What will be on the other side?

Two poems which made me think about eternity

Listen to the Notes From The Other Side. Photo by Andre Benz on Unsplash

Soon, the great events of Holy Week will begin to unfold. Arrest. Trial. Execution. And (thank God) Resurrection.

At times like these, we could be forgiven for thinking about our own lives and our own ultimate destinies. No-one lives for ever, even if they act like it sometimes. Did Jesus know there was a glorious conclusion in store for his own life, when he felt so forsaken on the cross? Do we know what will happen to us? Of course we don’t know, but we can believe and we can hope.

I want to share two poems with you. They are both by Jane Kenyon, who was born in Michigan in the United States in 1947. She had a short life - by today’s standards - not reaching her 48th year, and plenty of that was in physical and mental anguish. Nevertheless, there is a rare and simple beauty in what she has to say and I hope this will shed some light on how we approach our own lives.

The first poem is called Otherwise.

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

(from Let Evening Come, Selected Poems by Jane Kenyon, Bloodaxe)

Kenyon describes an ordinary day which is full of pleasures. She is able to get out of bed without being in pain. Not a bad start to the day, especially as one gets older. She has a breakfast of cereal, sweet milk and a particularly enjoyable peach, “ripe”, “flawless”. I know how irritable I am if the banana choose to go on morning porridge is bruised or under-ripe and tastes like soap. Kenyon is more fortunate. The peach is great. Then, she spends the morning doing the work she loves. She doesn’t elaborate but we can imagine her contentment, maybe sitting in a lovely study looking out at the garden, maybe jotting down lines for her next poem, answering correspondence, reading or researching. Many of the things, I confess, that I like to do in the mornings. There is a lot to be said for simple pleasures in a comfortable place.

At noon, she says, she may lay down with her mate. We can only imagine what is behind this sentence, maybe some lunchtime romance with her beloved, maybe simply rest. Her repeated use of “it might have been otherwise” suggests she is taking the time to be grateful for small things. Things which we often take for granted. How many times have we got through a day without stopping and thinking, well, I’m lucky to have had those experiences, to be able to have done something routine but enjoyable, to have shared that moment. It might have been otherwise.

Kenyon eats dinner with her loved one. Even the table, with its silver candlesticks, brings her cheer. Then she sleeps in a room, surrounded by her favourite paintings, and drifts off thinking about the next day, and what joys that might bring. Finally, a harsh and realistic note interrupts her chain of thought. One day, she knows - and we all know - it will be otherwise. This might be a gradual process - the weakening of the body or the mind - or it might be something sudden, an illness or accident, which cuts short the daily routine, making the normality of the day abnormal, and instilling a longing in us for small, rewarding activities. I think she speaks for all of us here.

The second poem is called Notes From The Other Side.

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.

Now there is no more catching
one's own eye in the mirror,

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course

no illness. Contrition
does not exist, nor gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

(from Let Evening Come, Selected Poems by Jane Kenyon, Bloodaxe)

This time, Kenyon appears to be speaking from the other side of death. She has passed over to whatever lays beyond. And how is she feeling now?

There is no sense of despair, no sense of fear. They have both gone. It doesn’t matter what she sees in the mirror. No need to notice that new grey hair, that new sign of ageing. It doesn’t matter any more. Bad books have gone, only wonderful books remain. The dreaded plastic ruining the earth has disappeared, and she doesn’t have to pay for life insurance (presumably this would never pay out now). We don’t have to be contrite because maybe there is nothing to be contrite about. Bad behaviour has gone, bad motives have gone - to be replaced with kindness and generosity. Weeping, gnashing of teeth (mentioned by Jesus as a sign of judgement) have also been consigned to history. Grief is no more. Funerals are no more.

The poor are no longer with us because everyone is rich. And what is the meaning of wealth anyway? Who needs money anymore? You can’t take it with you, as we are told in the Gospels.

Our calm hears strike only the hour. There is a sense here that there is nothing to worry about in the past or the future. All that anxiety is forgotten, to be replaced by a levelness, a stillness, a feeling of rest.

And then her beautiful ending to the poem. God, as promised, proves to be mercy clothed in light. Mercy clothed in light. Sometimes words prove insufficient to describe the vision of God, but I think Kenyon gets pretty close here. Forgiveness and love is clothed - or folded around - by light, the sacred, uncreated light of God. And we can rest in this, forever and forever.