Autonomy, a Prayer

A meditation on the week after a prostatectomy.

Athens, Georgia

September 7, 2011; revised May 13, 2015

To be free from tubes and holding tight, with taut skin stretching staple-free, my belly humming blissfully beneath a bandaged five-part scar; to sneeze and laugh and like the twinge; to feel akin to fountain boy still en pissant in Brussels square; my body, unattached and free – 

              my freedom brings autonomy.

To step outside to open sky and feel the sun inspiring sweat; to swerve and crunch September leaves and smell the summer stored inside; to stand in shade air-cooled by breeze; to harbor strength to stride with ease to where I will; where will is strong –   

to will belongs autonomy.  

To pay due heed is prayer indeed, or prayer enough for one set free from climate-cooled sterility, from pumps, procedures, hardened tools, precision cuts that take out lumps and treasures of vitality in trade for time and open space to fill with what, that choice is mine – 

my choice defines autonomy.

To walk away from death each day, each step a prayer and prayer’s reply; each dawning light, a night behind, a morning more to hear the score of tiny tongues in praise of life; those chittering skittering prayers told by insects, birds and hurried souls too busy for reflective ways – 

through deepened thought, autonomy.

To claim the time to redefine my way within the sacred web, receiving life more graciously and giving back with equal ease, enraptured in the dance of grace, transforming old conflicted ways; a daily task, to drop what chains me to the past and reattach with what will last – 

in life of love, autonomy.

Photography by David Noah, Winterville, Georgia: 
"Birds and Wires"

To Our Children Leaving Home

Photograph by David Noah,
Winterville, Georgia

Photograph by David Noah,

Winterville, Georgia

Bob Ambrose 
and Susan Richardson

Athens, Georgia

August 21, 2011

Reflections on a vision given to Susan

of Kelsey going to college; and on memories.

It is always so,

they go forth

bearing our biology

passed on from dawn

of life’s first day.

But so much more

they bear our dreams

on loan since Eve

awoke to wonder,

pondered, suffered,

lost her Abel.

Ever to the left

behind who love

enough to let

them go, may God

grant visions, offer

signs.

        Of fair spring skies and foals in fields

        enclosed by fences, sturdy gates

        restraining safe the bounding colt

        and bright-eyed filly. Safe, but kept

        confined too long, they’ll never be

        what God designed, and so to grow

        and tame proud hearts, we lead them out

        to wider fields across the hill where

        far-off fences, unmanned gates give room

        to run consumed by joy, constrained

        till strong. The same our young.

But God steals hearts

and leaves gates open,

gates unguarded

but by love, a love

impressed inside

the growing, love

that’s fit for wider

fields, a love more

fierce than wildest

demon, love beyond

our gentle vision.

        Within our gates are wide green pastures,

        lush enough to feed a soul, sustaining

        life a while, forever. Open gates, though,

        promise more: they hold back magic,

        mysteries, wild valleys, distant shores

        and shadows, room to roam beyond our

        vision, we who love them desperately.

They will go

through gates in time.

They will pass

beyond protection.

They will wander

far lands guarded

but by love.

And they will find

new fields to favor,

pastures they can call

their own.

        So stay a while, forever with us, safe

        in fences, you who go. You leave behind

        you ones more fragile than you’ll ever come

        to know. But go with God and bear great dreams

        beyond the gate if that must be. If that

        is now your destiny, we will await

        your coming home.

Yet all this, naught but

idle thought about the

sacred course of life

from hopes and fears

of aging hearts. We

open wide the inner

gate, remove the reins

and give a pat, then

leaning back we watch

you take short halting

steps. With somewhat

noble toss of mane,

your stately stride

turns into trot

then frisky canter;

prancing forth, you

lightly trample

tender trails through

meadow grass, and by

the time we turn

away, you’ve

disappeared

across the

hill.

        I latch the inner gate, and my heart 
        catches, recalling how it felt to prance. 
        When you come home, let’s plan to dance. 
        I’ll let you lead. Please take my hand.

"Solitary Horse," by David Noah,

Winterville, Georgia