A Deep River Year
March 5, 2014

There was shrimp etoufee to eat and lots of New Orleans style music at the Mardi Gras party last night at our town’s senior center.    It was probably a little different from what took place on Bourbon Street.   There were feathers and beads and masks, even a palm reader in the corner.   A few folks, trying to converse at their tables, asked that the music be turned down a little.   After the meal, some of the seniors got up, drawn by the lively music, and dodged the metal walkers as they danced.   The party ended early.

Mardi Gras is the celebration of carnival, which means “farewell to the flesh.”   It is a reminder of the ancient Lenten tradition of fasting from meat, but it could just as well be a warning of our own earthly limits.   Perhaps the wild exuberance of Rio or New Orleans pales a bit as we get older, and that’s why last night’s partiers went to bed early.   As we age, we get closer to our own “farewell to the flesh.”   It is not a bad thing, of course, to be reminded of our mortality.   The hope is that we savor the days that are given to us.    We should live them all as gifts.

This morning I went outside early to fill the bird feeders.   I found our little pond had been desecrated during the night, the pump knocked over, the water murky,  the goldfish gone.   A trail of blood and scales led off across the crust of snow, and we guessed that a hungry raccoon had made a nocturnal visit.   It was just a few fish, I told myself, even though I have fed those fish for several summers and winters.  I knew their markings, sometimes called them by name.    And so I am sad for the loss of my scaled brothers and sisters.  And I am stung by the reminder that all of us are just dust and ashes, who are facing the party’s end.    Carpe diem.

Ash Wednesday

The brown earth begins to show,
Taking sun,
So that life can happen again.
We are drawn to this ancient awakening,
drawn to some pulse in dirt and stone
that is our own.
So we come to a moment
of dust and ashes
to remember what is in us.
We step away from our days of dancing,
the wild carnival of pretending
that we are young, that laughter is forever,
and that singing hearts may drown out
the wails of grief, or the silent desolations
of our waiting loneliness.
We come from the wishful feast
still hungry for love’s banquet,
still waiting for a better season,
for something simple in us,
like loam or humus,
which is ready to take sun.

--Timothy Haut, March 5, 2014