John J. Walsh IV

We are the nobodies, the statistically insignificant never-weres, small pebbles relegated to the seabed of the world’s great expanse. We’ve no mountains to our names, accomplished no great achievements to be gloriously trumpeted in the annals of history. The unwritten epitaph upon our sodded-over mass grave seems destined: Here lie the unknown ones. They made no difference. Let them never be remembered.

But we’ve no such fate.

We are the butterflies that silently roar, growling with a sound of thunder. We pound the pavement, lay foundations, move ever-forward with passion stoking our hearts’ driving fires. The boots of society seem fit to make us the downtrodden, but we are the grass that grows and carpets the hillsides, emerald green and made of the sun. Billions of blades.

Bricks in the wall, they cry, for they do not see. Bricks, no. Tiles in the mosaic, yes, for there is a picture to be painted as we align ourselves with no other force than shared love, the blind ambition to put forth into the universe that which begs to break free from the ribbed cage of mortality. What is mine is yours, and yours, mine. Ours. This is the glue that binds, active, alive, firm against the solvents they will surely throw.

Alone, we are nothing. Together, we are everything.

Although I was unable to be there in person, I was blessed with the opportunity to write the introduction and some poetry for Martin and Hannah Abel’s recent wedding on May 29, 2010. Being trusted to capture their love in my words was an incredible honor, and (with their permission) I want to share that which they inspired with their across-the-earth romance and timeless love.

Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. On behalf of Hannah Bairnsfather and Martin Abel, I would like to welcome each and every one of you here today to witness and celebrate the occasion of their marriage.

As their closest family and friends, your presence is of great importance, because you, more than anyone else, know how their love, and now marriage, came to be. You have beheld a relationship that would not be conquered by distance, would not submit to the great stresses that threatened it. And now you witness their commitment to the life-long promise to always cherish, strengthen, and nurture their love.

But you are also seeing evidence of life’s mysterious wonders. Three years ago, who could have imagined this day? Who could have known how fate’s wheel would turn, how the gears of the universe would align, against all odds, to bring these two souls together? It all began, innocently enough, with a hyperlink. Martin, sharing his artistic talent with the world, caught Hannah’s attention. Though she had, at that time, not drawn for years, she harbored a similar passion, and struck up an online conversation with him. That moment, so simple and unassuming, was the inception of all that was, and is, to come.

In spite of the thousands of miles that separated them, they came to know each other’s warmth. Each inspired in the other a sense of true and honest joy. Hannah began drawing again. Happiness abounded in their lives and their love began to blossom. Distance, though daunting, did nothing to retard their feelings.

Finally, through the kindness and generosity of friends, the time came when they were able to meet in person. They both will tell you how special that moment was. Though they could not know it then, through their nervousness, in that first embrace, they felt the future. Their future. The future to which you are now bearing witness, at this very moment.

While they traveled when they could in order to be together, it wasn’t until two years later that Hannah was able to permanently make Australia her home with Martin. Those two years were hard, filled with difficult goodbyes. But they persevered, beat the odds, and now stand before you, on their wedding day.

And so that is their story, in which circumstance gave way to shared passion and led to this day: the start of their married life.

However, marriage is a bond that can only be forged in the fires of truest love; the mere heat of passion does not burn nearly hot enough. Knowing this, Hannah and Martin, together, have built their relationship on a sincerity that fosters acceptance, openness, and trust. They understand that marriage is not the throwing out of parts to create a perfect whole, but rather the merging of two wholes to form a perfect bond. They respect all that completely embodies their partner, honoring each other’s individuality as well as accepting any and all faults that are contained within. No matter what the road ahead of them holds in store, Hannah and Martin are together, forever.

Just as their love has instilled great joy in each of their own hearts, so too has it stirred the hearts of others. Throughout the ceremony today, Hannah and Martin would like to share with you poetry written for them by their friend John Walsh, who was inspired by the incredible love he saw unfolding before him.

This segues into the first poem, which is from Marty’s perspective, before the giving of the bride.

“Now We Are Here”

For the entirety of my life I had waited,
Searching to find you, my dearest love.
I knew you were out there, somewhere,
With a heart that shone as the stars above.

On the other side of the world you resided,
So far away from the dreams we had seen.
But we have worked long, so very hard,
Destroyed that space which was between.

And now we are here, together at last
At that grand and most wondrous time:
When I fall completely into your arms,
And you forever into mine.

The second poem, which is after the giving of the bride, is from Hannah’s perspective.

“Together Forever”

Time has long stood between us
And held us beyond arms’ length,
But still our love continued,
For our hearts had the strength.

At last I’ve found my way here
And into your loving embrace,
To feel the warmth of your body,
Bask in the glow of your smiling face.

And smile we shall, forever and onward,
For we will never again be apart.
I’m yours for always, my love;
I give to you all of my heart.

The final poem, after the vows, rings, and declaration, is about their shared experience and the new bond of marriage.

“In Soul’s Embrace”

Across the world, your smile did shine,
Let me know that your heart was mine.

Over thousands of miles, your laugh did carry,
Brightened my day, even when I was weary.

You were many leagues across the sea,
But still your voice did comfort me.

No matter the body’s distance, I never did once resign,
For your soul was always close, snuggled next to mine.

But now time and space have been slain,
And our deepest love will forever reign.

There is nothing to stop us, not now.
Our bond will conquer all, and how!

The titles of the three poems, when read together, form the phrase, “Now We Are Here, Together Forever, In Soul’s Embrace.” I couldn’t think of a better way to sum up their love and marriage.

In addition to what I wrote for the actual wedding ceremony, I also contributed an untitled poem to a video with which Martin surprised Hannah at the reception. These words appeared alongside the art that inspired them, an original digital painting Martin did of the couple in their wedding attire, standing at the spot where he proposed. This was set to John Murphy’s “Sunshine (Adagio in D Minor),” resulting in an wonderfully emotional piece.

It was here that I did fall upon bended knee
To ask you, my dearest soul mate, to marry me.

It is here that my heart shall forever stay,
For I will cherish you always, as I did that day.

And though the great storms and rains will come,
Our love shall burn eternal, bright as the sun.

(Video @ Martin Abel’s Site)

Martin and Hannah, congratulations to you both. Thank you for inspiring me with your love.

He falls to his knees, throwing his full weight into gravity’s greedy hands. The muscles relax for just that single moment as he gives himself completely over to the relentless, unforgiving force. Each patella strikes the pavement; the blows fail to be cushioned by the puddle that has gathered there. His torso heaves forward, forearms slamming to the ground as he hunches over, sobbing. He jerks his head to the sky, mouth open, screaming. Eyelids clenched tightly against all the universe, he cries out, tears running down his face. The rain continues to pour, drowning the streaming products of his eternal sadness. “There is no hope!” comes the shout from his tired lungs. “There is no hope!” screams his aching soul. “There is hope,” comes the whisper in his ear, but he does not hear over his desperate cries.

The child whispers again. “There is hope.” She reaches out a hand. The rain streaks her face, but her eyes remain bright. “There is hope,” comes the soft promise once more. “Open your eyes; I can show you the way.”

The death knell that rings forth from his convulsing diaphragm deafens his ears to her quiet pleas. He pounds his fists into the ground, splashing dirty water onto his face. His eyes remain closed. “There is no hope!”

Just ahead, the sun shines and the fields are green. Though she knows the way, she remains at his side. “There is hope.”

You just have to open your eyes.

She stands before me, simply beautiful, unknowingly perfect. Rather than the sum total of some arbitrary list, it is her whole that captures my attention. Like some ancient and hidden treasure, she exists in great and stark contrast to the world that surrounds her: quiet against its loud, soft against its harsh, real in the face of its false fronts. Her backdrop, for all her wonder, is nothing less than death—brutal, unflinching, all-out war. Guns fire and bombs drop, unleashing a bloody, fiery mess. Her order persists in defiance of such chaos, begs the question: How?

How, amongst all this horror, does such beauty exist? Is it struck, founded, forged in the heat of eternal battle, or does it hide from that ever-hungry beast, alive in spite of its never-ending chase? I cannot say, only cherish. She is tucked away in my memory, a seed for something grand to be poured out of my mind at some as yet unknown and later date. For now, I am merely frozen in this simple moment, soaking in its wrenching briefness, an untouchable, finite eternity.

The moment breaks as she calls once more for my attention. I turn away from the World War II documentary playing on the television, take the receipt she hands me. She bids me good day and I return the courtesy. As I walk through the door into the world outside, I cannot help but wonder if it is all that different from the imaginary one I’ve just left.

The cold future shot through my shivering synapses, repulsed by the very thoughts they conjured. But still, the darkness remained, in spite of the dazzling lights they forced upon me. With horror and eternal sadness, I saw it.

All the world around me, so shiny, bright, shimmering and new, hustled and bustled and ran their own right way, leaving me there, quietly, with the last book on earth. No one else stood by its side, held it in its final moments, as the last drop of ink faded from its tattered pages of dust. I was alone in my cerebral contemplation, my meditation of memory, holding so tightly onto that tactile smell of physical knowledge. I wept. And all I could pray was that the ideas once contained within would somehow survive intact, that nothing would be lost. But lost, something was. Perhaps someday, someone will put the pieces together and remember far beyond the years of their time to that point where something was real. Maybe they will understand, as I do now, what was lost, discarded, left to rot or, worse, be burned. And they, too, shall weep, having never known a book’s perfect embrace.

When the sight had returned to my eyes, I put forth what would become my decree:

We are beings of flesh, that feel and have texture about us. And so the ink suits us; it is natural and an extension of who we are. And so, I will always desire the tangible, the physical, the great time-wastes of that which was done wholly by hand. As for the mechanical ones, leave them to their digital worlds of efficiency and false-perfection, all contained on and confined to the point of a pin. Give me that which takes up space, breathes, lives, marks its presence in the universe, for those are my artistic brethren, the truest children of our creation. Can these cybernetic fools hold dearly in their arms these prized silicon conceptions? Or must they settle for mere postcards of a far-off visage, where they can only imagine the fruits of their fevered inceptions?

Certainly, I can admire some aspects of their journey into the electronic realm, but my heart cannot go with them. Digital has its time and place. But the roots are here in the physical and the inked, and to tear them out is to abandon something wonderful.

Medicine can improve a man’s body, but it will never replace his soul. Neither should technology carve out the heart of what the book rightfully is. And it is more bound in paper than they’ll ever understand.

Katharine and I meandered our way down the length of the pier, taking in the sights and sounds that engulfed us. The waves gently slapped against the pillars beneath us as the wooden boards creaked and groaned under our feet. The smell of salt air was invigorating, fresh and foreign to our city-bound lungs. The gulls cawed overhead, annoyed at the influx of humans upon their scavenger territory. We too watched the people, though with no disdain. I took in their faces, each one unique and with its own story. All these people looked so unordinary and interesting to me, each one standing out and catching my eye. I comment to Katharine that they look like characters, each worthy of their own written tome.

At a certain point, near the end of the pier, I stand waiting for Katharine to return. I continue watching all the faces that pass by me, appreciating each one. But there is one that particularly stands out to me. It’s a man most likely in his mid-fifties, grey hair and beard, walking with a cane. He stops and stands across the width of the pier from me, looks at me with his steely eyes. I notice that around and in his eyes he strikes me as remarkably similar to Anthony Hopkins, with the rest of his face being almost pure Ernest Hemingway. But it is not these celebrity likenesses that draw me to him.

It’s the fact that I’ve met this man before.

He was the captain from my poem “Rest Your Soul,” come back from his watery grave to pay a visit. He spoke no words to me; merely returned my gaze with his weathered eyes. I’ve no idea how he leapt from the depths of my imagination onto that pier, but there he was, flesh and blood before me. For what purpose, I cannot purport to know, but I can only fathom that he wished to let me know that he does, indeed, live on forever, both at sea bottom and in the words I’ve written.

Eventually he vanished into the crowd of endless possible faces, his mission accomplished. I cannot speak for his half of the encounter, but I can say that I treasure mine.

I walk into this place that has lain at the outskirts of my life for the better part of twenty-plus years, its inner workings unknown to me for this entire stretch of time. Somehow, as I pass through its door, I know that there is something to be discovered here amongst the racks of the vintage and the aging. Its interior space is a vomitorium for eras of fashion long since gone, and its eclectic nature is both bizarre and comforting in the same moment. It is an escape from the world outside, so completely against the grain of blind forward locomotion in its daydreamy stare over the shoulder of time.

She weaves her way amongst the cogwheel floor racks, her pendulum hips swinging between the gear teeth sleeves. Her Alien 3 / Sigourney Weaver haircut betrays the classic, lithe beauty that would otherwise lie beneath a bobbing bowl of dark hair. But it works for her, and does not diminish any of her features. As she walks across the store, I take her in: The gentle forward slope of her figure, the soft hourglass frame that her light blue top and jeans hug. She smiles with a cheerfulness that comes from working in this bubble, away from the world. Her eyes shine softly as she dresses the window-display mannequins, extending outside hints of the joy that lies within her retail home.

Music plays on the speakers overhead as she works. City and Colour’s “Comin’ Home” fills the store and my ears, this picture-perfect soundtrack the score for her hypnotic movements, for this small window through which our paths have crossed.

But the time comes to leave, and I bid farewell, to both this small universe within a universe and the woman who gives it heart. The door shuts and I look back through the glass as she helps the next customer. I have visited this world, but I am not part of it. And though it still calls to me, I know that I am merely a passerby, looking through a window into a world in which I do not belong.