Spiritual Sunday
My mother died at home early Saturday morning, waiting until Julia and I had fallen asleep to go. Before then, as she lay seemingly oblivious to all around her, we spent several hours reading poems to her (including Mary Oliver’s “In Blackwater Woods”) and playing classical music. I also recounted for her many of her favorite memories, giving her life a narrative arc.
When we finally realized that she was dead, we felt that we had done all we could to make her passing a peaceful experience. There was no “moaning of the bar.”
The line is taken from Alfred Tennyson’s moving poem “Crossing the Bar,” in which he imagines his own death and tells us how he wants his mourners to respond. I particularly love the line “too full for sound and foam” because that’s how I felt as I gazed down at my mother’s form. There was a welling up of deep emotion, as though a slow-building but powerful tide, coming from “the boundless deep,” was finally washing over and “bear[ing] me far.” No loud crashing waves.
The poem’s nautical imagery applies both to Tennyson and to those who, standing on the bar, watch his ship moving into unknown waters. The language has a clarity that is missing from the intricate struggles of “In Memoriam,” written decades before in an attempt to reconcile himself to the death of his beloved Arthur Hallam. Composed when he himself was approaching death, “Crossing the Bar” uses spare imagery and simple diction to focus on the final moment.
Tennyson may be speaking from conviction or he may be saying what he hopes for. For my part, I was hoping that my mother would hear, and respond to, that “one clear call” in her final hours. Maybe she did and that’s why she set sail when we left her alone.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark…
Bon voyage, maman.
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have cross’d the bar.