On Closure

I’ve been working with the concept of closure. It started with my writing professors—one of them keeps telling me I’m sloppy with my ending, I need to pay closer attention, and finish strong, I can’t just leave my readers hanging without hope or something to hold onto, to transition them away. (My words)

I’ve been thinking lately though, that closure is not finite, for me nothing really ends. There are periods of transition, sure, but ending, finish, final, closure—there always seems to be something that leads into the next thing. My yoga teacher says, “Finish one thing the way you want to start the next.” I’m not sure I know how to do this.

But I do know that death is the only real closure I get in this lifetime. It’s not something to be feared or to worry about; the notion of death is simply a transition time, for the next thing, moving forward.

After a glass of wine with mom the other evening, and having our conversation lead to God and death and children as it does occasionally, she helped me to realize that perhaps the karma we incur in this life is not really for later in this life, or even in the next “life,” but rather it’s a protective force in the times of transition between life and death. It’s in the bardo that we need our karmic points the most. The Tibetan word, bardo, literally means interval or gap—I came to the conclusion that it’s important to gain merit (good karma) in order to fend off lingering daemons we may encounter during this period of transition, this gap called death.  

I do not want any daemons from this life in the next, that’s why this closure must start with paying off my library fines. $19.57.

March 29th

Heading West on I-40 towards the Grand Canyon—

In pairs they pulled the dawn behind them, wings stretched out. In pairs they flew, bringing the light over the tree tops. Some would call them ordinary but they are a rarified bird indeed; Saturn’s emissary coupling in the predawn glow. “The glow,” she said, “can sometimes be seen, depending on where you stand, on the Western tips before the sun is seen in the sky... don’t miss it.” 

Modern Times

I looked up from where I was seated on the curb of the parking lot in late morning writing about God or goat cheese to see a motorcycle pull into the space in front of me. Leather jacket, green cargo pants and—uh, wait a minute, a yoga mat and glass jar full of water? He takes off his helmet and saunters across the tarmac; peach fuzz for hair and purple sticky mat under one arm. I’m impressed. Leave it to the “least likely” to change the world. 

Devil in the Desert

I saw the Devil last night walking on the side of the highway.

Strait from hell in a red dress ripped to shreds over blue jeans

with hair like Khali. She whore a black hoodie—a cape to shroud

her tendrils. The headlights of my car lit the back of her like a spot

light as this Creature came to life, slouching toward Black Canyon City.

Perhaps she has a date with God,

for when I could no longer see her with the head lights,

my eyes trailed back to find her in my rearview; arms flailing, feet stomping

she tore at that black sweatshirt like she meant to tear it off but to no avail,

I still could not see her face. She was mad as hell and I shuddered as I trained my gaze back to the red taillights and double yellow lines of the highway ahead.

I’m sure it was the Devil. And if that was the devil than God can’t be too far off… 

On the essence of being close

“Your daughter’s here, did you know that?”

“No, where?!”

“She’s probably hiding from you.”

I hear my mother’s laughter from behind me and turn so see her laughing with John our bartender/baristar/waiter/coveted sweetie behind the counter.

My mother, in all her grey haired glory has read my mind once again. All morning I was hoping that if I stayed in the café long enough she’d show up and we could chat. (The joys of a small town: there’re only a few descent places to find yourself on a late Thursday morning.) She did it again—listened intently to the voices in her head (from me of course) telling her to go to the café to meet her daughter, buy a salad, and let me eat half. Perfect timing.

After eating all her red onions and confessing that I miss being a kid, she said to me, “We’re role models you and I, examples of what’s possible (on our good days) in a mother-daughter relationship. This is something that John has probably never experienced but is witnessing through us.”

We hold hands and lean towards one another across the table as she says this. I like the feeling of knowing my mother as a friend, as a wise elder, a warm embrace, soft hands that are always ready for mine.  

I look at her bright eyes and know that she is my mirror. I see myself reflected back.

This is for you mom; you are my inspiration and my heart connection to love.