My Mother's Heaven

My Mother's Heaven (and Lee's, as well)

They say Heaven shines like the sun;
 I think it glows like the moon--
a splash of golden mist,
a galaxy of fireflies and fairy dust.

It breathes a luminescence
to feed our hungry eyes
enough to keep us sated.

There is no need for gluttony.
It fills our thirsty souls
with an endless well of inspiration

There is no void in Heaven.
Black holes are invitations.
Stars are skipping stones.
And the vacuum swallows sound
only for those who let it.
For the rest, it is a calling,
a song in search of voices,
a dance on Saturn’s rings.

They say Heaven is our home.
I think it takes us there.
If this life is a journey,
why should the afterlife be a destination?

Let your tired bones rest in peaceful slumber
while you skip among the stars
singing songs and seeding dreams
with a universe of possibility.

Mom's Eulogy

Eulogy for my mother

Inger-Marie Hojberg (January 26, 1934-November 18, 2011

If my mother’s life were a movie, it would be a musical. It would include songs such as Good Morning, Good Morning!, from Singing in the Rain, Edelweiss from The Sound of Music and Happy Talk from South Pacific. There would be shades of Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, and Rose Nylund, aka Betty White, in the Golden Girls. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate. The plot would take a twisted path along yellow brick roads and through wormholes, and every vehicle would fly. There would be snow-skiing, ice-skating and water dancing a la Esther Williams,’ intermixed with action, adventure and a touch of two-part harmony.

Mom had a regular inclination to break into song, whether she was happy or frustrated. If anyone else started to sing around her, she would join in, providing the harmony. She loved musical instruments, and experimented with the viola, the guitar and the dulcimer, but her favorite was always the piano. Her piano was like a treasured companion. How well she played never mattered; all that mattered, was that she played.

She also liked to laugh. I think her favorite TV show of all time was Americas Funniest Videos. She could watch the same clips over and over again, and always, always laugh. She could also laugh at herself, and she certainly did, more often than not.

She never swore—at least, not in English. In English, what she most commonly said to express her frustration was “7734.” As a child, I always got a kick out of that. I also used to like to say “ain’t,” just to hear her respond with “ain’t fell in the paint so it ain’t no word.”

My mother loved the night sky. She was a star-gazer who followed every mission closely, from the Apollo program to the space shuttles. Star Trek was among her favorite shows, and I think her favorite character was Scotty, although I’m sure she never actually declared a favorite. When I became obsessed with Stargate, it was easy to pull her along with me, and she journeyed through the Stargate vicariously through me.

She liked to watch game shows, particularly The Price is Right and Wheel of Fortune; once upon a time, many years ago, she went with me to try out for a slot on Wheel of Fortune. Neither of us made the final cut, but we sure had fun trying.

She was never afraid of trying. She would try just about anything. In high school, I was the only one who had a mother crazy enough to break her hand roller-skating. And when roller-blading officially became the next great trend a decade later, she had to try that, too—right there in her “senior citizens only” condo complex. Fortunately, she was limber, thanks to years of Yoga.

One thing she always wanted to try, though I’m not sure she ever did, was speed-skating. I would have loved to try that, too…in my younger years. We both loved those perfect winter days when the lake would freeze just so, and there wasn’t a lot of snow to shovel off the surface. On days like that, we would strap on our ice skates and watch each other racing across as far as we could go, so much farther than either of us could ever swim, undeterred by the way the ice creaked and groaned beneath us. We weren’t careless; we both knew when the ice was too thin. She was never afraid of trying, but she would not invite danger.

It was never about danger; it was about flying.

She enjoyed a good thrill-ride, and would join me on any roller coaster I, myself would dare to try. Even so, she did not like the Beast at Kings Island. It moved too fast and with too much force for her to be able to enjoy the high in the sky views. Actually, I think her favorite amusement park ride of all time was the much slower, double Ferris wheel, for the impression it gave her of being up in the sky.

In a parallel universe somewhere, in which we all follow different paths in life, I have no doubt she became a pilot.

She did love the sky, day or night. But swimming…swimming was almost like a religious experience for her—maybe because it provided her with the illusion of flying, albeit flying in the water. She would swim throughout the year if our northern weather would let her. Long after the rest of us Michiganders had tucked away our flip-flops and pulled out our sweaters, she would still go down to the lake for a swim. One story that has achieved almost legendary status tells about the time she dove into a hotel swimming pool despite an unseasonable frost that had left the surface coated in a very thin sheet of ice.

If you ever saw mom swimming and you asked her how the water was, you knew to be wary if she answered “refreshing.” Refreshing to her meant freezing to the rest of us. And heaven help you if she said it was “invigorating!”

Mom greeted life with enthusiasm. Christmas never lost its magic, and she saw the world as though it was fresh and new each time she looked. She relished every spider web, every bird's nest, every tiny bud clinging to life from seemingly impossible places. She surrounded herself with such treasures, and my parents' condo was as full of broken robin's eggs, grasshopper husks and transplanted blossoms as it was of shiny trinkets.

She did what she could to instill that same enthusiasm into my sisters and me when we were children. Any time she had a special surprise gift, she would have us close our eyes, hold out our hands and say the magic words. No, those words did not include "please." It was a Norwegian phrase I've never known the direct translation for. "Looka, looka blind man, fol jeg lit e mitt hand." After we said the words, the surprise would magically land in our hands.

We also had a special nightly ritual. After tucking us into bed, she would stand in the doorway with her hand on the light switch, and tell us to blow out the light. My sister, Kari, and I would fill our chubby little cheeks with air and then blow as hard as we could until she clicked off the switch. The ritual also included Norwegian words: God natt, sover godt, vakner i god helse i morn. Good night, sleep well, wake in good health in the morning. I'm comforted to know those were the last words I said to her, together with jeg elsker deg, I love you.

And I'm quite sure no amount of blowing will ever snuff the light she has given to each of us.

Through the void of no beginning

This was written as I built a world called Anvaar, with the help of my mentor, my friend, my confidant, Lee Carroll. Lee, you taught me more about life, living and believing than anyone in my 50 years on this earth. After many years of "plotting" with you, I put Anvaar aside. Tonight, I brush off this tiny piece of a much larger puzzle I pieced together with you every Tuesday for so many years I've actually lost count.

I miss our Tuesdays, my friend!

In honor of Lee Carroll & Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

An alternate world with an alternate creationist history, and a prophecy to be fulfilled....

Through the void of no beginning

Through the void of no beginning, the Almighty came to be. 

Heaven stirred into awareness.  Clouds of Life were given seed.

Stars awakened in the storming, lightning of eternal flame. 

Embers gathered there in numbers; the Great Dance was given name.

Empty embers gathered dancing; dancing there, yet empty still. 

Empty Dancers, empty Dancing, lacking passion, lacking will.

The Almighty stirred the embers, fires pulsing, steady song;

giving each a Heart of Fire.  Passion filled the empty throng.

Passion burned with yearning fire, burning, bursting into dust. 

Passion still burned empty fire, ravaging the ember’s crust.

The Almighty soothed the passion, cooled the Heart with Water’s flow. 

Came there then the veins of Rivers, Lands and Seas began to grow.

All the Lands were clothed in soil, rich and black, alive and whole.

Still the Dance was cold and empty; Empty Dancers, empty souls.

There the Dance was fed with Spirit, binding Waters, Lands and Heart. 

To bind and guide and bring a balance, Spirit filled each Dancer’s Heart.

Spirit then awakened Conscience.  Conscience birthed the seeds of Choice. 

Choice disturbed the Dancers’ balance, as the Song awakened Voice.

Voice began to seed Corruption.  Dancers stumbled into ruin. 

Choice allowed the Dance to weaken.  Corruption’s poison changed the tune.

The Almighty brought to being Spirits born of kindred souls;

Protectors came to Life in Anvaar, linked as one, renewed and whole.

Anvaar became a lonely Dancer, yet her Dance was fair and pure. 

Protectors fed her Dance with wonder; their Spirits linked, their song was hers.

But Spirit soon awakened Conscience.  Conscience birthed the seeds of Choice.

Choice disturbed Protectors’ balance with the sound of one dark Voice.

There came one Protector Spirit, by his name we call him Luc,

with his Voice he broke the balance, as he sought to rebuild Truth.

Lands and Seas fell to his pleasure, molded by his careless hand. 

Beasts that once dwelt in the waters found new footing over land.

Others found their feathers broken under spiny scales and fur. 

Horns began to sprout unbidden, dark the balance Luc disturbed.

So came forth a new Corruption, fueled by a Spirit’s hold,

deep inside the Heart of Fire, Anvaar’s Passion burning cold.

Others followed Luc’s enticement, pulling free of Anvaar’s will,

drawing from her Heart a Power, their hunger far too strong to fill.

Thus the Spirits, once ‘Protectors’ linked to Anvaar then and still,

joined as one they spoke discordant, each against another’s will.

Others true to Anvaar’s Spirit fought to free her from the ruin. 

Protector fought Corrupt in Power hindered by discordant tune.

Protectors seeking balance faltered; Corrupt used Power unrestrained. 

The Almighty came to Anvaar with calls to keep Corruption chained.

Thus was Luc, in his Corruption, locked to those he would deform;

wed to Creature’s flesh eternal; trapped beyond the Dancer’s Storm.

Thus was Luc, in his Corruption, forced to feel all creatures’ pain;

there in agony he suffered, birth to death, then birthed again.

Cycles followed unrelenting, trapping Power in between. 

Infant and decrepit stages left him a weak and transient being.

Angered by his earthly prison, Luc escaped his mortal cage;

a predator with youth and muscle fed his strength and loosed his rage.

Then was Luc forever banished deep into the Heart and Womb,

locked away from mortal pleasures, locked away from mortal doom.

Banished from all sense of wonder, banished from all sense of hope,

void of touch and taste and feeling, stripped of Power once invoked,

Yet with Spirit unto Spirit, still was Luc closely entwined;

still could he entice his brethren, so to turn them to his mind.

Some did answer his seduction, and it like a cancer spread,

reawakening Corruption, ravenous as Anvaar bled.

The Almighty, in His Anger, called to all the pawns of Luc,

called to all of His Protectors, even those who still held true ;

And He made this proclamation, that all Protectors would know pain,

and all would know of love and hardship; all would live and die and live again,

Wed to Creatures born of Anvaar, from smallest ants to greatest beasts;

one day prey, another, lion, sated on their brethren’s feasts.

Yet for the dearest of Protectors, Aal, named for the morning sun,

the Almighty birthed another Creature for His most beloved one.

Thus came Mankind unto Anvaar, given Wisdom, Truth and Voice,

so to wed with the Protectors who stayed true to Anvaar’s Choice.

The Almighty, in His Wisdom, called a new communion forth,

calling Mankind and Protector, born to slow Corruption’s growth.

Those who came to this communion, known as Sorrens, then and still,

pledged to keep Anvaar Protected, pledged to heed the Almighty’s will…

The Almighty gave His Promise to the Sorrens standing True,

that a Man would come upon them, born to keep Them standing True.

A mortal born in mortal birthing, flesh and blood and Human whole,

would alone, without communion, have a link to Anvaar’s soul.

A mortal born in mortal birthing, to hold a Power greater still,

than the Power of Protectors, so to keep the Almighty’s Will.

Child of the 60s

This is a revised version of a poem originally published in Somewhere on the Edge of Words. Written in honor of all who served in Vietnam. A copy of the original version was left at the Vietnam memorial Wall in Washington, DC, in October, 2000, before any of us had any clue of the new tragedies yet to come.

A Child of the 60s

A child of the 60s

I toddled about on wobbly legs as the world stumbled

and a president died.

And they all cried

all those people on the news and in the Life

magazine that lay untouched on the coffee table.

I touched it.

I ran my hand along the cover

my chubby baby fingers examining a widow’s black veil

a flag covered casket.

Without knowing what or why or how

a nation’s tears came down as

rain upon my soul

drenching me to the very core.

Then there was war.

It was an old war a cold war though they said the jungles were hot

and deadly.

And our boys died.

 American boys died.

I looked to the neighbor boys there in our cozy little corner of cookie-cutter suburbia

and wondered if they too would die

somewhere in a hot green jungle

in a green and red Technicolor jungle like the ones I saw at night on Daddy’s Zenith

jungles as far away as the little cabin up north that took an eternity to drive to

where I could hear the bombs go off at night

as our boys learned how to fight playing

games at Camp Grayling.

Games.

I knew it was real

as real as the musty sheets Mommy set under my chin

when she tucked me in to protect me from the distant thunder that was not thunder

and boomed its way into my dreams

reminding me to pray

as I did every day for our American boys.

A child of the 60s

still tasting the salt of my nation’s drying tears

I was confused by the anger that festered on the evening news

so many different views when all that really mattered

all that should matter was our American boys.

A child of the 60s

I saw my nation stumble and all I could do was reach out my hand

my tiny, useless, child sized hand

in the impossible hope that

somehow

it might be enough to guide

one

boy

home.

Pebbles

There are many battles being fought, perhaps against cancer, perhaps something else. But what do you do when the time comes to stop fighting? And what do we do, those of use you must leave behind?

Pebbles

You want to fight, and you do.

You fight.

And perhaps you even seem to turn the battle.

You start to believe, to really believe you can win it after all.

And then…a sudden thrust.

A jab from behind.

It strikes you unaware…unexpected.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Your breath quickens.

You want to continue the struggle,

but against what?

The damage is done, and you know that.

It was a mortal blow.

There is no earthly science that can fix it,

not this,

not now.

Perhaps one day,

but not this day,

not for you.

And the enemy is beyond your reach.

No. You cannot fight.

You can only…accept.

Accept.

It is an easy word to say,

falling from your tongue

with barely a breath of your waning energy expended.

But the thing attached to that word,

the feeling,

the concept…

now that is a different matter entirely.

What does it mean, really,

to accept what is to come?

Can there still be fear?

Can there still be sadness?

Regret for things left undone?

If you say you accept your fate,

can that statement really erase all those feelings,

those emotions?

Or…

like the fireman rushing into the flames

for the sake of another,

are they merely set aside

for the sake of something more important,

a purpose greater than your own?

When a pebble on a mountain tumbles into the sea,

it leaves an emptiness behind,

a space that can never be filled.

Still, the mountain itself will not crumble.

Not yet.

Not all at once.

But what of that pebble?

Does it fade out of existence?

Or does it simply become a part of something new,

setting the foundation for another mountain,

one that will rise out of the sea

reaching endlessly toward the stars?

It might even be the pebble that does the reaching.

I, too, am a pebble.

Today, perhaps I have no choice

but to watch you tumble.

I can no more hold you back

than you can fight an enemy no mortal sword can strike.

But the day will come when I must tumble on behind you,

as other pebbles must tumble on behind me.

And as that new mountain rises,

I gain hope in knowing

it has been raised on pebbles like you,

with the wisdom,

the courage

and the heart to hold it firm.

What 50 years have taught me

Life is less about finding answers than it is about seeking them.

An ideal life is not a steady, consistent progression. It involves 2 steps forward and anywhere from 1 to 3 steps back. It involves peaks and valleys. The peaks feed your soul and fuel your strength to endure the valleys. The valleys feed your heart and build your wisdom to appreciate the peaks.

Whatever ideal life I can envision with clarity will always remain elusive. The true ideal is one I cannot see. It will only be revealed to me in time, and it will only be revealed if I keep my eyes and my heart open enough to see it.

The only certainty in life is that it will be fraught with uncertainty.

Promises are not guarantees, and even guarantees can be voided by the uncertainties of life. Each promise that is fulfilled should be recognized for the gift it truly is.

If I limit my expectations to the unexpected, I will never regret what never comes to be.

I thrive on stories and dreams, the greatest of which highlight compassion, understanding and brotherhood, and serve as reminders that love and faith really can conquer all.

And lastly:

Life really is a walk in the park...at least, that's where the filter is, the one that sorts fiction from truth and helps me to see who's really behind the curtain.

The Shadow

The Shadow

There is a cool shadow in her eyes

a looming presence that lingers

uninvited 

watching

not through her but to her

watching her

a predatory presence waiting to strike