Alison

Our dear friend, Alison Powers has died tonight. Pancreatic cancer. Quickly. Nearly suddenly it seemed to those of us not living in her body. Perhaps for her, not as sudden. She was diagnosed in early March a week or so before my sister's wedding. Last night she shifted in her process and tonight at 6:30 pm, she died. She was, she is a lovely human being.

She is my kindred poet spirit, a place in my heart and a stunning ideal of womanhood. Beautiful. Graceful. Determined. Intelligent. Kind. She was in the last stages of an 8 year process becoming a coveted Jungian Analysis. Her spiritual journey was detailed and not without sacrifice, the process was grueling and arduous. I respect her for this work. She believed in it, in herself and the possibility of becoming a better human because of it. As a therapist, she guided others in their journey. She lived for bringing light to the dark, giving meaning to the unknown.

Her husband, and daughter brought hospice in early this morning. Quite by accident I called the house number, which I haven't dared to in months. And Philip answered, told me about hospice. We all expected a few days. I believe she worked furiously in these last weeks, what a spirit-to transcend so seamlessly.

In the time to come we will honor her more. For now though, this poem. Which she read to me on her 59th birthday. Alison, I do love you.

Oatmeal by galway kinnel

I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unsual willingness to disintigrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat
it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had
enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John
Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something
from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the
"Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad
a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through
his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his
pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket
through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the
configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal
alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there
is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started
on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their
clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"
came to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering
furrows, muttering.
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneaously
gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh
to join me.

In marriage

From the groom:

Friends and Family.
Whew. Friends and Family. Those two words have blurred for me so often and so deeply lately, that all I see is family now. My blood and my childhood memories remind me of my brothers and sisters and of what my Mom once said to me..."there is family, and there is nothing else." Once again, Mami, you are right. There is family and there is family.
I have been so humbled to see all the love that was obvious on Colleen and my wedding night. So much laughter, joy, conversation and... laughter. Above all, laughter. Tons of smiles and laughter. I'll be honest, that night was like being in a dream to me, but I do remember hearing lots and lots of laughter. Claire, Tessa and Teagan...OR Me and Colleen...OR Zaida, Art, Andre, Tony, Stacey and Memi (poor Alan Brown:()...OR Bruce,Clay, Arthur, Brandie and Tripp
I heard so much laughter, I never felt the need to be the one to start the party or the one to keep the party going. I was content to sit with my wife, enjoy the perfect blend of my family and Colleen's family simmer in that beautiful sculpture garden and create delicious memories of our wedding night (yeah, Lani...I REALLY LOVED your toast. It rang a HUGE bell in my heart. I love you.)
Simply put...I thank you all. I love you all. I am so happy you all met and I'm very fortunate to be part of Colleen's family. They have welcomed me with open arms and wider hearts. You met them. You know.

Poets, painters and songsters could express my feelings more eloquently, but none could mean it more than me....then...and right now...and always. I love you all. Thank you for loving me. Alain