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On a sun-drenched Easter Sunday nearly seven decades ago, two destiny maps – known as my Mum and Dad – came together in marriage and stayed together.
It happened in the remote Ida Valley, Central Otago – sheep-station country in New Zealand’s South Island. Think tussocks blanketing the dry landscape with shimmering liquid gold, huge rock outcrops and only a few scattered willows bordering the creeks; skies of unfathomable indigo with tiny skylarks soaring and diving and ceaselessly singing on the wing…
Time! How it creates this apparentness of be-ing! Creates the insistent illusion of individuals with identities and histories; creates the fabric on which Life embroiders a multitude of manifestations. Time is mind’s favourite toy.
This is my question:
What was never born
never entered into marriage
never had children or parents
never succeeded or failed at anything
never suffered injury or heartache
nor enjoyed a single moment’s pleasure
and yet ‘knows’ it all, intimately,
while remaining
utterly unaffected and impartial?
Painting: Road West, Ida Valley by Grahame Sydney 1999
710mm x 1220mm
Oil on Linen
echoes from emptiness 
Post Script:
A few years later Mum and Dad chalked up 73 years of marriage. Dad was, by then, in high care, and Mum was in mine.
On the day of their anniversary I took Mum to visit Dad in the hospital. He was lying in bed, unable to sit up. She leaned over him, their faces almost touching, and said, “Syd, do you know what day it is today?”
Their eyes locked. His face broke into a broad smile.
“Oh, the skylarks!” he said softly.
Three days later he died in my arms.
From Emptiness to Emptiness we dance our days.
All your writing I find inexpressibly beautiful. It brings joyful tears. Thank you. I follow you on Twitter, which is how I came to read your jewel-like poetry.
Harry – I’m deeply touched by your sweet comment! It brings me such joy to know you resonate with these little *echoes* – thank you so much for sharing your pleasure.
~ ml
It’s the exquisite economy of words which makes your writing so attractive, Miriam. They transcend their bare meaning, and point invitingly beyond.