Sunday, February 14, 2016

Carbon Dust

Photo by Kendall Cox

"You are dust, 
and to dust 
you shall return." 
(Genesis 3:19c)     

Nearly thirty years ago,
I watched a teenage pyromaniac 
stare in awe 
at a marshmallow on a stick, 
held over the fire way too long, 
a smile spreading across his face. 
"Whoa, dude; 
totally carbonized!" 

            ******

   In loving reverence, 
   cremains of the dearly departed 
   are treated as sacred ashes, 
   in a beautiful urn 
   on the family room mantle 
   or in a personal prayer space 
   or scattered across 
   holy woods or water. 

We are stardust, 
we are golden, 
and we've got to get ourselves 
back to the garden.
(“Woodstock” by Joni Mitchell)

      Darkness reminds us 
      we're surrounded 
      by billions of stars. 

         We rarely think of them 
         during the light of day. 
         But they're there all along; 
         were there long before 
         the first strand of human DNA 
         sparkled on earth;

will be there long after 
the final helix ceases to exist; 
sending their light via 
speeds stretching comprehension; 
shooting, fizzling in a constant 
galactic fireworks of magnificence. 

   With or without combustion, 
   our carbon-based bodies, 
   once breath and heartbeat cease, 
   are composted back into the earth, 
   embalming fluid be-damned. 

      The Lenten question –  
      or the existential one –  
      is not if we'll flatline, 
      or even when
      but how much humus 
      we'll provide the world around us
      while we're still 
      on the green side of the grass. 

         It's not a question 
         of greatness, fame, or fortune, 
         or of pedigree, real estate, and portfolio.
   
It’s about passion and purpose; 
not whether we appear 
to be shooting stars, 
but how our candle casts light 
into the shadows 
of the neighborhood. 

"Keep open house;
be generous with your lives.
By opening up to others,
you’ll prompt people
to open up with God,
this generous Father in heaven."
(Matt 5:16 MSG)

© 2016 Todd Jenkins


4 comments:

  1. A family does not choose when the light of a dearly-loved one ceases on this Earth to glow in Heaven. To lose a very bright and shining 25-year-old son, grandson, brother, nephew, cousin, sweetheart, friend during Lent just one month shy of his birthday has been extremely grievous. James Christian Rico crammed more light and happiness into his life and the life of those around him than most of us will manage if we live to be 103! We praise God that Jay was shared with us because he truly embodied the Christ-like life for which we should all strive. Thank you, Todd, for your commentary on candleship.

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  2. Thank you, Toni. My heart both hurts and hopes with all of you along this journey.

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    Replies
    1. Grace, peace, and aloha. You and Jennie have become ohana to Sheila.

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  3. Once again, Todd, you manage to speak to the unvoiced pains and hopes of a terrible passage. Thank you for this poem -- which speaks both to the death of this bright young man, and also to the broader losses that rim our mortal walk.

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