The Reading Monk

It’s Wednesday in a slow moving week which for me, started with the death of a young relative aged 24 from cancer. Her final moments were difficult and I find myself struggling to let go of the images my mind conjured upon hearing what happened.  I have only met her once a few years ago when everyone thought her cancer was in remission. I guess death has brought relief not only to her own suffering but also those who have had to be there for her and endure the many years of feeling helpless.

But still, to die so young seems unfair and cruel. Unfair in that she has been denied the chance to see and experience so much. She had dreams of her own; things she wanted, places to go, people to meet. And cruel in that that her release from life was accompanied till the end by just suffering.  I cry for her parents who must bear this loss of a child who has departed before them. I feel also for her siblings who carry on in life into old age without her. She will eternally be 24 years old.

This afternoon, as I worked at my desk in the office my elderly aunt dropped by for a visit. And as we chatted about our lives, she asked if I had heard of a poem by William Henry Davies entitled “Leisure”. I said ‘no’ and she proceeded to recite it for me.

It goes like this -

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

I let the words settle in my mind. We both looked out the window at the river and the slow boats cruising past. Watching the currents, we each lost ourselves in our own thoughts.

As she approaches her 70th year and I, my 36th I’m sure we both appreciated the poem in different ways. Or perhaps the same way. For her, it may be with a tinge of regret for a life that could’ve been lived differently; of decisions that should have been made the other way or not made at all. Time was once a companion to her, who told her wonderful stories of tomorrow and promised her hope. Time was her age, a young lady full of energy and curiosity. Time would hold her hand and run ahead of her, pulling her, giggling as they both explored the many rooms in which Life resides. But as Age creeps in, Time fades away as a friend. No longer are Time’s stories full of wonder for her book is almost at an end. The pages left are not many. She can only turn the pages back and see the memories of those promises – some of which are broken.

I asked her to recite the poem again. And I paused to reflect deeper.

The boats continue to go past my windows. Two pigeons perch on the ledge. One pecks at the glass pane.

And yes, I see it.

There are now three of us in the room.

There, silently sitting beside my aunt, I see her old friend – Time. The beauty of this poem and her recollection of it must’ve been whispered to her gently by none other than Time herself. She is kind today. She lets go of my aunt’s arm and allows us this short moment to appreciate the present, our Now. She smiles and leaves us alone. Timeless.

I look back at my aunt. She tells me, “One day at a time. That is enough.”

She’s right.