Looking out my Backdoor: A rendezvous with death

I woke in the night reciting lines from WWI poet Alan Seeger’s, “I Have a Rendezvous with Death.” Where did that come from? “At some disputed barricade, When spring comes back with rustling shade, And apple blossoms fill the air … .”

I haven’t heard that poem since high school. How could I have remembered?

Ironically, I’ve never felt more intensively alive than today. Getting a new hip last winter literally gave me a new life. I’ve always liked the rain but this morning when I walked outdoors, it seemed like the world had been freshly created. Like the First Morning. Tears wet my face.

How much of my depth of feeling is due to being surrounded by death? When I sit at the computer in the morning, first thing I ask is, “What is the death toll today?”

I have a burgeoning acquaintance with Rumi, the Persian poet from 800 years ago which makes us almost contemporaries. Today, he told me that every story is us, from the beginning to no-matter-how-it-comes-out. What I hear him say is that the man who died in the hospital last night and the newborn baby in her crib; their stories are also mine. We’ve lost the way to remember.

Rumi said, in the same poem, those who sit at the table and eat are those who taste the meal. When Alan Seeger wrote about spring bringing meadow flowers and apple blossoms, he was so intensely alive, sitting at that scarred oak table, bib tucked into his shirt, knife and fork poised, savoring every morsel on his plate. He knew he would not fail the rendezvous.

We are such a funny people. We have a thousand euphemisms for death. Kicked the bucket. Bought the farm. Gave up the ghost. We are so afraid of dying that we sidetrack around the words “death, dying, dead.” In avoiding death, we forget to live.

We say, we will begin living when … we save enough money, lose enough weight, get a little stronger, more beautiful, more successful; if we wait until fall when the crops are in, when the cattle are sold, when the bills are paid; once the kids are through school, after the rains, when the snow melts, when we retire, then we will do those things we’ve put off for years, those things in our hearts we yearn to do.

A long-time friend named Bob says, “Always choose life.” Then he walks off and leaves me to interpret what that means.

Life is not for waiting.

Like it or not, in the midst of pandemic death, life is tough. Yet, perhaps more than ever, we have opportunities to redefine, to re-align our lives, to choose life. I cannot say what this might look like for you.

Usually, when I find myself at a crossroads, the choice, making a change is simple, though I’ve moved across statelines when that is indicated.

Choosing life might be as simple as walking across the street and offering to help with childcare for that young mother who is struggling to work, to put food on her table.

Or one might set up a safe place for a few neighborhood children to gather for on-line schooling.

Did you hear about the neighbor who noticed a yard down the street gone out of control, found the owner had a broken hip, and organized a garden party for Saturday? Twenty people showed up, tools in hand, to work and soon had the entire yard renewed.

Another person drove by, saw the work being done, returned with cases of bottled water and boxes of cookies.

I know people who do shopping for those who cannot get out. If you are one of those stuck at home, pick up the phone and call that old friend with whom you’ve lost touch.

See, choose life. It doesn’t have to be hard. Most changes that last are small. And quiet. Unremarked.

Our stories merge, break apart, come back together. We sit across from one another at the same scarred, scrubbed table.

Choose life. After all, in the words of my favorite philosopher, poet and songwriter, Hank Williams Sr., “No matter how I struggle and strive, I’ll never get out of this world alive.”

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].