Remembrance (1)

I was almost taken by surprise this morning when words from the radio nudged me from my lack of awareness. I am relieved to be able to use the word ‘almost’, as to have found that the day had slipped by without my recognition of it would have troubled me, though I would have struggled in vain to find a solid and acceptable reason for being so troubled by it; acceptable for anyone other than myself, that is. My own acceptance of my feelings is not based on anything particularly solid either, and nor are the feelings themselves, but they are undeniable, unforgettable, and form part of a sequence of memories that echo the early stages of my movement from wherever I once was to the place where I find myself today. All Souls is quietly come around. I failed to see or hear it coming, and in some strange way that troubles me. It is a day that has crept up on me before; announcing itself in whispers as though in explanation of why I have been drawn to a deeper thinking, and a wrestling with words as my only way of laying to rest the ghosts of unknown sorrows which hung their cloaks of grief about my shoulders. ‘... All Souls is quietly come around. He weeps upon the whispering ground, as warmth bleeds from his naked flesh to be lost in the sobbing wind. ...’ So read lines from the end of one of the first poems I ever tried to write. It was written, not so much because I wanted to write poetry, as because I needed to find a way to still the restless thoughts, and sounds, and voices that increasingly filled any empty space I managed to create within my mind. I seemed drawn to acknowledge and record the fact that I was filled with an awareness of something or someone forgotten: something reaching out for anyone with the faintest glimmer of recognition who may pause to ‘harken to the darkening of the memory in the sand’. A longing that searched for ‘just one to stop and wonder what it was he thought he heard; ... to sense the loss: to understand; to hear, to feel the pain, to pray and to remember.’ It was the writing of that poem that stilled the restless voices; and it was the realization, as the quiet returned after weeks without peace, that it was the closing of All Souls Day, which embedded the memory of that unrest within me. That was years ago, before my days of walking the sand with Jesus; but it was the same sand: it was the same Irish strand that would play its part in my awakening to His presence. Earlier today, I received news of another life ended; Raymond Taylor, a gentleman with whom I have been working, after more than sixty years of hunched and silent life, died today. All Souls is quietly come around, and now slips quietly away again having gathered him in its passing. May the souls of all who have passed this way, whether long ago, more recently, or during this very day, rest in peace. .