Mourning Song

There's a story I heard in a Tara Brach podcast, many years ago now, about a young child struggling to go to sleep at night. The child is scared and calling for mom. If I remember the story correctly, the mom reassures the child that they're not alone, that angels and God are with them in the dark.

The child responds that this is well and good, "but I need someone with skin on!"

I like that response. I've thought of that story often over the years, when my spiritual practices - as rich as they may be - leave me longing for more - longing for someone with skin on, longing to be loved by a fellow human being. We're both flesh and spirit, and I can be guilty of leaning too far on the side of my spiritual needs - or substituting human needs for spiritual ones.

But sometimes my mammal, animal body is the one asking for care and attention. Sometimes I need someone with skin on. These are the most vulnerable needs for me to open to and share with others. I imagine this is true for so many of us. If we don't need, we can't be hurt. If I fill my human needs with spirituality, I'm less susceptible to shame, disappointment, or hurt.

That story - "I need someone with skin on" - came to mind during a morning walk, a time when I often grieve my beloved dead. How I miss their skin bodies, living side by side with me.

I like that the title of this poem could be heard two ways - as Mourning Song or Morning Song. Both are fitting.

Mourning Song

There's a small copse of woods
by my house, and a small oak tree
in the woods, and this is where I go
to visit my dead. I weep rain under
her branches. I gather heart stones
to lay at her feet. I exhale each particular
ache for my beloveds, taste the sound
of their names in my mouth. I'm old
enough now that there are as many
on the other side of the veil as there
are here. I miss their fleshy bodies –
the crepey softness of their skin,
the way their kitchens smelled
like bacon and coffee and the metallic
tang of well water. I miss their voices,
the laughs I only hear in my head.
I know they're dead, not gone. But
some days it's hard to hold onto myself,
to live without their skin bodies, bodies
that hugged and held mine. Some days
I need to remember that I'm matter
and mammal as much as spirit and sky.
My animal body wants my forest
of trees around me. So I walk to
the woods. I wrap my arms around
my earthy flesh and weep for what's
lost. I weep for what remains. I gather
their strength inside me and walk home.

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With a grateful heart, Karly