Introduction

A few months ago I was given the opportunity to share in the completion of the journey of a twenty-three year old woman in the prime of her life. Several weeks before her death Susie sat on her patio in the beginnings of a fine summer spring; the azaleas and dogwoods just coming out, knowing that her days were numbered to perhaps a week, a few at most. She noticed that a tree in the back of the garden had been heavily pruned. She wondered if that tree would live again, if anything would grow from it again. She wondered if she, herself, was like that tree; having been heavily pruned by glioblastoma.

Holy writings in many religion traditions tell us that pruning is a necessary part of life, that from pruning comes new growth, comes renewal. Certainly, from our perspective death, unemployment, terminal illness, divorce, cancer, heart disease and myriad other adversity represent the severest forms of pruning we can imagine. Pruning is at best a painful process. The brutally premature departure of Susie at the age of twenty-three represents a form of pruning that is never easy for those sharing it with the one traveling through it. It is certainly, no easier for the traveller going through it.

Life, that blessed sentient gift, is a great source of anguish when we are called to give it up or to traverse its often perverse gut-wrenching currents. There are those times when we are called to share in someone else's giving up of life or their journey through its sometimes strong dark currents. And, there are those times when we are called to give it up for ourselves. One thing is for certain, we will all be called to give it up for ourselves and most of us will get caught in the undertow of life's currents at one time or another. People of faith have something that can make that somber passage through the dark Valley easier. We have a message from the other side; a promise of a place prepared for us, a promise of a safe landing after, perhaps, a turbulent journey.

What this observer has found profoundly true is that even in the fleeting space of a week following severe loss, such as that of Susie, vibrant new shoots of fresh emerald growth can come forth; even from, perhaps, especially from the ashes of death. Perhaps, new shoots are to be found after all loss.

While driving to a city hundreds of miles distant to spend those last few moments with Susie before she went on to that Far Place we don't know the address for, a fresh sprout came forth. Then, while driving from the funeral home to spend time with Susie's family as they entered the brutality of that irrevocable journey, this new sprout enlarged. It bloomed with words; constellations of hope and comfort for those letting go of life, spouses, jobs, health, dreams. Over the next number of days and weeks many word pictures came to me. This book is the result of my harvest in the brief time since Susie's death.

To give a proper perspective on the miraculous nature of these poems, you need to know a bit about me. I have never had an interest in reading poems, let alone writing them; taking no training in writing. My training is in science and my days are spent working in hospital medical informatics.

Susie's mother and her grandmother have both seen these poems. It was with great trepidation that I sent a couple of these to them a mere three days after Susie's tragic departure took place, not knowing whether these were anointed or accursed words; whether they would provide comfort or not. Their first reaction was to exclaim they did not know I was a poet. I told them I didn't know I was a poet either. I'm not. These words merely passed through the word processor of someone who types with one finger on the left hand and four on the right.

These poems represent something truly new for me. Hopefully, these words really do come from a Higher Place and do represent something substantial from the Other Side that can provide comfort. A number of people tell me these words came from God. Another has told me I am John Dunn, reincarnate. Perhaps they came from what we Christians like to think of as the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, the Father. I know for sure they aren't mine. I claim no credit for them. Perhaps they are yours.

It is never easy to understand the death of a twenty-three year old to a brutal tumor, cut down in the prime of her life; her abundant radiant energy extinguished, taken away from this world. In attempting to minimize her loss, it only makes her death more brutal. These words are meant to acknowledge the magnitude of that loss. Your loss is no less brutal, no less worthy of acknowledgment.

It's easy to write words, trying to reduce your pain, or even eliminate your pain. I wish instead to acknowledge and share your loss. Certainly it is fertile soil for hope, growth, renewal. It is my hope that these word pictures can help you prepare your soil for next spring's growth; to give you at least the smallest sliver of Hope and possibility for the future, where you now have none. They come from beyond time or talent to help you work through the pain, knowing that healing, growth and renewal come from passing through the pain, not around it.

This book may have been given to you because you have just learned you are on the final phase of your journey, hearing dreadful words of finality and pain from your physician. You may have just helped another complete their journey. You may have just been fired from your job or found a note on the kitchen table from your husband telling you goodbye. Perhaps you have experienced the pain of seeing a beautiful forest cut down. You may lament the depersonalization and growing incivility of society. If you are reading these words, you are probably in need of great comfort. Simply knowing that others have been through your valley can be a great help.

I have sat in front of the physician's desk and heard dreaded words, watched backhoes fill in the void left by brutally premature death, jumped into the abyss of unemployment, seen most of the people around me suffer through divorce, experienced the incivility of society. Yet, life has been rich, meaningful, and well worth embracing.

I have actually only seen Susie once in my life yet I know our paths are forever linked in myriad ways; some of which would fill books. One of the last things Susie did before completing the business of dying, on our only shared visit, was to go with me on a blustery January afternoon to the orchid room in the botanical conservatory. While there I held Susie up to the flowers and asked her to memorize the colors, smell, and textures of these wonderful botanical miracles.

That evening I wrote down the words for "Orchid" which is found in these pages. I realized that these words were a memorial to a priceless experience. Orchids are magnificent memorials to what is good in life. Perhaps they are messengers of hope for the warm days that always come after winter. As it turns out, many of the words in these pages are memorials to events, encounters and experiences; many filled with poignancy, pain, and challenge. Yet, some were also rich cathartic ones. These pages should be thought of as memorials to the shared experiences of the many people these poems represent.

The dogwoods have finished their blooming now; azaleas are resting from their spectral outbursts. The warmth of summer is just memory around the edges of a short afternoon. Coolness of morning and evening is a bit more persistent than it was several weeks ago. We realize that the blessed time of summer, when we think of abundant verdant new growth coming out, is actually beginning to pass away. Summer is but for a season. At the same time we're finding that life has its seasons of growth. We are finding that Susie has her seasons. She has passed through the severity of what appears to be a final winter.

Even as the cold winds of loss and anguish howl in the hearts of family and friends, Susie who went through the harshest of pruning, is entering into a new season of growth, a new spring; going beyond the azaleas and growing into new experiences we can scarcely imagine. Shimmering shoots of growth are arising in several places here among the resting azaleas of our lives. I find even now, these words are shoots of new growth from her life, springing up in mine, watered by the tears of others. Even as you may be in the midst of life's winter, know that spring always comes after winter. Susie would be so pleased to know that from her tragedy has come sustenance and strength that can help you walk through your valley. Perhaps she really does know and is with you, whispering words of encouragement to you in the darkness.

The empyrean diamonds are most magnificent at midnight in winter.