Liebeslied

In a reframing of the Buddhist meditation on death, I have often immersed myself in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry about the inevitable. 

This practice has taken many turns, one of which was deciding to have a natural burial at Prairie Creek Conservation Cemetery. 

As I approach my 82nd birthday--though no threat looms with immediacy--it's no longer possible to ignore the eventuality of my own death. And I love the idea of going back to earth in the woods, with a natural marker. 

Without the barrier of a coffin between me and the earth, my molecules can easily mix with those who've preceded me, and I'm delighted to imagine the company I'll join. Among the many names on my growing list, poets, artists, spiritual teachers, psychologists, and musicians are prominent.

Somehow this practice of drawing others' spirits to me has affected my coaching busioness and my artworks, reminding me to simply rejoice in what flows from intuition. 

Often, I've experienced the emotions of a client prior to a call -- not always realizing the mood's source until we're in contact. A friend said, "They're playing the strings of your guitar." I so resonate with that image, which echoes my lifelong favorite among Rainer Maria Rilke's poems, "Lovesong" or "Liebeslied" (the original follows the translation by M.D. Herter Norton):

How shall I withhold my soul so that

it does not touch on yours? How shall I

uplift it over you to other things?

Ah willingly would I by some

lost thing in the dark give it harbor

in an unfamiliar silent place

that does not vibrate on when your depths vibrate.

Yet everything that touches us, you and me,

takes us together as a bow's stroke does,

that out of two strings draws a single voice.

Upon what instrument are we two spanned?

And what player has us in his hand?

O sweet song.

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, dass

sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie

hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?

Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendetwas

Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen

an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die

nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.

Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,

nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,

der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.

Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?

Und welcher Spieler hat uns in der Hand?

O süsses Lied.

Yes, everything that touches us takes us together as does a bow's stroke that draws a single voice from two strings.

-----