Grandpa D & Me

In honor of Grandpa's birthday, I'm sharing a poem I wrote last week about him.  I took a social work holistic healing class that was absolutely nothing like I thought it would be, and I loved it.  It was so contrary to my way of being and personality; think group of strangers sitting around sharing deepest thoughts and feelings through dance, poetry, meditation and art.  It was very hippie, in any other circumstance, I would have thought it cheesy, but in that situation it was very cool :) 

During one of the sessions, we were guided through a meditation in which we let our minds flow...I don't think my mind has ever just "flowed."  I daydream a lot, but I'm in complete control of where the daydream goes, and I'm never "surprised" about the story I make up.  Through this meditation, we were guided to "build" a house in our minds that was ours and only ours.  Somehow, my mind built a treehouse with windows for walls, and a deck surrounding the entire thing.  Then we were guided to have visitors.  My mind did not want a visitor, and no one showed up at my door.  I simply sat in my treehouse, content and happy to be alone, at peace.  Suddenly however, I looked over the edge of my deck and Grandpa D was there in his Scooter, riding a make-shift elevator to the top.  He came to sit next to me overlooking the glory that was my view; miles of trees and an ocean in the distance.  I'm not sure where we were, maybe California??  The mind is a mysterious thing....  In my meditation, we just sat there, never exchanging any words, sometimes smiling at one another, and sometimes I felt like I should say something, but I didn't know what.

After the meditation ended, we were asked to write about what we saw and what we envisioned, and then create a poem out of it.  This was my poem:

In a treehouse we sit,
My grandfather and I.

Burgundy plastic cups hold steaming black coffee,
black as the earth from which we come.

Black as the earth to which he has returned.

We sit, we watch, we do not talk.

What do you say
when there are no words left?

In a treehouse we sit,
My grandfather and I.

Watching, waiting, wishing...

Sipping coffee from burgundy plastic cups,

Black as the earth.