
Sometimes it is millimeter by millimeter
Sometimes mile by mile
Occasionally year by year
Or chapter by chapter
Or stage by stage
And then sometimes it is all at once
The final departure
Or whimper
Or last (silent) breath
The deal is
Most often we don’t get a choice
Letting go comes on its own terms
What we can do
Is rail and curse and deny and resist
With fists clenched
With faces scowled
Or what we can do is receive
With open hands what has been given
Acknowledging the shortcomings
Making amends with regret
Counting well-earned and serendipitous blessings
Giving thanks for the gifts
The many, many gifts
The many, oh, so many gifts
In response to the incantation, “You are but dust, and to dust you shall return”
We mutter often reluctantly yet resolutely the ultimate gratitude
Let it be, God, according to your love
On the occasion of Ash Wednesday, March 5, 2025

I found the “quiet point” flower bed in the organic garden section of Edwin Warner park here in Nashville one very early spring day, a day before the gardeners had removed the fall debris and begun to prepare the garden for planting.
The hands are those of my mother recorded in her 96th year of life.
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