Hereafter

In response to 'Blossom' by Kathleen Jamie

Blossom

There’s this life and no hereafter – I’m sure of that but still I dither, waiting for my laggard soul to leap at the world’s touch.

How many May dawns have I slept right through, the trees courageous with blossom? Let me number them . . .

I shall be weighed in the balance and found wanting. I shall reckon for less than an apple pip.

Hereafter. What am I going to do after here. Gather, debrief, reflect. After here. What is here? Here, I carry myself, from here to the next place. A sense of continuity. And a feeling of doubt. What’s going on? Where am I? Am I where I am supposed to be? According to whom? There is here – that is known. Is it? Lots of unknown. The courage to face the unknown. To blossom. To expose one’s fragility, vulnerability, to the elements. Blossom. Blossom is usually admired, to be sniffed at even. In Japan there are huge celebrations around the blossom of cherry trees, people employed to watch out for the first bud. Revered. The temporary display. The sowing of seed. The cycle of life. Writing, writing, writing. Hard to find a flow. What flows on? - an endless repeated cycle, changing or always the same? Evolving. Hereafter. I can feel I definitely want to avoid writing about “the hereafter”. Why? Avoiding contemplating it, or formulating my thoughts, or exposing them? Too shy blossoms, lacking in courage. Are there timid blossoms, holding back, that think “no, I’m not up for that”, that think “I’ll just stay here, nestled in my leaves, tightly compacted, and it can all go on around me”? Either way, life drops away – might as well unfold oneself, expand, show one’s full self, release the fragrance, be the blossom. Time. I’m aware of time. The time we have left to read. Time. Tick tock. Counting the days; the numbered days. Someone I sat in a room with a few weeks ago – I don’t know her – I hear has been told she has a few weeks left to live. She’s optimistic; she isn’t accepting that. This time last year at the hospital with Tony. Not knowing what lay ahead; keeping optimistic. Not really wanting to confront the possibility of death. It didn’t seem real. What was real was the present, meeting up at the hospital, waiting, chatting, the smells, the coffee after, the bus back, relaxing together eyes closed in the Macmillan room or open, watching the changing lights. And where is Tony now? I think of him today, wondering what he’d make of this. Would he still be coming to these workshops? Still living his life to the full. No longer sea swimming, but walking, taking an interest, learning something new. Inspiring me to live my life more fully. Inspiration. The poem makes me want to get up and see more dawns – I find an inspiration in the midst of the bleakness.