I have been thinking of the tenderness of good-byes. Most of the time, we don’t know the significance of departures — bye-bye, see ya later — but some are weightier. I remember my own heart-full and achy farewells to each of my children after settling them into dorm rooms for their first year of college. I blink back tears when I leave my mom after a visit. The rituals and meaning of good-byes matter and keep us connected, as did my dad’s words to me. Earlier this year, I held my aunty’s hand in her final moments and felt her warm, firm presence in my life even as she was leaving.

Each night at the hospital was another departure.

Setting up the bedside table, with the phone close,

the water, the glasses, I stalled a little, reluctant to

leave.  At last, I leaned over, kissed Dad.  He hugged

back and kissed my forehead with a deep inhalation,

taking in everything about me in that one breath,

just as he used to, tucking me in at night.

“Be good,” he said, as he always said.

“Be a good girl,” he said when it was time to

leave after bringing me to college for the first

time.  The dorm room was bleak with cinder

block walls and hard furniture.  My parents

had helped me carry suitcases and boxes up

the stairs.  I knew that inside one of those

boxes was a colorful bedspread.  Somewhere

there were posters and framed pictures.  But

at that moment, I felt lonely.  “I will,”

I answered softly.  This was a new life,

a different world, and suddenly I did not

feel at all ready.  But they left me anyway.

I watched them from my window, my eyes

blurry and blinking, as they walked away

along the sidewalk below.

Earlier this summer I watched a mother robin fly again and again to her nest of baby birds balanced on the down spout of my neighbor’s house. From an upstairs window I could look down and see the little beaks open for the bugs and worms. When they started to crowd each other and almost tumble out of the nest, they were ready to fly. Over the course of a day, two birds left the nest. The last one was smaller than the others, and the mother returned to the nest many times to continue nourishing her little bird. And then a few days later, it was gone. (With regard to the story below, I now know that we should not rescue wildlife — but there are professionals who know what to do.)

The baby bird cheeped its panic,

and we stood under the maple 

tree, afraid to pick it up, but unable

to walk away.  Let’s help it, my dad said, 

and that lesson of compassion was 

far greater than the later knowledge

of the will of nature.  We made a

bed in a shoebox, lined with a

heating pad and towel.  Dad fed it

thin rice cereal with an eye-dropper,

all of us gathered around him

holding the small bird tenderly

in his hand, coaxing it to open its beak.

Life was tenuous for the tiny bird, 

with paper-thin skin and wobbly head.

We did not know if it would live, but

we hoped, and kept watch.

Years later, I watched the nurse help 

Dad stand up to use the bathroom.  

The hospital gown revealed his

backside, thin and frail.

I remembered our little bird,

how it did get stronger, and

how one day we stood under

the maple and let it go, free.

I learned this weekend that one of my beloved aunties is near the end of her life, halfway across the world from me in Chiang Mai. I am thinking of her kindness and the many people she touched in her time on this earth, and that those warm thoughts I have of her are how any of us would want to be remembered. So I am remembering her and wondering how she is experiencing this transition, just as I tried to imagine my father’s journey years ago. I hope it is a time of clarity and light. 

Did I know you were moving

closer to the end?  If I did,

it attached deep inside, and

might explain the light.

Quick to answer, lingering

on your voice, telling you

about my day – everything

flowed freely.

We were on the edge of life,

in a sunlit field, fearless.

Open to words and each other.

Aware of the intricacies of breath.

Usually I have the privilege of understanding language, and just as all privilege is experienced, I take that knowledge for granted. But this morning at the gym, I listened yet did not understand two women speaking Eritrean in the sauna. The words were sharp with a distinct rhythm and I enjoyed the sound without meaning. I do not speak Thai, though it was my first language and I know it still runs through me. When I am surrounded by Thai, I take in a lot through certain known words, tone, and context. It is a particular way of experiencing language that allows presence and detachment at the same time. Words and meaning bubble up here and there, but the flow keeps moving. After having the gentle ease of that experience, the contrast of the language I know feels abrasive and jarring.

Here, on Sunday, spirituality seems so busy with words.

Where I had been, I had grown used to not knowing

language. There, my other senses were alive –

while the warm water of words passed over me,

barely noticed. But on Sunday, winter in Minnesota,

language pours from everything, and the cold wind

presses on stained glass windows, whistles along with words,

every one of which I know, but do not understand

so well as the raining rhythm of the monk’s blessing.