Harbor Pilots

Well, good morning, Cadre. I'm Speak Wonder and today I want to talk to you about harbor pilots. Specifically harbor poets. Those who come alongside our boats in harbor and sing us home, so to speak, or pull us into safety through the beauty of well crafted words and poetry. I come on the Cadre on Thursdays and the framework is caregiving and the larger framework is harbor pilots. Meaning symbolically that when we're in our boat in the open sea or approaching the harbor or leaving the harbor, it's always nice to have harbor pilots, the other vessels that come alongside and help us our journey.

As a caregiver, I am caregiving. My mom, who is 93, she'll be 94 in May next month. In May, she'll be 94 years young. She will have seen 94 summers and autumns, 94 winters and 94 springs. And our time together has grown very precious. People ask me how she is. Her name is June. She's known as June Bug or Juni Bug at the nursing home. She's actually appeared here on the Cadre. She has made special guest appearance on this show on this platform, I should say this neighborhood of encouragement. Be happy 2025.

Hello and hello Jules. Hello, Andy. Joyful. Hello, Steph. I caught your live today. So I thought I would just surround you and nurture you and comfort you just like a mama puts a cover on a sleepy child. I would just help you cozy up to some gorgeously crafted words that deal with end of life in poetry. I found this beautiful little booklet. It's titled Gone from my site. It's written by an RN named Barbara Carnes. And. And she has very systematically listed what end of life looks like, starting with months to live and then weeks and then days and then hours.

It's a very practical guide to watch breathing patterns, lack of food intake, the body temperature is colder. Different things. Not to be hyper vigilant or sad or. Or panicked, but simply thoughtfully watchful in this process of leaving the earth realm. Mom is not sick, but her body is releasing itself from this world in increments. And I'm aware of that. And yes, I'm sad. But it helps me to deeply treasure the moments we still have or weeks or months or, God willing, years. So I thought I'd start with a few poems I found on death and dying.

The duality. Duality. There's a word. Word. The. The dual presence of loss and love and how connections can transcend difficulties. Connections can transcend our sadness. Connections can transcend death. So I'm going to start with some poems I found online. And then I'm going to end with a poem I wrote and shared with you back in August of 24. I'm going to revisit it. So here we go. In dreams we wander. In dreams we wander hand in hand beyond the veil, a timeless land yet every whisper that we hear Speaks love that left but lingers near.

Most of these, if not all, did not give an author. I always like to name the author if I can. The Time We Shared this poem captures cherished moments and shared experiences, serving as a reminder of of nostalgia and joy Even in the loss, in laughter shared and stories spun Our hearts entwined Two souls as one Though time may steal what once was near the memories dance and reappear with every tear a smile breaks through for in those times we still imbue the moments fleeting yet so profound. In every heartbeat love is found.

What a beautiful surrender, if you will, release into the celebration of life and memories, illustrating how moments of joy can persist even when we're looking at end of life. Now you know me. Harbor, pilots, water. Nautical terms. This one's called the Tides of Farewell. It mentions the ocean and here we go. The Tides of Farewell. A poem using the metaphor of tides to discuss the ebb and the flow of life and loss. Like ocean waves that rise and break, we ride the tides for love's own sake. With each farewell a peace we share in whispered breezes soft as air yet time will flow as waters do to reshape hearts and skies of blue and every parting love will tide to guide our souls as fate decides.

A metaphor again, capturing life's transitions, the ceaseless nature of love. And as a reader, you're insured of the enduring strength of your relationships and your connections despite loss. Yeah, so I know some of my lives sort of merge into grief sharing, which is on Fridays on the Cadre. But caregiving sometimes involves looking at end of life in the eyeballs and saying, I got you, I see you and I'm dealing with you. So I will go ahead and read one more poem and this is from the booklet gone from my site.

Highly recommend for anybody caregiving somebody in their home or at hospice time or in a nursing home. It's a very simple, practical book on the dying experience. So at the end of her little book, Barbara Carnes, the writer, has a poem written by Henry Van D***. It's more like an essay. I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts out for the blue ocean she's an object of beauty and strength. I stand and I watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, there she is gone. Gone where? Gone from my sight. That. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, there she is gone. There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, Here she comes. And that is dying.

And that is dying. Henry Van D*** wrote that. So your Harper poet Speak Wonder here put together some words last August, and I'd like to read them to you now. And it's titled simply Harbor Poets. And it's how I'll end our gathering, our conflab. Our conversation today. Thank you for the hearts, thank you for the emojis, the waves, the good morning sunshines. You are my tribe. You are my Cadre. You are my harbor pilots. And I am in the sea of the unknowns right now with Mom. You are in the oceans of the unknowns with your children who have challenges with people who need extra helps and assistance getting through this thing we call life.

And so I give you Harper Poets. A windswept voice is calling me beneath the clouds, across the sea. My spirit aches to hear it sing in velvet tones. All feathery. Away from port, no harbor light, the darkest hour of the night. I feel the lurching of my boat. I feel my throat constrict with fright. I clutch the ropes. My vessel stalls. Deep waters heave up salted walls. The groaning of the towering mast sings to the sky. I feel so small. That distant voice now fills the air. A melody of trust and care.

Crescendoing, I'll bring you home. The harbor. See, it's over there. The humming of a little boat becomes my symphony of hope. Defying waves and fog and mist. It sings me home in winsome notes. A harbor poet in my storm. A vision on the cusp of morn. A comrade saying stay the course. You're not alone though you're careworn. Your harbor poets shelter you. They know what you are going through. You're safe inside the cadrosphere. These humans are your ready crew. Yeah. Steph. Thanks for the love. Thank you all.

At 3 o' clock Eastern. We have missan and ball comedy through the chaos. Check the past lives that you may have missed because of scheduling and so on. The replays are always a treat. I love to double dip. Sometimes I play the live and then I play the replay. Be well, my friend. Be well. Rest in the assurance that there will be vessels in the sea with you, navigating the waters you're in. Reach out to them, they'll sail for you. They'll sail beside you, and they'll pull you in to less choppy waters.

We need each other. We are all minstrels and troubadours and street buskers singing each other home, calling one another into safe harbor.