All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
My grandad passed away this morning peacefully in his sleep. He was 92 years old and loved by 5 generations. He got to spend time with his newest great-great-granddaughter about a week ago and still said the prayer for our breakfast 4 days ago. The last few days, he was lost in his thoughts and seemed to be remembering projects and work assignments from many years past, his mind constantly trying to be productive and wrap up loose ends. We kept reassuring him that he could rest. All his hard work was complete and there were no more deadlines to meet.
His belief to the end was that his next waking moment would be in a resurrected body free of pain, reunited with those who passed before him, like his wife (my Mema) who we lost 2 years ago.
I felt like being creative with my grief and made some AI art in honor of Grandad (and Mema.)
All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.
Hafiz’s Poem 33:
Adam gave up Paradise
For just one nice ripe apple
What if one world is only worth
One hard stale raisin
?
Some thoughts:
This poem feels a little cheeky. Irony keeps the interpretation in question. If Adam was willing to give up Paradise for an apple, was it worth it? What did he gain? Is Hafiz suggesting that the fall was an opportunity for growth? Most religious leaders of Abrahamic faiths would argue that such thinking is blasphemous, yet Hafiz goes on to ask about the possibility that such a trade could occur for even less of a temptation, a hard stale raisin. Maybe the eating of the fruit was not really of any consequence. Perhaps the development of knowing right and wrong, choosing free will, embarking on an individual hero’s journey was the inevitable event, given the curiosity of the creations who resembled the creator.
Hafiz doesn’t commit to any one view. He simply asks the question, suggesting that perhaps we do not fully understand the exchange that was made, beyond the basic information passed down through the ages. What is one world worth? Did Adam and Eve take their world for granted? Probably. Don’t we take our world for granted most of the time? But what if they also desired more? More than blind obedience. What are we willing to trade for peace? What are we willing to trade for safety? What are we willing to compromise on for those we love? Had Adam not eaten of the fruit, would he have lost Eve? There are so many questions left unanswered that only a fool would claim to know what they would do in the same circumstances.
My Poem 33:
By the light of a mid-month moon, my love gathered figs by the handful. Her plump, ripe lips, a sticky, sweet boon, as I kissed the taste of the tree’s jewel.
That rich ambrosia, nectar of gods, forbidden for reasons unknown. Angels eat the fruit, so I find it odd, that the restriction applies to us alone.
Why was I made and given this mate, if not to experience all and to learn? To know good and evil, not to hesitate, is the knowledge for which I yearn.
The taste of truth, bittersweet and bold, that’s what this is, what I’ve come to crave. The consequence is growing old, and learning pain only taught by the grave.
Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.
All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.
Hafiz’s Poem 4:
Commemorate
The ones who are gone
&
Those who love
Some thoughts:
To commemorate requires action. We must put effort into planning, preparing, and enacting some sort of ceremony, creation, or event. Many cultures have traditions for the purpose of remembering those who have exited this life. During Hafiz’s life, he may have participated in rituals that included reading the Quran, giving to the poor, and honoring God on behalf of the deceased. The tombs of some spiritual masters and saints became pilgrimage sites where people would pray and meditate. This does not seem like something Hafiz would have taken part in, but he certainly would have been aware of people who did.
What is striking about this poem is the balance Hafiz creates between our remembrance of our loved ones we have lost and those who are still living. How often do we commemorate the living? Are we putting effort into planning, preparing, and enacting ceremonies, creative works, celebratory events on their behalf? In the hustle of life, sometimes the people in our lives are not made priority and get taken for granted. Hafiz seems to be saying not to wait for a funeral to honor our loved ones. Let’s take the time and make it a priority to celebrate their lives and presence in ours regularly.
My Poem 4:
The Malagasy people are intimately connected with decomposition, since every five years or so they open the tombs and bring out the bones of their ancestors to wrap in fresh cloth.
Oh, the joy those wilting bones must feel to dance among the living in clean silk garments newly bound, feast and sing, celebrate reunion, before returning to slumber. The long process of disappearing is lovingly witnessed by the living.
Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.
I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.
Hafiz’s Poem 1:
Between these two doors This caravan
Some thoughts:
The imagery of doors implies entrances and exits, passageways, or boundaries. Two doors suggest pillars of demarcation in time, place, awareness or perhaps binary contrasts. Opposite ends of conceptual delineations like birth and death or past and future seem like reasonable possibilities.
But those don’t seem to be what Hafiz is concerned with. He is pointing out the between. What is happening in the interim, the dash? Of course, the interesting part is the journey. We get so hyper-focused on reaching the destination that we become uncomfortable with the time spent in the now learning to be patient.
I picture a caravan of camels carrying the worldly goods of travelers long distances, the people eager for trade, companionship, good food, fresh water, music, romance, and laughter. It is life in motion. The doors are really of no consequence right now. They are the least of our concern when we have all this living to do.
My Poem 1:
Unmoored, afloat, uncertain if hope is a delusion or a virtue stillness sits where ambition once cracked her knuckles
the in-between is where? beginning was once easy to define though ending is unknown the certainty of it was assumed
now nothing reveals itself as absolute except this protest march that might possibly transform into a celebratory parade
Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.
This winter, my cat Chika died. She wandered out to a far corner of our property to meet her maker. She did as cats are wont to do, sparing her beloved humans the trouble of witnessing their passing. My granddaughter found her and Facetimed me, distraught, tears streaming down her 10-year-old face. She had been missing for a week, and I assumed the worst. A once fat cat, her weight rapidly declined over the preceding month. She had been sickly all eight years of her life with constant upper respiratory infections, allergies, and asthma. Because of her, I now know what cat sneezes and coughs sound like. I became attuned to her different variations of wheezing, knew which ones were minor and which ones warranted a vet visit. Nothing we can do. Another steroid shot might help. A round of antibiotics. Let her live her best life.
I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. I don’t think it was a pleasant existence for a cat, but the vet did not think she was in so much discomfort that she should be put down. Her purring during the exam, passing their breathing tests, and fat physique reassured them that she was as ok as a sick cat could be.
She was afraid of the outside for the first two years of her life. The other cats would encourage her to join them on a jaunt around the yard, but she would sit and watch through the glass door. One day, we left the door propped open with a chair and let them come and go freely for a few hours. They had the best time entering and exiting at will, no need for humans to open anything. The two older cats decided it was high time that the younger, less experienced of the pack join them. They spoke the magic language of cats, convincing her it was safe, then one or the other of them sat by her side as she took her first tentative steps onto the porch. However far she felt comfortable venturing, one of them was right by her side for a good 30 minutes or so. It was heartwarming to watch.
Chika probably had pica. She loved to lick plastic shopping bags if she could get her paws on one, and another cat owner told us it was like a drug addiction to the chemicals on the bag, that it would give her a bit of a buzz. I was unable to find research to back up that claim, however. More likely, she liked the texture, and her brain told her it was something to put in her mouth. Whatever the reason, we had to be careful with plastic bags and make sure none were left out anywhere that Chika could access them. She also sucked or chewed on soft blankets as she was kneading them with her little cat claws.
She hated to be brushed. She wasn’t much on cat treats or fancy wet cat food or even human food. She preferred her dry food, and keep it coming, thank you very much. She expected the bowl to always be full, so she could eat when she felt like it. She was not really a big fan of other animals and took her sweet time getting used to any new ones who entered our home. Even after years of knowing a “new” animal, she might hiss at them if they ventured too close. She decided the dogs were tolerable because she could sleep with them, and they were warm. She liked the sleeping in a pile at night snuggling with others, but by day, she wanted her space.
Chika was hot or cold with affection. She mostly permitted pets when she was in the mood. She liked a warm lap, but the lucky person was selected by her, and the chosen one had no say in the matter. She jumped up, settled in, and waited expectantly for pets. It did not matter if you liked cats, wanted a cat in your lap, or preferred to be left alone. Once she decided you were going to pet her, you might as well get it over with because she would not leave you alone until you did your job. She would look at you with the most severe expression that made you feel at once judged and found unworthy. Hers was a stern cat face. She couldn’t help it. It was just her face, but her countenance gave the impression that everything and everyone were somehow annoying her by their mere existence.
I think she might have killed a bird once in her younger days, but mostly she watched them in the trees, inspiring dive-bombing mothers and cacophonies of threatening bird chatter. She sat under trees where squirrels fussed at her just because she knew it annoyed them. Though she did not have the energy to chase them, she loved that her presence could affect them so.
My heart hurts knowing she has left this plane of reality, though I am comforted by the knowledge that she no longer has to labor to breathe. I never have to trick her into taking medicine again or pin her down so I can attempt to give her a breathing treatment (not an easy accomplishment.) No more late-night searches through the house to make sure she is inside and safe before we lock up. Still, it is hard to say goodbye to someone with whom you’ve spent the last eight years of your life. My tears are selfish. I’m the one who will miss her grumpy, sick, uncomfortable, curmudgeonly, snotty presence. I have a feeling she was relieved to finally bid us all ado. Yes, my girl Chika is gone. May she finally rest in peace.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio
Beauty became a surrogate mom when we adopted Chika. From left to right, Sassy, Chika, Beauty.
Sleeping with Aiko and Kenji for warmth.
Tolerating Julian’s love.
Too scared to go outside with Charlotte.
On the threshold, stepping out, encouragement to be brave, looking back for reassurance.
Chika stayed by Grandad’s side in the weeks after my Mema’s passing. It seemed like she knew he needed comfort. The other image is her at her fattest, living her best fat cat life (before we had to start a little bit of a healthier diet.)
To be raw and real in the retelling of your own most vulnerable moments creates a profound intimacy in memoir. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to write one. Mira Ptacin explores her own fears and feelings of shame and grief around the death of her brother as a teenager and the loss of her baby in her 20s. She weaves a beautiful tribute to her mother who emigrated from Poland and built a life with perseverance and grit here in America. Americans did not make it easy on her.
The subtle twists and turns of growing up, beginning to relate to your parents as fellow adults, discovering that your childhood perceptions of them may have been misconstrued, and finding internal peace in the process are themes that resonate with me, as I have experienced this with my own parents, and now have adult children going through this phase of life with me. Though I have never had to experience the same kinds of grief as Mira, her example of leaning on her loved ones, finding her own path forward, and being gentle with the healing process (however long it takes), makes me hope I can do so with the same indomitable spirt as her, if I am ever tasked with such a burden.
I probably would never have chosen this book, had I known how much of the story centered around the awful experience of having to make decisions related to ending a pregnancy, so I am glad I was unaware because I would have missed out on so many threads of beauty and love. And every scene that includes her husband is superb. He tends to steal the scene, as he is depicted as sincere, silly, and supportive in all the right ways.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio
Ptacin, Mira, poor your soul, SOHO Press, Inc., 2016.
A righteous man puts others before himself, serves his community with humility and grace, and is faithful to his vows, both to God and man.
Born on a farm, no running water, no electricity, salt of the earth, family man, believer in human rights, treating people with dignity, and freedom of religion.
He was the first president to talk about climate change, an environmentalist at heart, a lover of the earth, supported renewable energy by putting solar panels on the White House.
He signed legislation to manage hazardous waste, protected over 100 million acres of Alaskan land, and more than doubled the National Park System.
He passed the Ethics in Government Act to protect whistle-blowers, established FEMA, and was part of some of the first emergency planning in America.
He created the Departments of Education and Energy, and established full diplomatic relations with China, which created the basis for our world economic system.
He championed human rights around the world and was the first president to focus on these issues and appoint a woman as Assistant Secretary of State for Human Rights.
Mr. President Jimmy Carter is the first president I remember, his serious face talking about important things on our black and white television on every single channel, interrupting.
That’s how different it was back then; when the president spoke, everyone stopped what they were doing to listen. I was enamored of this kind man with gentle eyes.
I knew nothing of politics, nothing of the burdens adults endured, but I knew that this sincere man was doing what he could to make the world a better place with every ounce of his soul.
Rest in peace, Sir; your debt to the world has been paid with every house you helped build, person you lifted up, oppressor you held accountable, and kindness you shared.
@Home Studio – 357th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Jimmy Carter photos to accompany my poem:
Mema and Baby (One of her neice Sarah’s grandbabies.)
Washing my hands in your sink Sitting in your chair Writing on your notepad Answering your phone Cooking breakfast for Grandad exactly the way you showed me how Peeling a tangerine Putting away your dinner plates that stack so easily from the dishwasher Making a cup of tea Reminding Grandad to use his cane Hearing certain doors open in the house Something cute happens with the kids I’m sad I have a big decision to make I have a success I want to celebrate I get stressful news
Death is a part of life. Altars of favorite foods photos of the deceased marigolds, candles, incense family picnics at the graves opportunities to connect to ancestors and remember their part in our story and that they are still with us and alive in our hearts.
@Home Studio on 11/2/24 @ 10:20pm – 307th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Día de los Muertos photos to accompany my poem:
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