Spiritual Sunday – All Saints Day
For a long time I have confused All Saints’ Day (Nov.1), All Souls’ Day (Nov. 2), and the Day of the Dead (Nov. 1-2). As I understand it, the first honors souls in heaven, the second souls in purgatory, and the third family members who have passed without reference to where they are now. It seems simplest, however, to think about it as a day to remember our lost loved ones.
That’s what this lovely May Sarton poem does. She begins by looking at those times of loss when we hear “the cold bleak voices of the early morning” and “when all the birds are dumb in dark November.” This “false night” is not the entire story, however.
That’s because, even at a time when “the last leaves are falling,” we hear words of reassurance:
Dear child, what has been once so interwoven
Cannot be raveled, nor the gift ungiven.
Continuing with the weaving metaphor, the poet declares that a deeper richness emerges:
Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,
Mother and child, lover and lover mated,
Are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited—
Only the strands grow richer with each loss
And memory makes kings and queens of us.
The final stanza contains an image from what may be the greatest All Saints’ Day poem, John Vaughan’s “They Are All Gone into the World of Light.” (I’ve written about it in conjunction with Jesus’s ascension but it’s more appropriate on this day.) Choosing “haven” over the more loaded “heaven,” Sarton speaks of “the birds [that] have flown to some real haven.” Vaughan, meanwhile, writes,
He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
In Sarton’s vision, light and darkness spins ceaselessly, just as remembering and forgetting do. We who are left behind, however, find “shelter in the warmth within,” that warmth coming from how the “lost human voices” are speaking through us and blending “our complex love.” Feeling “new-cherished, new-forgiven,” we see our “mourning without end” become a morning without end. Our lost loved ones have brought heaven to us.
All Souls Did someone say that there would be an end, An end, Oh, an end, to love and mourning? Such voices speak when sleep and waking blend, The cold bleak voices of the early morning When all the birds are dumb in dark November— Remember and forget, forget, remember. After the false night, warm true voices, wake! Voice of the dead that touches the cold living, Through the pale sunlight once more gravely speak. Tell me again, while the last leaves are falling: “Dear child, what has been once so interwoven Cannot be raveled, nor the gift ungiven.” Now the dead move through all of us still glowing, Mother and child, lover and lover mated, Are wound and bound together and enflowing. What has been plaited cannot be unplaited— Only the strands grow richer with each loss And memory makes kings and queens of us. Dark into light, light into darkness, spin. When all the birds have flown to some real haven, We who find shelter in the warmth within, Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven, As the lost human voices speak through us and blend Our complex love, our mourning without end.
