You Have Come to Journey's End

 Dear Aaron,

I didn't know how this day would go; but I've known it was coming. . . I've known it for nearly a year now. Today is September 3rd, you see. A year ago today you thought your final mortal thought. Breathed your last breath. Faced your final fear. Was your parting thought a Switchfoot line? Was it a prayer? Were you afraid? Determined? Relieved? I don't know—and on this side of the Kingdom coming, I can't know. 

What I do know, is that for the last twelve years, I have thought of you as my elf-friend. How could you be anything but kin of Legolas, with your tousled blond hair and impish grin? With your skill in music and lyric-verse? With your love for the stars and the sea? You, a tree-lover and earth-wanderer, you must be of elven blood. So what song is more fitting in memory of three hundred and sixty-five days ago than this one?


INTO THE WEST

Lay down

Your sweet and weary head

The night is falling

You have come to journey's end

Sleep now

And dream of the ones who came before

They are calling

From across the distant shore

Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping

How desperately I wish you were only sleeping. Sleeping—to awake at any minute and laugh with mirth over simple joys. . . Sunsets, snowflakes, songs strummed on the roof. I want you to be safe in my arms, no more clamouring fears, no longer weeping over your lost Love. But, oh! You sleep a different sleep. The unwaking-on-this-side sort of sleep, where you no longer dream of those who came before—you have crossed to the distant shore.

What can you see
On the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea
A pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn
To silver glass
A light on the water
All Souls pass


You, who spent so many years along the edges of the water, you know the mournful, lilting—haunting—cry of the gulls. Their voices break my heart and comfort me, all at once. Can you hear their calls? Perhaps for the rest of my life, whenever their voices reach my ears, I will think of you. You, battling the noise and wheeling confusion in your own mind. You, with a whoop of delight, rushing to ring a solitary church bell. You, taking a wounded gull to the bird lady, even though it cost you your job. You, your soul home at last.

Hope fades
Into the world of night
Through shadows falling
Out of memory and time
Don't say
We have come now to the end
White shores are calling
You and I will meet again

And you'll be here in my arms
Just sleeping
And all will turn
To silver glass
A light on the water
Grey ships pass
Into the West

The last year has felt like one hell of a dark night. Like hope fading and shadows falling. So many memories have crowded in on me—or eluded me. For months (and even still), I wanted someone who knew you to talk with me about you. I just wanted to hear a new story, an old memory—something tangible to remind me of you. My grief is different than the ragged storm it was in those first weeks and months. But different doesn't mean absent. Sometimes the storm redoubles and leaves me gasping for breath. Sometimes, just beneath the calm surface, grief runs hard like a riptide. 

Don't tell me we have come now to the end. It can't be the end already. It's too soon. Too soon, can't you see? I don't want you to be across the waters, I don't want you to have answered the call of those gleaming, distant shores. I don't want you to be there without me. So many years ago you set sail, away from me and from unmoving earth. You sailed out into the pitching waves. Did you ever look back? Or did you set your face, unyielding, toward the sunset? 

A lithe grey ship has passed into the West. Yet you and I will meet again. You better be ready for a bear hug, O Westward One. Do you remember quoting Wordsworth to me, years ago? Let me return the gift, as tears of rain pour blessed relief upon this night. . .

‘What, you are stepping westward?'—'Yea.’

—'Twould be a wildish destiny. . .

The dewy ground was dark and cold;

Behind, all gloomy to behold;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of heavenly destiny. . .

— William Wordsworth, Stepping Westward

       

  

"Into the West" Songwriters: Howard Shore / Philippa Boyens / Annie Lennox

You Come Too: Lessons from Poetry

To the Cuckoo

O blithe newcomer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed birth! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!

~ William Wordsworth

"Thou bringest unto me a tale / Of visionary hours." Wordsworth writes this of the cuckoo's call, yet he is doing the very same thing through his poem.

The whole poem is a tale of vision, bringing the reader's mind up and into the light. Wordsworth's poem gives one's mind the wings to flit through the air and momentarily forget any troubles that might be weighing him to the ground. "And I can listen to thee yet; / Can lie upon the plain / And listen, till I do beget / That golden time again."

This aspect of 'transportation' in poetry is precisely why one should read it. Poetry - indeed, good literature as well - has the ability to bring one out of one's self to think and feel things that ordinary life may not have yet taught him. I find that I learn much about the wide world, about good character, about hope, about sorrow, about love, about death, about Life woven through the lines of poetry and prose. You may do the same, 'You come too.' *

~ Johanna

*The Pasture, by Robert Frost

A New Year, A New Place

4th Day in the England Adventure

Delayed flights, trotting through O'Hare to barely catch my international flight, touring around Heathrow to find other students, a bus ride to Oxford, a cab ride to Eynsham, meeting 9 fabulous students and 7 Bywater family members, church in a building founded before America was, buying groceries at the co-op and Sainsbury's, class, reading, and getting to know folks over meals and games... The days have been full and good.

While I should be reading instead I'm writing out some thoughts for those anxious to hear what England is like. I'm also writing for my own memory. The days have blurred together slightly. The tea here is lovely, as is the company.

Time for reflection doesn't happen quite enough. I can see the need to build in regular time for solitude, walks, prayer, writing, and Scripture reading. Some of those things may overlap, but none of those things will happen without careful planning and arranging. Except walking - that is done in great regularity.

I have barely begun to read a few things for one of my tutors, but I thought I would share one thing with anyone who might read my blog:

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.


To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it griev'd me my heart to think
What man has made of man.

~ William Wordsworth

Though short, a few lines from the poem cause me to ponder a bit. Why is it that the trill of a bird in early morn can make the heart soar, yet bring tears of sorrow, melancholy, sadness, or pain? How does sweetness cause pain? Is it the pain of Beauty which Sheldon Vanauken talks of in A Severe Mercy?

Out of the stillness broken by birdsong, and perhaps tears, one can certainly be led to ponder what man has made of man. Nature can seem unspoiled at times. The Beauty of the magnificent or overwhelming, the sharp thrill we receive when we hear the chatter of squirrels and birds is juxtaposed with the reality that human relationships are messy. Some men enslave others through hardship and toil, some persons oppress others' thoughts, writings, or speeches, and still others suppress through condescension.

But what has man made of man? Surely each of us can think of a great teacher, a book that has shaped our thinking or who we are, an employer who has helped us learn a skill or lessons of other sorts. What has man made of man? It is often because of someone else's help or encouragement that many a person has pressed on, has done more than they thought they ever could. Oh yes, this too is what man has made of his fellows.

It was God who placed us in communion with one another and with Himself. This poem is a good one, but could it have been great if Wordsworth had gone further, asking what God has made of man? I submit that it could have been.

That's it for tonight, another day of classes (and creme tea) comes tomorrow. Off to the land of dreams I must go!

~ Johanna

P. S. My address for the term is as follows, please feel free to send me mail!
*Note the address correction since yesterday*

86 Venneit Close
Chancellor Park - 2b
OX1 1HY
Oxford, UK