The Silence of Morning: A Memoir of Time Undone Read online

  ACCLAIM for

  The Silence of Morning

  BY D.A. HICKMAN

  “In The Silence of Morning, the author gives us an insightful and candid memoir after the suicide of her son at age 27. ‘Grief was at the wheel’ in this telling, but so are wisdom and discovery. At its center lies heartfelt candor in a lyrical voice in praise of life.”

  —MARY L. TABOR, AUTHOR OF WHO BY FIRE

  “Most pass through life slightly oblivious to the impact of devastating grief—that is, until we experience it firsthand. In The Silence of Morning, I cried as I followed the author along her path, a spiritual journey in which she survived her darkest moments. Ultimately, illumination follows: about life, loss, spirituality. No one will avoid great, heartrending loss, but Hickman’s memoir offers caring and friendship to anyone navigating such perilous waters. A book to treasure.”

  —LYNNE MORGAN SPREEN, AUTHOR OF DAKOTA BLUES

  “After the author’s son—bright, caring, but battling drug addiction—takes his life, Hickman enters the bewildering realm of grief: ‘the world’s teacher in disguise.’ As her quest for solace and insight unfolds in The Silence of Morning, we see her loss and the world’s: the boy with the fishing pole and paper route, the struggling young man devouring books while incarcerated … yet searching for life purpose and meaning, the hopeful farm hand in jeans, scuffed boots. All of us are made of loss, and how we respond—or choose not to—is as personal as a fingerprint. Keenly aware of the world’s preference for mindlessness, its impatience with the sick and the dying, its notable indifference toward death, Hickman reads widely, reflects on time, lives in the now. And draws nearer to her essential self. This story conveys a distilled wisdom: the gift of a spiritual seeker’s brave inquiry.”

  —RICHARD GILBERT, AUTHOR OF SHEPHERD: A MEMOIR

  “As Hickman gently takes us on a harrowing yet deeply inspiring journey of growing spiritual awareness, a wise, compassionate companion emerges. In The Silence of Morning the author—insightful, sublime—shines a strong light on a viable path to wholeness.”

  —CATHRYN WELLNER, AUTHOR, PHOTOGRAPHER

  “Hickman’s memoir, The Silence of Morning, is a bittersweet look at the life of Matthew, the son who commits suicide at 27, and the aftermath of discovery since his tragic loss. The author’s recount gifts readers with the most heart-rending perspective of this vividly painted word picture—the view through a mother’s eyes. At once a loving legacy and an unsparing depiction of the elusive lines between ‘phase versus problem; serious use versus experimentation; relapse versus recovery; life versus death,’ this compelling memoir is a gift of life, hope, and healing.”

  —LAURIE HUNTER BUCHANAN, PH.D.,

  AUTHOR OF NOTE TO SELF

  “‘Significant loss yanks you up, shakes you around like a rag doll, and drops you at the beginning of your remembered history,’ the author tells us, in her devastatingly truthful, unflinching memoir dedicated to her beloved son, Matthew, gone at 27 by his own hand. Hour by hour, day by day, Hickman shows us how a mother’s unfathomable loss becomes an opportunity for spiritual transformation; how the dark shroud of death can shine a clarifying light on the mystery of this mortal existence. In the brave language of personal revelation, the author proves that only love can transcend the worst of tragedies.”

  —KEITH LINWOOD STOVER, MUSICIAN, ESSAYIST, NOVELIST

  “Examining the world with narrative grace and balance, Hickman’s authorial voice communicates the choppy stuff of life with elegance. The author’s generous spirit and heartfelt concern are lasting gifts to readers everywhere.”

  —JEN KNOX, AUTHOR OF AFTER THE GAZEBO

  “As a mother who lost a young daughter, I understand the ‘silence of morning’—a gutting reminder with nowhere to hide, but also a space to keep sacred and process. Though time has elapsed since Charlotte’s loss, her memory—her essence—still comes to me through these mysterious layers of silence.”

  —SUKEY FORBES, AUTHOR OF THE ANGEL IN MY POCKET

  Also by the Author

  Always Returning: The Wisdom of Place

  (Capturing Morning Press, 2014, second edition, Heart Resides)

  Where the Heart Resides: Timeless Wisdom of the American Prairie

  (William Morrow, Eagle Brook, 1999, first edition)

  I am drawn to Hickman’s eloquent, inspirational

  writing … the way she pulls her reader away

  from the chaos into a place of quiet reflection.

  —KATHLEEN POOLER, MEMOIRIST

  The Silence

  of Morning

  I truly hope my memoir speaks to loss and grief, but to other societal issues as well. I tried to capture our culture, its addictive tendencies, and the troubling implications that follow. The spiritual component is here, as well. I will always be a student of society looking for the deeper story and the universal message to derive a better understanding of the human condition.

  —D.A. HICKMAN

  The Silence

  of Morning

  A M E M O I R O F T I M E U N D O N E

  D. A. H I C K M A N

  Capturing Morning Press

  Published by

  Capturing Morning Press

  Copyright © 2015 by Daisy Ann Hickman. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without specific permission from the publisher.

  Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9908423-6-1

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-0-9908423-1-6

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition

  capturingmorningpress.com

  [email protected]

  Logo design © EKM, 2014

  “Sunbeam Dance” by D.A. Hickman, first published fall

  2011 Pasque Petals, South Dakota State Poetry Society

  This book, heartfelt, hopefully inspiring and engaging, is not intended as a substitute for professional help or advice. Readers should seek such services, as needed, and whenever required or recommended.

  Copyright © 2015 artist Paul C. Jackson

  “Silence of Morning” watercolor

  [email protected] • Columbia, Missouri

  Book & cover design

  Michele DeFilippo @ 1106Design.com • Phoenix, Arizona

  ~

  Text set in Adobe Caslon Pro, a popular serif typeface originally designed around 1722 by William Caslon (1692–1766).

  We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves.

  —LEONORA CARRINGTON (1917–2011)

  For Matthew—his presence and love, his place in the world of time, his eternal spirit.

  SUNBEAM DANCE

  BY D.A. HICKMAN

  Never works to

  go to bed early

  when needing to

  rise before dawn,

  so instead of

  subscribing to

  a magic formula

  grown musty, I

  read poetry by

  Tennyson until

  daybreak, knowing

  words on a page

  will guide me to

  the morning light.

  Life is more than an ending.

  —from THE SILENCE OF MORNING

  Matthew: 2006 (Thanksgiving, Christmas) and 2007 (fishing).

  Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

  —HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  Contents

/>   Preface

  AN AUSTERE GARDEN: AN INTRODUCTION

  Part I

  What Time Conceals

  SLAMMING DOORS

  LIGHT YEARS AWAY

  A PIERCING SOUND

  CONSCIOUSNESS ITSELF

  THE FACE OF HARDSHIP

  A WICKER CHAIR

  HUMBLE BELONGINGS

  SHAKESPEARE REMEMBERED

  TODAY’S CANVAS

  FRENCH LYRICS

  SPIRITUAL ROOTS

  OUTDATED CODES

  THE SOUND OF NOTHING

  Part II

  What Time Reveals

  EASTER MORNING

  PERSISTENT RAIN

  SAVING THINGS

  THE WAY OF THE SAGE

  PARTING WAYS WITH SOMEDAY

  SUBTLE SIGNS REVISITED

  MORE THAN HIS FEARS

  WHERE THERE IS FREEDOM

  PAINTING THE SUN

  RUNNING WITH THE STARS

  NATURE’S SECRET

  COMING TOGETHER: A CONCLUSION

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Book Notes

  About the Author

  The Silence

  of Morning

  My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  Preface

  This isn’t a book about Buddhism, Catholicism, or any other category of religious belief. Rather, it’s about a journey of growing spiritual awareness that tapped into many schools of thought to uncover the “peace of God which passeth all understanding.” A willingness to question everything, in fact, is what sustained my commitment to spiritual growth.

  Sometimes such questioning is spontaneous, or a profound catalyst may offer a push. A powerful push. Sensing an infinite number of paths leading to spiritual realization—as many as experience and intuition can inform—I embraced this catalyst as an opportunity to push beyond dogma (ancient belief systems) too often created, sustained by history, power, ego. Stereotypes and superficial judgments that suggest nothing more than pre-packaged definitions of reality. Some, curiously popular. My ardent desire to transcend the anguish that arrived with my son’s loss also fueled my questioning—slowly taking me somewhere new in the spiritual sense.

  John Lennon said, “I believe in God, but not as one thing, not as an old man in the sky. I believe that what people call God is something in all of us. I believe that what Jesus and Mohammed and Buddha and all the rest said was right. It’s just that the translations have gone wrong.” Something in all of us, indeed. I love Lennon’s choice of words. He leads us in a fruitful direction, suggesting we look internally for what we’re too often led to believe is an external discovery. Consider the problems of our world that stem from an excessive external focus. The enormous suffering generated as we search endlessly for a “special” life purpose, when discovering our essential self—that something within—and learning to fully live from that place, is our actual, and irreplaceable, mission.

  We’re much more than surface impressions suggest, but possessing faith in the human experience, no matter how confusing, stark, or challenging, is what finally leads us to our spiritual center. Yet, that’s where we tend to get sidetracked. Doubting life experience, its vagueness and fleeting nature, its sorrows and mysteries, almost by default, we assimilate popularized, mainstream values that take us far, far afield.

  Usually (with luck), something happens that pushes us to question what we believe or were taught to think, and finally, we are forced to acknowledge our deep weariness with the world: unfathomable suffering caused by destructive societal patterns, habitual ways of judging and perceiving, attachment to the dullness (sameness) of the conditioned mind. Then true change occurs. That’s when I began to see, ever more deeply, what was merely hidden by a frenzied, conflict-ridden world following an antiquated, generic map.

  Life is much simpler than we presume, but our gaze must shift: eyes turning within, consistently, patiently. Mythologist Joseph Campbell told us, “The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.”

  Oh, how that resonates. We need a plethora of such voices flowing from everywhere, anywhere, even if once resisted. Voices that challenge us to know ourselves deeply.

  Navigating the dimensions of grief, I sought the wisest, most engaging voices I could find regardless of origin. Lao Tzu, for one. Lacking a survival map or bread crumbs to follow, a few of his words became a spiritual guide. As a creative beacon in my search for understanding, if I stayed true to the process—listened to my intuition—I hoped to find the way of heaven, the way of the sage. Nothing less felt adequate.

  As a quiet, steady reminder, I close each chapter with Lao Tzu’s insightful message. Like a bell chiming, it’s a consistent and gentle imperative to look within. A comforting message against the grimness—the necessary isolation—of the journey. Inviting the bell, as opposed to ringing it, is a mindfulness practice used in meditation; since each chapter represents a determined push through the maze of time, I invite the bell 24 times.

  Lao Tzu, a Chinese philosopher, was revered as a great master during the sixth century (604 B.C.–531 B.C.). He wrote the Tao Te Ching, or The Book of the Way.

  Given the countless number of enlightened voices (deceased and living) in the world, I could have selected words of guidance, of comfort, from many sources. Whether popular, obscure, or discovered quite by accident, the key, I found, was opening without prejudice or expectation to what I didn’t know I needed, wanted, to know.

  A persistent willingness to explore the deepest mysteries illuminated a path of renewal that felt like a winding set of days, months, and years, without beginning or end. Mind and heart will try very hard to grasp the unthinkable, but the hard ground of loss must be worked, surrendered to, on the level of soul to deeply transform us. To rouse us from our sleep.

  God’s finger touched him and he slept.

  —LORD ALFRED TENNYSON

  An Austere Garden

  An Introduction

  Flash frozen, a defenseless cod yanked from a rumbling, fertile sea, I no longer felt real, and knew only that my will to live was being tested. Hiding from the world in my writing study, a compact sunny nook turned slate gray as though drained of all signs of life, I felt a piercing void. Emptiness overwhelmed. Time stood uncomfortably still.

  Scanning the west-facing room, its white walls and beige curtains, I looked around for something comforting. Gazing blankly at whatever was perched on my shelves—pictures, books, a few mementos—the futility of my search exaggerated my disbelief, my muddled thoughts. That I couldn’t possibly know what to look for, given the circumstances, didn’t occur to me for a very long time.

  Grief has many universal qualities, but only as an individual did I come to understand its blinding power—its unique role in my life. And only as an individual did I learn the life-changing lessons that flowed well beyond the person, the relationship, I grieved for—my son Matt, or Matthew, and the 27-year history that seemed lost forever.

  Admittedly, this potent insight didn’t arrive like a new pair of dress shoes, delicately concealed by white tissue in the perfect-size box. Discovering the formidable lessons of loss took tremendous patience. Had to be discovered, teased out, like the pale flicker of dawn that refuses anything more until the allotted time has elapsed. Because of his sheer absence, I knew my son had disappeared from our lives without warning, but an academic understanding—an intellectual awareness—is virtually useless in this grievous context.

  Matthew’s death left me spiritually challenged. Powerful questions pushed me to the other side of the world and beyond. The essence of grief, in fact, how it must be known firsthand to be known at all, was slow to come into focus. Emotional exhaustion clouded my vision; riveting sadness burrowed into my soul. Grief, it seemed, was the worst kind of
intruder—a foreign presence my entire being tried to reject, as if optional or somehow less than monumental. Forced to confront something vast, supremely powerful, and well beyond my frame of reference, 52 years of life experience suddenly held no significance.

  Extreme sounding, perhaps, yet death—especially from suicide—is also at the far end of the spectrum: the very edge of human understanding. A faint whisper in the night. And knowing, from a shaky place within, how ill-prepared I was to cope with the gravity of a family tragedy—its nameless, staggering ache, its uncertain aftermath—I feared I would fold. Only the feeble question of when remained.

  Telling myself that many had known such despair, that something called shock would insulate me from devastating pain for a time, was pointless. Understanding that death can occur anytime, anyplace, and often when least expected, didn’t help either. Only, much later, when drawn to the wisdom of Zen, did I discover a mirror image. Feeling stuck in a rock garden, for instance, resonated with me. Stark, too, had its place. Empty spaces felt real. In a thin book about Zen rock gardening, I learned that sitting with stones could lead me to a “still point” within, one to help me grapple with fierce challenges.

  So I sat with my grief—allowing its intense, unyielding nature—to study every rock, every shadow, that came into view, to watch rays of piercing sunshine that danced like spotlights, guiding me to moments where I might pause more deeply on aspects of Matthew’s journey. Somehow, while I experienced the past, present, and future in a confusing but oddly revealing blur, more than eight years elapsed, and after seven years of work, surprisingly, I finished writing this book. But in the spiritual sense, I’m still sitting in that rock garden.