.

In praise of cycles and spirals and gifts and the moment of truth and the moment of surrender.

In the Shelter of Words: read more by clicking on this link

photo courtsey of Dan Marshall