A Poem About My Past
My friend Bob Cavender has collected just about all my poems and pics, loving them like children. Since learning of his death, I’m combing through old correspondence. I found this poem I sent along in 2004. He and his wife Genie (and their children) have known me (and still loved me) since I was a teenager, when I didn’t even love myself. How very special is that?
Dear UB:
Here is my morning poem. I use the word enlightenment not in an ego sort of way, but more as a spiritual concept. I don’t think I have attained any heroic sort of position, I simply mean that the doors and windows are open, willing to let light in…
A Venerable City
Rome is littered with stunning remnants of its past. Tangible reminders of the city it used to be. Tired and old but not forgotten. Respected, revered for its survival. Admired for its great beauty. I have never seen the coliseum but I have renderings of my own worn monuments, the old (too easy to revile) beside the new.
A great architect wouldn’t come to Rome and say, “These ruins are an eyesore. Tear them down” (and build a shopping mall.) Progress seeks a balance between innovation and preservation of what still has truth to it. The truth is, I have treated my past as if I were ashamed of it. I have guided people through my ruins with apology and irreverence. Viewing my corroding walls with shame, I am a stranger in the city I used to live in.
Building on the past, I have shored up my sagging constitution with a deeper appreciation of where I’ve come from; of the distance I’ve carried my material. The intuiting when to build and when to tear things down and I will finish out my days here, in this city which I have loved into enlightenment.
LBM 12/5/02
