Years ago, at the end of the Song of Deborah,
I heard the quiet of Sisera’s chariots, which were late in coming,
As I looked at Sisera’s mother watching at the window,
A woman whose hair had a silver streak.
A spoil of diverse colors of needlework
Diverse colors of needlework on both sides meet for the necks of them that
take the spoil, the maidens saw’
At that very moment he lay like a sleeper in the tent;
His hands were very empty.
On his chin, traces of milk, butter, and blood.
The quiet was not shattered by the horses and the chariots;
The maidens also fell silent, one after the other.
My silence touched their silence.
After a while, the sun set.
After a while, the twilight went out.
Forty years – the land was calm. Forty years
Horses did not gallop and dead horsemen did not stare with glassy eyes.
But she died a short time after her son’s death.
Once a great love cut my life in two.
The first part goes on twisting
at some other place like a snake cut in two.
The passing years have calmed me
and brought healing to my heart and rest to my eyes.
And I'm like someone standing in the Judean desert, looking at a sign:
'Sea Level'
He cannot see the sea, but he knows.
Thus I remember your face everywhere
at your 'face Level.'
"The past is all around us, in the air,
the acres here were once 'the Wilderness'-
"Blimey, it's fit for a millionaire"-
where Eton Manor Boys Club came to train;
or, in the Clubhouse, (built 1913)
translated poverty to self-esteem,
camaraderie, and optimism similed in smiles.
Hackney Wick-
fleas, flies, bin-lids, Clarnico's Jam; the poor
enclosed by railway, marshland, factories, canal-
where Wellesley, Villiers, Wagg, Cadogan came,
philanthropists, to clear a glorious space;
connect the power of place to human hope,
through World War One, the Blitz, till 1967...
on this spot, functional, free, real- heaven.
This is legacy-
young lives respected, cherished, valued, helped
to sprint, swim, bowl, box, play, excel, belong;
believe community is self in multitude-
the way the past still dedicates to us
its distant, present light. The same high sky,
same East End moon, above this reclaimed wilderness,
where relay boys are raced by running ghosts."
In a house which becomes a home,
one hands down and another takes up
the heritage of mind and heart,
laughter and tears, musings and deeds.
Love, like a carefully loaded ship,
crosses the gulf between the generations.
Therefore, we do not neglect the ceremonies
of our passage: when we wed, when we die,
and when we are blessed with a child;
When we depart and when we return;
When we plant and when we harvest.
Let us bring up our children. It is not
the place of some official to hand to them
their heritage.
If others impart to our children our knowledge
and ideals, they will lose all of us that is
wordless and full of wonder.
Let us build memories in our children,
lest they drag out joyless lives,
lest they allow treasures to be lost because
they have not been given the keys.
We live, not by things, but by the meanings
of things. It is needful to transmit the passwords
from generation to generation.
It's only the beginning now
...a pathway yet unknown
At times the sound of other steps
...sometimes we walk alone
The best beginnings of our lives
May sometimes end in sorrow
But even on our darkest days
The sun will shine tomorrow.
So we must do our very best
Whatever life may bring
And look beyond the winter chill
To smell the breath of spring.
Into each life will always come
A time to start anew
A new beginning for each heart
As fresh as morning dew.
Although the cares of life are great
And hands are bowed so low
The storms of life will leave behind
The wonder of a rainbow.
The years will never take away
Our chance to start anew
It's only the beginning now
So dreams can still come true.
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