Poem the Tenth (and a great big explanation for it)

We are 10 days in! How can that be? It has been quite the adventure and I am so overwhelmingly grateful to those who have followed along.

I've talked a little bit about how I got started writing (see my first post if you missed it!) but honestly, one of the biggest motivators of my writing has been my dear daddy. As many of y'all know, I lost my dad to Early Onset Alzheimer's disease on December 9, 2012 at 10:15 on a Sunday morning. He was forty-six and I was seventeen.

What is perhaps lesser known is how symbiotic the relationship between writing and losing him has been in my life. I started my writing career the fall he moved out of our house and into a veteran's assisted living home. Anyone who has been through grief will tell you that they found an "outlet" as it's often called, a place to channel their thoughts and feelings for the basic reason that otherwise, they would totally explode. It's important-no one wants people guts everywhere, so we channel. For me, that outlet was writing. I kept a diary of sorts through poems and short essays of the journey of losing Daddy which has now become a poetic memoir in progress.

So here is the mission statement of sorts to that memoir, the opening poem that kicks off a journey full of tears and joys and songs. I'll share bits and pieces of this memoir (and actually already have) but I thought it would be appropriate to share my heart for writing before we conquer the next 1/3 of the project!

(Also I hate reading about people and not knowing what they look like. I know, weird pet peeve, but we've all got our things. So, just in case there's someone out there like me, enjoy a pic of my sweet dad and me.)

Also also, I apologize for this mammoth of a post, 10 points if you made it all the way through!. :)

-K.S.

Numbers 6:24-26

Kate Scott

I don’t know when exactly we started saying this blessing to each other,

my momma, daddy, and I.

Once Daddy got sick, I assume.

Once the goodbyes started, probably.

See, there were the years he was sick,

and then there was the year he was dying.

I think I missed him more when he was here

and loved him most when he was leaving.

It’s ironic, really.

In September,

they told me I should start saying goodbye

every time we left him.

Real goodbye.

Real, hard, goodbye like you’re not supposed to know

at seventeen.

And every time,

I took his face in my hands

and whispered the Old Testament blessing…

“The Lord bless you and keep you;

The Lord make His face shine upon you, 

And be gracious to you;

The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, 

And give you peace.”’

I did the “list of lasts” one after the other:

kiss his hair, brush it back,

snuggle against his chest-remember just

how his t-shirt smells and tap your toes

to the tune of the heartbeat that was your lullaby,

squeeze the hands that held you,

tell him you love him, you love him, you love him.

I said goodbye like this every Saturday for

three months

and one week,
but he held on.

And then Momma called me

and said he was gone

and all of the sudden,
goodbye changes,

because he’s got his peace,

so you have to find yours.

I’m not saying it works for everyone.

Actually, I’m sure counseling

or nature

or sleep

suits others better,

but I just had to write.

“Photograph at Rehoboth Beach, 2001”

Wade into the Atlantic over many years,

boundaries of water and time, and you, still five––

trusting the holy waters of tides and tears.

Waves dance around the steadiness of piers,

both leaping and legato, ocean heart, you are alive.

Wade into the Atlantic over many years.

Just a khaki dress and hair shoved behind your ears,

you go anyway, with father beside you, stride for stride,

trusting the holy waters of tides and tears.

Your right hand so small that in his, it disappears,

left fingers thoughtfully spread wide,

Wade into the Atlantic over many years.

And when at your once safe shore, death appears

fight to love the water still, stay five,

trusting the holy waters of tides and tears

Breathe in the blue of it again as your heart clears,

Decide now that even without him, you will still dive.

Wade into the Atlantic over many years,

trusting the holy waters of tides and tears.

It's been over three years since I went back to look at the eulogy I delivered at my father's funeral on December 18, 2012. Today, four years after his death to the day, it expresses my feelings better than anything else I could try to write.

About my Father, At his Funeral, December the Eighteenth.

Good evening. I am honored to share a few reflections about my incredible father with you.

I’d like to tell you about a picture of my daddy and I that will forever be the image of him I treasure most.

I was an eager four-year-old looking at the ocean for the first time in my life. To my dismay, my mother with great practicality deemed my khaki skirt and sneakers unsuitable for a venture into the waves. With great tenderness for my mom, Dad said, “Kim, we can’t miss an opportunity like this!”

Slipping our shoes off, Dad grabbed my hand and introduced me to the smell of seawater.

He led me into the waves, keeping a tight hold on my little palm. He splashed with me and watched me take in the kind of beauty that overwhelms four year olds.

More than the sound of seagulls, what I remember from that day is the gentle way he encouraged me to pursue the world.

When I was thirteen, my dad was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

As soon as the neurologists pronounced the diagnosis, my dad turned to my mom and asked “What about Kate?” Before she had a chance to answer, Daddy answered his own question. He immediately said, “We’ll do this together for Kate.”

Despite the challenges and changes Alzheimer’s bombarded him with, my dad continued to serve me with a persevering love just as he had for all my life. He was the epitome of compassionate and brave faithfulness.

Always a family who loved words, we soon found a poem that became somewhat of a battle hymn for us.

The poem, entitled “With Kit, Age Seven, At the Beach” by William Stafford, became more and more poignant as the disease raged on and as hopeful perseverance became a daily challenge for our family.

The last stanza of this poem is so appropriate, I would like to share it with you.

“How far could you swim, Daddy,

in such a storm?”

“As far as is needed,” he said,

and as he talked, he swam."

These years have not been easy, and our challenges have been severe. We have been tossed by waves and shaken in storms.

I have found so much peace in writing these last four years. On November 12^th of this year, I penned a poem that expressed the agony we all felt as we yearned for Dad to be free from this cruel disease.

It reads:

“All that I can see and feel is trembling indefinitely

in a storm I do not understand.

And I just ask for one second to toss my head above the waves

to inhale deeply,

before returning to wrestle the currents

of all that is not as it was meant to be.

There is a lovely thing about the ocean,

and this is that it ebbs and flows,

and as it tosses me today

I am confident I shall float in it

tomorrow.”

There is great grief with us today.

There is a weighty sorrow that comes when we are separated from those we love by death.

But what is greater is peace abounds – peace like a river –

peace that remains when we understand that all is once again as it should be.

That my dad is in heaven, fully himself, fully well, and fully at peace.

He swam as far as was needed. He has no more currents to conquer and no more need of breaths above the fury of ocean waves.

Daddy, I am so proud of you. I am thankful for your quiet strength and powerful testimony of hopeful perseverance.

It breaks my heart that we, always that tandem duo seen at the Atlantic shore, are separated for now,

but I know to be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord, and from what I know of Him,

that must be very good.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

If I could add anything to my seventeen-year-old thoughts I shared then, it would be this––– that there will always be a groove inside of you where this grief fits, where it rests a little out of joint until it is shoved into focus with a force that makes your breath staccato, but that the edges of that groove, once so terribly sharp, will be smoothed down by people you love and a savior who came for peace. 

Psalm 27:13--- "I remain confident of this, I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living."

bold as branches
Kate Scott

to have built home
as the birds do-

branch by branch
those twigs,
once thought no more
than former members of tree,
now linking tiny arms
as if to say,

this is new life,
only joy here.

Finals week has arrived and I already find myself legislating joy, legislating rest.

"Am I working hard enough?" I ask myself. What I am really asking is "Am I unhappy enough? Am I adequately stressed?" Why? Why can work and rest not-coexist as they were meant to? (Throw back to the basic commandment of Sabbath rest, anyone?)

Your rest is honorable. Your joy is honorable. With rest and joy, work means more because it is not empty, not robotic. In the moments where you find yourself measuring worth in worry, remember: rest is bravery.

Be well, be brave.

It is finished. Those words echo around my heart, around my body, around my very being.
This is Easter, this is ultimate rest. The Creator of the Universe has cried "Enough!" and we are free.
(Hallelujah).

This idea of enough is such a funny one for me. I don't need to be a self-professed perfectionist, I don't need to tell anyone. It's clear, it is a disease that plagues my relationships, my work, my life. I cannot remember the last time I though "Yes, that is enough for me."

More, more, more. It's only logical, right? No. More is not better, more is heavier, loftier, harder.

I woke up this morning with the thought "I need to write a really good last poem for this Lent Poetry Project." Funny how even on the day meant to say "enough, it is finished!" I found myself saying "more, I have to do more."

Often lines of poems will come to be randomly. If you've spent any great amount of time with me, you've probably seen me stick my finger in the air to tell you "wait one sec" while I whip out my phone to make a note of the line in my phone.

This morning, I woke up with two lines in my head. As I rolled out of bed, they rolled off my tongue:

"Death wonders at the logic,
while we marvel at His grace."

All day long, I found myself trying to finish the poem.
What comes before? What after? How many more lines?

Friends, there is beauty in two lines. There is beauty in us. We are enough- he came and made it so.

It is Finished
Kate Scott

Death wonders at the logic,
while we marvel at His grace.

Hallelujah, friends, He is risen!

All my love for y'all this sweet Resurrection Day. Thank you for coming along on this Lent Journey of Poetry with me. Thank you for giving my poems ears to land on and hearts to dwell in, my words are nothing without you.
Kate

Breath in the In-Between
Kate Scott

This is the day for in-betweens.
Yesterday, he died.
We trust tomorrow he will rise,
but we hold our breath.
If we are honest,
we find ourselves asking

Will he really come back?
Really...?
truly...?
could it be...?

Yes, yes, yes,
over and over, yes.
He came,
He died,
He rose,
He is coming back-

Stop holding your breath,
and use the air to sing.

Good Friday
Kate Scott

I hope you remember
that the dustiest corners
of your soul were deemed
infinitely lovable,
once and for all.

Oops, I did it again in the words of one Ms. Spears.
Here are TWO poems from me as I sit soaking up sunshine on the Sunken Gardens. Life is good, y'all.

Perhaps
Kate Scott

I sit in breezy stillness
as sunshine washes over my being
the words are not coming.
It is too beautiful today,
I cannot write.

My brainwaves have become breezes
and the words I would have are whistling in the wind.
Perhaps though, this is poetry too.

If I Must Be Wind
Kate Scott

If I must be wind,
I would like to be a breeze,
I have made peace with the fact that I will
never find myself at ease with stillness,
but that I do not desire to
gust or hurl my way through this life.

If I must be wind,
I would like to be a breeze;
I shall aspire to move gracefully, unpressed,
to meander through oaken branches,
and bring the music of the first warm spring morning
with me along the way.

Be Deeply Rooted
Kate Scott

When I feel that this floor
of my control is falling out
from under me,
remind me that planting these
bare feet
in your rich soil
is the only way I will
ever be deeply rooted.

Les Deux

Kate Scott

Je trouve que je ne peux pas

m'exprimer totalement en français

ou en anglais-

Je rejette l'isolation linguistique,

et affirme qu'il faut les deux langues

dans mon cœur bilingue.

Nous voyons la vie plus clairement

au rivage où les deux mondes- terre et mer-

sont visibles ensembles,

où les lignes qui les séparent s'effacent.

Et donc, je trouve mon âme plus belle

dans les deux langues, au côté linguistique

de moi-même.

Both
Kate Scott

I find I cannot totally express myself
in French or in English-
I reject the linguistic isolation
and affirm the necessity of the two
languages in my bilingual heart.

We see life more clearly on the shore
where the two worlds- earth and sea-
are visible together,
where the lines separating them fade away.
And thus, I find my soul more beautiful
in the two languages, on the
linguistic shore of myself.

View comments

AnonymousMarch 3, 2014 at 12:17 PM
beautiful, simply beautiful. thank you for sharing your soul - prayers for you all, sweet girl. pax!
AnonymousMarch 3, 2014 at 12:18 PM
earlier comment was from anthony's wife, not anthony, sorry! =)
terri matusMarch 3, 2014 at 12:27 PM
Kate, your heart is as big as the ones who raised you. Do not fear that your dad does not know what quality you possess and how you are sharing your gifts with us all. God bless you with continued blessings. I love you, Teetay :)
AnonymousMarch 3, 2014 at 5:57 PM
This is so beautiful. I'm crying right now. I'm so sorry you lost your daddy, but you seem like such a strong woman and I'm so inspired by your ability to transcend your grief and put it into writing.
AnonymousMarch 4, 2014 at 8:59 AM
Thank you all for giving my words a place to land. It means the world to me to get to share my daddy's story. -K.S.
WendyMarch 4, 2014 at 11:58 AM
Kate, thank you for letting my into your heartfelt love for your father. I miss my daddy too. I love that you said "I loved him more as he was leaving." I felt so strange at how much I loved my father after he left. An all encompassing love that burst through my heart.... Thank you

Poem the Tenth (and a great big explanation for it)

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This Momentary Anthology

A debut. Welcome to my notebook, sit a spell.

A poem it took me 4 years to write.

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Four Years Later

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bold as branches || sophomore reflections

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Rest is Bravery

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It is Finished- Easter Sunday

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Breath in the In-Between

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Good Friday

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I forgot...again... SO TWO POEMS! Today's theme is breeze.

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Be Deeply Rooted

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Les Deux / Both

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