The Shores of the Cosmic Ocean

Spiritual Thought

“The cosmos is all that is, or ever was, or ever will be. Our contemplations of the cosmos stir us. There’s a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation as if a distant memory of falling from a great height. We know we are approaching the grandest of mysteries.”

Carl Sagan, Episode 1 of the Cosmos miniseries

Ode to the Cosmic Calendar

We are always in December,
in the cosmos of the hospital,
even during a sunset in July—
defiantly hunkered down, pushing
away scattered thundershowers
with the light of our bodies
shooting from arid afternoon
eyes. Here, afternoon means
not yet midnight. Not yet.

We are always in December,
when those well enough off
discharge in time for dinner
at a barbecue restaurant
in town—Christmas pooling
in the corners of their mouths.
Hairs of young men’s necks rise
as a lovely brunette nursing aide
shreds another wristband
stained with drops of blood.
Concerning eye contact,
she remains celibate.
When eyes meet,
questions follow;
questions become
obligations siphoning strength.

We are always in December,
in our cosmos of emergencies—
closed system run on a gospel
of contingency, behind triage’s veil,
with its glass windows and stainless
steel slots, just big enough to permit
fingers poking
through with insurance cards.

I am always in December, caught
by the student nurse’s cool
blue-eyed glance. Her golden
flowing hair curls out, brushing
the edges of my hope. She passes
me a chiming metal gurney
through an exam room doorway.
She smiles as I remember her
name, forgiving me for gray
sideburns, sore knees,
scrubs which stink of cleaning
vinegar, sweat,
and day shift’s mistakes.
Then she vanishes
back into January.

We are always in December,
me and the seasoned
charge nurse, the queen:
thunderhead of decisiveness,
calm amid screaming, chill
in the muggy heat of X-ray
revelations; matriarch
presiding over people’s worst day.
Over patients, over nurses, even
over doctors, she raises the brazen
serpent staff above our heads.
She sets our course through
the wilderness of sickness—
Lady of the Nightingale Pledge,
figure of strength to all, but…

when the clock strikes eleven,
the cavalcade still unceasing, 
she leans across my cleaning cart,
and whispers:

We’re getting our asses kicked.

We are always in December,
beyond the second triage room,
as I take a third teeming handcart
full of soiled linen to the chute,
where an RN asks me for a fourth
sharps container, so she can
discard a fifth needle. Gloves on,
I mop a sixth bathroom
for a seventh time to make way
for the eight patients fidgeting
in the lobby. A ninth ambulance
pulls into the bay, to give
or to take away? Ten
stitches sewn nearby, on the girl
sobbing in her father’s arms,
as he doles out kisses
on her princess crown.

But we are always in December,
counting down to the witching
hour, as a patriarch in the corner
room moans out his aria of delirium—
a lyrical melody made raspy by age,
ice packs, and morphine dripping
sure and true. Always
we mourners, so guilty,
daydream of January.

Points for Reflection and Discussion

The above poem was prompted by rewatching the first episode of Carl Sagan’s classic documentary series Cosmos, released in 1980. Here are some ideas brought forth in the episode, with questions tailored to Mormon readers. Please read and respond in the comments section:

  • Life is a way for the universe to know and understand itself. How do you feel about being an extension of the universe, rather than an independent being whose species presides over it?
  • Sagan demonstrates how the shape and size of the Earth were accurately calculated in the 3rd Century BCE. The necessary observations were done using nothing more than a pair of sticks placed at different latitudes on the same day at noon. What modern tools have you relied on for searching and discovery. Could we regard these tools as being our Urim and Thummim?
  • Sagan says, “Intellectual brilliance is no guarantee against being dead wrong.” Think of personal examples where you received hard but useful criticism. How did you respond to correction that felt painful and awkward?
  • In the climax of this Cosmos episode, Sagan displays the complete timespan of the universe with a cosmic calendar. If you compress the history of our universe into a single year, humanity’s entire existence fits in the last minute of December 31st. How should this grand scale inform our values and decision making? How does it compare to the long-held Mormon notion of a few dispensations and periods of creation, each lasting a millennium?

For a complete story on this post’s featured image, visit NASA’s Earth Observatory webpage. And for the story of how I became a Carl Sagan fan, read this old Wheat and Tares guest post.