And now, for something completely different …
For this week’s installment of 52Musings, I called upon a guest writer or, in this case, a ghost writer. I didn’t know this individual was a writer, until long after he became a ghost. As I write this, I am reminded of a lesson that we often hear, but rarely intimately employ. There is always something more to learn if you listen a little closer, focus more thoughtfully, and truly be present.
Tranquility by C.E. Burd
Dinner at the homestead, such as many years ago, we sat before the fireplace and watched the embers glow.
Thoughts of early childhood, memories held so dear, many years of rekindled flashbacks and unaware of any fear.
With cane in hand, and a glance at others, I walked outdoors toward a path of past endeavors.
As my padded footfalls sounded upon the crunching snow, it seemed like leaves, upon whose trees, the winds of autumn blow.
But, alas, as yonder lies thy gaze, there are no leaves upon the trees. Only this snowy haze, which, far ahead abounds the darkening sky.
Blotting out whatever vision remains for the naked eye, noises sound as dusk falls fast, and with each plodding step, I quicken my pace.
To flee this haunty, snowy place.
Becoming weary and exhausted, knowing not which way to turn, I find myself gloriously exalted, into a place although unseen before by me, is not to my dismay.
Forgetting all my sorrows, not fretting about my care, I sit unbowed and not alone
In this, my heavenly lair.
Cecil E. Burd was a strong, quiet man who perfected the use of well-timed sarcasm. There was a certain formality about Grandpa, that was firmly etched from the era of his upbringing. He was the kind of guy that took you to the beach in slacks and a button down shirt. His standard issue black comb hanging at the ready from his front shirt pocket. Maybe he opted for short sleeves on special occasions. I have fond memories of eating breakfast with my toes in the sand of Daytona Beach with Grandpa.
When I first read his poem, it was after he died. A timely find, in that he provided a first hand account of death being scary and uncertain, but in the end, he was telling us that he was okay.
I’m not sure exactly when he wrote it.
I wonder where he was in his life when he wrote this poem.
I wonder what his days looked like between breakfast and the nightly walk through to secure and lock the funeral home that he managed. He also lived above that funeral home, which likely made the aspect of death a little less mysterious.
The more you are exposed to something, the more natural it becomes.
Tranquility to me, doesn’t necessarily speak to finding peace in the finality of death, but more to finding the windows within life that bring you peace. The darkness of the snowy field resembles both the chaos and opportunity that life can bring.
Tranquility is finding the calm within the storm.
The peace within the noise.
The love within everything.
It would have been really fun to talk about writing with Cecil E. Burd.
Maybe I am in a way …