Cecily

How long did I know you?

I can’t remember.

Not long enough.  Always.

I can’t remember when we didn’t actually meet but we met.  Back in the dark ages of Yahoo groups, anyway.

The lot of us, “sisters”, migrated over to Facebook eventually, but it was Yahoo groups first.

We all had babies, relationships, sorrows, joys.  We were honest, open, vulnerable, trusting.  We leaned on each other despite mostly never having been in the same room.

Fey.  You were fey.

Warm.  Sweet.  Funny.

We watched our children grow together, apart but connected.

Now what?

You will not see my Evil Genius and Sprout as they become amazing people.  How will we see your W and D grow up if you aren’t here to share them?

You were quiet, gentle.  What did your voice sound like?  I don’t know, really.  Just snatches on video, not the same as in person.  You meditated daily in support of the water protectors at Standing Rock.  I didn’t always watch.  I was busy with my own disasters. 

Our last conversation was about my son’s hair growing back after a drastic cutting...in 2017. Why did we fall silent?

That man, why did he kill you?  Gentle soul, what could have made him bring an instrument of violence and death into your home and use it on you before turning it on himself?  Why couldn’t he just take his own hateful life?  His life, his choice...your life wasn’t his to steal.  Why couldn’t he quench his darkness and leave us your light?

I want to drag him back from the other side, drag him away from whatever his punishment or peace may be and make him pay.  I feel, my dear, sweet Cecily, I feel such anger, such...hatred...for that horrible, odious,  evil, twisted, tortured man.  I want to hurt him.  I want to make him pay.  I want to punish the people who made him and raised him up to be a murderer, who shaped him into the kind of person who could be so rotten, so selfish, so...

Damaged.

But you wouldn’t, would you?  Sweet Cecily.

You fell silent and all I knew was what little you’d shown us, that your love was brilliant and deep and dizzying and...I never saw it devouring you.

Why didn’t you reach out?  Why didn’t I notice?  Why?  So much why.

My friend in the Blue Nowhere, sister of my soul, gentle mother, persistent light in the cloying dark, you will be sorely missed by so many.  

Hail the traveler.

Hail Cecily.

May your journey to the next world be a peaceful one.

May you leave behind all memory of pain and sorrow.

May you carry with you all memory of love and happiness.

May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you, and should you return to the circle once again, may we who loved you in this life have the honor of knowing you again.

Hail Cecily.

Hail the traveler.

“Other people’s solipsism is annoying” - Cecily

Lou

A light has gone out.

Yesterday, another friend passed through the vei.

Lou.

How to describe her?  

Salty.  Tart.  Spicy.  Sweet.

She was a force of nature, a tiny dynamo.  Took no prisoners.  Spoke her mind.  Cussed like a sailor.  Grinned like an unrepentant imp.  Hugged long and hard.  Laughed loud and often.  Gave no quarter.  Made art with verve.

I only just met her last year or so, when I started going to the gallery with Mom.  She rolled her eyes in ecstasy over my pesto chicken tortellini soup.  She generated smiles in others.

Feisty.

She kicked cancer’s ass.

She bought a cake and sang happy birthday to me just last Friday.  We had a show over the weekend.  She seemed fine, maybe a little tired on Sunday but who wasn’t?

She decided to pack up later in the week, hugged me and said she’d be glad when my mom was home from her vacation, and headed out.

Some time Monday night or Tuesday morning, she slipped across the boundary between worlds.

Fuck.

Hail, Lou.
Hail the Traveller
May your journey to the next world be swift and easy
May you leave behind all memory of pain and sorrow
May you carry with you all memory of love and happiness
When you reach the next world, may you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you
And should you return to this world, may those who loved you know you once more
Hail the traveler
Hail Lou

A Very Good Dog

I like dogs.  I don't have any because my life isn't conducive to them sharing a home, but I like them.  I have friends with dogs, and I get my doggo fix by visiting and loving on their animal family.

There are dogs, and there are Very Good Dogs.  Some dogs try to human, and some dogs just don't care, and some dogs just dog so damned well it's a pleasure to know and love them.  They're superlative.  They set the bar high with enviable grace and ease.  They're unabashedly, perfectly imperfect and even when cross with them, their hoomans can't help but smile or laugh, shrug, and love them.

Trip was A Very Good Dog.  I liked him.  Sometimes, when no one was looking and so my reputation for not feeding dogs from my plate was safe, I would give him a little something - a piece of chicken skin, a tidbit of meat, or the last bit of soup or whatnot.  Strictly hush-hush, of course.  Reputation and all.

I let him lick me once or twice.  You may not think that's a big deal, but to me it's huge.  I do not let dogs lick me.  It simply isn't done.  Rare exceptions.  Trip was one.

A few times I even invited him up on the couch with me.  Shh, don't tell the others.

Trip was extremely patient with the kids, mine and his family's, even when he would have been justified in a growl, a nudge, a nip.  He loved his hoomans and they loved him.

Note the past tense.

A Very Good Dog crossed the rainbow bridge today.  I was honored to be there with his people as he ended his current earthly journey and left behind grieving hearts, shed his physical form and the cancer that was killing him, and went on to whatever is next.

Many people had the pleasure of knowing him.  He was loved and he will be sorely missed.

His hoomans permitted me to say my blessing as he crossed.  Thank you for that E and K2.  I wept a little.  I am not made of stone.

I say again:

Hail Trip.  Hail the traveler.
May your journey to the other side be an easy one. 
May you leave behind all memory of unhappiness and pain.
May you carry with you all memory of happiness and love.
May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who crossed before you.
And should you return to the circle once more, may those who loved you know and love you again.
Hail Trip.
Hail the traveler.

'Scuse me, there's something in my eye.

Not the Post I Wanted To Write

My cousin's husband slipped through the veil in the wee hours, when souls are restless and seem most likely to let go of their bodies and wander. 

She has not been silent during his long letting go.  She has shared the sublime, the gut wrenching, snapshots of their whole family's journey through his cancer.  From here, so far away from her, I've been a witness and I've prayed in my way.

Every day, every photograph, the same prayer.  "Oh, you gods of love and family, hope and healing, you gods of miracles and wonders, if ever there was a family that deserved a miracle, this is one.  Find one.  For them.  Good people, strong love, grace, transformation, determination, humor...find them a miracle."  The gods were silent.  There was no miracle.  When I pass through the veil, we will have words.

We don't talk a lot, my cousins and me.  We're kind of scattered, really, geographically, spiritually, philosophically.  Scattered, but how quickly we can coalesce when we want to, need to?  I like to believe there would be sonic booms.  Facebook has been our re-connecting point, and I'm grateful for it.

So.  What can I say about M?  Sadly, foremost is that I didn't know him well at all.  I think we spent a handful of minutes in the same room, long ago.  Never spoke after that.  No enmity, just...distance.  Just...life.  We were strangers, but in a distant, married-to-my-cousin kind of way I loved him.  He loved my cousin.  I love my cousin.  I want happiness...joy...for my family.  He made her happy.  For the sake of that alone, I'd have donned armor and fought dragons for him.

From where I sit, they had a good life, a good love, the kind of thing you can look at and maybe be wistful about.  Nothing is perfect, not even perfect love, but if there is love, and courage, perseverance, laughter, and an understanding that the rough times don't define, that things can be gotten through, wounds can heal...then perfectly flawed is as perfect as perfect gets.  They seemed to have that.

My cousin's strength and grace through the long, treacherous journey through his cancer have been incredible.

I can't write the details, the small things that they did to make each other crazy, to make each other laugh...I don't know about cuddles with their son, time spent with her daughter, or whether they danced around the living room in silly hats or any of the little things that make the larger part of a life.  I saw her photos on FB, her smiles and pride in her family, his struggle and determination to keep on fighting for what seems like a terrible, long time.  Photos of tender connection between the children, hands nesting in each other, smiles, and beneath it...sometimes...pain.  A sense of bone-deep weariness.  Struggle.  Will.  They didn't just give up, they had something worth fighting for.
Tiny glimpses of something marvelous, even towards the end.

He is and will ever be a part of the whole, always in my mind as her husband and father to their son.  Always and forever.

Hail, M.
Hail the traveler.
May your journey to the next world be swift and easy.
May you leave behind all memory of sorrow and pain.
May you carry with you all memory of love, of happiness.
May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you,
And should you one day return to this life, may those who loved you know you again.
Hail, M.
Hail the traveler.

And FUCK!!!  CANCER!!!!!

Dad

I wrote this on Thursday, but I didn't want to publish it until there was time for people to find out via means other than my blog.  Not that the folks who'd want to know read my blog, but I do try to be considerate.  This will be messy, but I'm disinclined to "fix" it.  I'm writing from the heart, and my heart is notoriously untidy under the best of circumstances.

Also, this is lengthy.
~~~~~

My Dad died last night.  This morning.  Just after Midnight.

I was not expecting that.

Well, I kinda knew it was more possible than not, since last week, but still.

I was hoping.

Last week I found out he was in the hospital.  My Uncle B was coming home from Costa Rica.  My stepmother S was on her way back from Sri Lanka.  I though Dad was in Sri Lanka with her.  I don't know why he wasn't, but I'm guessing he really wasn't feeling well or he wouldn't have missed that trip.

While I didn't know much at that time, I knew that for those two to drop their respective trips and come back to the US, things were probably dire.

I managed to talk to him on the phone for about a minute.  He was tired, in pain, couldn't even hold the phone for very long.  I told him I love him.  Several times.

He had surgery, and chemo, because cancer was the root cause of all of this.  Fuck.  Cancer.

He was in pain.  My Daddy was in pain.  He wanted to go  home.  To be done.  He went into hospice care and two days later passed through the veil.

No more pain.  No more cancer.  No more Daddy.

Let me tell you about my father.

He was almost 79, I think.  He and my mom married in 1968.  My brother was born in 1969.  I came along in 1972.  When I was too young to remember, he and Mom parted ways.

I remember occasional gifts in the mail, at holidays or maybe a birthday.  I remember knowing that other kids had fathers, and one day making the connection that this stranger who sometimes came around was my father, that "Dad" meant him, and that while other children had someone at home by that name, I did not.

For a while, that was okay, because it was our normal.  You can't miss what you never had.  Mom never let anyone speak badly of him in front of us kids.  Whatever went wrong, it was between them.  Thanks, Mom.

For a while, I wondered why Daddy didn't want me.  I guess I wondered why he didn't want us, because there was my brother, too, but mostly I wondered why he didn't want me.  What was wrong with me?  What did I do wrong?  Why didn't I hear from him on my birthday, so often gone unremarked by my paternal parent?  Little girls want their Daddies.  That is our first relationship with a male, and it's what we model all future relationships on.  I didn't know that, of course, being still in the single digits in age, but later...

Over time, he reconnected with us.  Largely thanks to S, my stepmother, who shook some sense into him.  I always liked S, even when I was an angsty teenage shit visiting for the summer.  She taught me some things about relationships, probably without knowing she did it - about speaking your mind, voicing what's right even if it's not popular, about sticking to your guns.  Also she taught me that there's no such thing as a seagull.  No, there isn't.  Really.  There are Herring Gulls, Laughing Gulls, Blackback Gulls...but no Sea Gulls.  Anyway.

Dad was a boatman.  He belonged on the water.  He was happy as a skipper, whether the vessel was large or small.  He was good at it.  I loved being on the water with him.  I didn't know until a few years ago that he was in the US Army for a bit.  He grew "Portuguese Peppers" in the woods once, which I often felt bad about because they never seemed to fruit, and he was a good gardener.  When I was a bit older, I found out that "Portuguese Pepper" was code for a different kind of plant.  Hint:  it wasn't actually a pepper.

I'm pretty sure he's been on every continent.

He was wicked smart, funny, and all around a decent fellow.  I admired him, I liked him, I loved him.

Here are some memories I have:

Sitting on his lap in a truck.  He let me steer.  We were at the top of a big hill.  I was very young.  It was awesome.

Eating those jellied fruit slice candies, the kind all covered in big sugar crystals.  Or was it the mint leaves?  He shared them with me.  I liked to nibble the sugar off of them.

Spending a small eternity (or probably a week or two) on his sail boat, the Osprey, "helping" him and S with netting and banding birds somewhere off the New England coast.  Jumping off the boat to swim.  Eating cereal out of those wee boxes, using them as bowls.  This is when I learned that I do not like powdered milk, reconstituted or not.  I do like jumping off of boats and paddling about in the ocean.  Also, salt water doesn't foam up when you shampoo with it.

Summer days on Martha's Vineyard, stretching out into forever.  Taking the John boat down to the beach.  Learning to catch crabs with a pig's foot.  Refusing to pluck ducks that he'd hunted.  His wizardlike ability to find arrow heads on the shore of the pond.  Being a little grossed out when he'd pull an oyster out of the water, open it, and slurp it down.  Wishing he would teach me to drive a stick shift.

Bird banding on Penikese, riding back to the Vineyard on the bow of the boat,  feeling the waves burst against the hull and spray me.  Stiff with salt, going to a store by the dock and getting lobsters for dinner.  The party after, people laughing and talking and eating and scaring the tar out of me with fireworks.

Him asking me if we should or should not pick up a hitchhiker.  They're common on the Vineyard.  I don't think I ever told him to pass one by.

Riding in the bed of the truck, up on the side, wind making a mess of my hair while he drove.

Helping him change a wheel bearing on his truck.  Learning to drive a lawn mower and cutting the grass in the field.  Learning how to prime and start the motor on the John boat.  Going to the huge garden and digging potatoes, picking vegetables to cook for dinner.  Making pretty salads for Dad and S to take to a party or for our own meal.  Peeing on the poison ivy.

Osprey and Scrimshaw, two of his boats that I loved.

Fried clams at the Menemsha Bite.

When I got married, we decided to have a Renfest kind of theme for the clothing.  Dad and S were game.  It was marvelous.  They danced at the reception and I loved seeing them together.

Telling him that he was my favorite crusty old fart, getting a laugh for that.

Our holiday phone calls.  We rarely spoke or visited each other, but I tried always to call on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We might not talk for the rest of the year, but on those days, we caught up.

Talking to him about addiction, about dealing with, loving, an addict.  It was one of the most adult conversations we ever had, and he never made me feel stupid about it all.  The conversation about mental illness, my mental illness.  His striving to understand, and loving me regardless.

Spending Thanksgiving with him and S on the Vineyard when the Evil Genius was just shy of two.  Ohmuhgoodness, that sausage-brandied apricot dressing!  He and S asked me to make the cranberry sauce.  I'd never done that unless it meant opening a can.  They trusted me to make it right.  Pretty sure I did.

His voice.  My brother sounds just like him.  It will be eerie, now, talking to him.

No matter how angry, bitter, disappointed, disillusioned, or hurt I was about who we were to each other, how we were with each other, what we did or didn't have...I loved him.  Whatever he thought of me, he never made me feel bad for being...me.  Strange, silly, sometimes stupid, sometimes a bit too optimistic and too little realistic daughter, once I realized that his absence in my childhood wasn't about me, it was about him living his life, a life that simply didn't involve kids because it was too much, too out there in the world, too alien to him...I got over myself and realized that I could love him and it was okay.  And love him I have and will continue to do.

Hail, Flip.  Hail the traveler.
May your journey through the veil and into the next life be an easy one.
May you leave behind all memory of pain, sorrow, anger, and loss.
May you carry with you all memory of happiness and love.
May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you, and should you return to this life once more may we who knew and loved you do so again.

I will miss you, Daddy.  I will miss knowing that you were somewhere on this old Earth, knocking about, birding, sailing, raising a little hell, exploring, loving life.

Hail, Flip.  Hail the traveler.

Dammit, Daddy.

Oh Kathryn, Our Kathryn

One week ago this afternoon, the world became a little more shadowed as a brilliant soul passed through the veil.

Kathryn Ann Fernquist Hinds.

She was a shiny person.  I never had a moment with her that wasn't brilliant.  Her smile, laugh, wit, intelligence, and vision made life a finer thing.

I didn't get to know her for very long, and we met because her husband Arthur is a musician (a damned fine one) and we used to play some of the same gigs.  Honestly, I can't remember when I met either of them.  They've just...always been there.  Arthur and Kathryn.  Kathryn and Arthur.  

For the last few years we've been neighbors at PSG, one of the events I regularly attend.  I liked listening to their banter and they tolerated my occasional interjections.  They shared space, let me feed them, Kathryn let me fuss over her and we shared water.  Seeing her in the audience when we played together for Bardapalooza was a treat.  She truly shared in the music in a way that was rare and beautiful.

Some relationships defy the odds, defy  definition or explanation.  Some relationships are just so...perfectly imperfect?  Imperfectly perfect?  So damned marvelous that when we see them, we can't help saying "There.  That's what is could be, what it should be, what I want it to be..." 

Those relationships are rare.  Arthur and Kathryn had what I aspire to.  Oh the laughter, the love...how it enveloped them, and everyone nearby.  They shared unstintingly.

I always told her that I adore her, that she is one of my favorite people.  She was.  Is.  Will likely always be.

Her heart, her magnificent, wise, kind, compassionate, fragile, dysfunctional heart, it couldn't survive the surgery she needed to keep it ticking.

One less drumming, thrumming beat echoing in the ether.  One less laugh reverberating in the circle.

I find myself wondering why, in a world full of horrid people, full of cruel, selfish, ugly-souled assholes, why did we have to lose one of the best people I have ever known?

It isn't right.  

Oh, Arthur.

If I who didn't know her nearly enough can hurt so...oh...I can't even touch imagining how those who knew her long and well must feel.

Me, I feel robbed of something precious.  

She belonged to a community vast and varied, and the hole she leaves is immeasurable.
I posted this on Facebook when I found out:

Hail Kathryn.

Your light will long linger.
I will carry you with me always, and when I shine I will shine with you, sending your light outward. You are one of the best people I’ve known in my lifetime, and I’m better for the knowing.
May your journey to the other side be peaceful and easy. May you leave behind all memory of pain, sorrow, and suffering. May you carry with you all memories of love and laughter. May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you, and when you return to the circle, may we who loved you know you once more.
I raise a glass and toast you, feisty, kind, shiny, wise, compassionate, creative, encouraging, goddess of a woman.
Hail Kathryn. Hail the traveler.

Isabelle

Strange days.

Mum called me this evening to let me know that my grandmother passed through the veil at the beginning of the year.

Oddly, Isabelle (known to me as Mimi) has been on my mind of late.  I've been thinking about her, and dreaming about the house that I grew up in, where she and my grandfather lived for most of my young life.  I have been wondering where, and how, she was.

She wasn't kin by blood, but rather by marriage, wed to my grandfather for...umm...a long damn time.

After Papa died, Mimi returned to France and despite my efforts I lost touch with her.  She left our part of the family behind, and it seemed to me like she never looked back.  She moved, moved again, and I never got her new address.  I suppose I could have made more effort - there was a trust, there were lawyers who knew where she was - but why?  She made it clear through her absence and silence that she wasn't interested.  That hurt.  I had to let go.

Still, from time to time I would look for her online, a quick browsing of Google searches giving me nothing.  Last night, Mum found an obituary.

Mum and I talked about her sometimes, she relating news that had filtered to us months or even years after Mimi had come to the US for some reason, or perhaps whispers of where Mimi was living in France, me wondering if she was happy, if she felt loved and was content.  She wondered, once, whether Mimi was even alive.  I told her she'd know when the woman passed - the trustees would be in touch.  We laughed ruefully about that.  As it turns out, no one got in touch.  Mum found the obituary and talked to my aunt, who made some calls and found out what was what.  Without the curiosity and the drive to find out, who knows when we'd have learned of it?

She never told us when she was coming over the pond, and in fact seems to have instructed people who were in the know to NOT tell us.

She lived through the Nazi occupation of France.  She married, came to the US, found that her husband had lied to her about his circumstances and she left him (righteously, IMO), made a life for herself.  She was a terrific cook when she wanted to be.  She taught me to endure and even enjoy all kinds of foods I'd otherwise not have eaten.  From her I learned how to make vinaigrette dressing.  Until I was about 6, I spoke with her in French as easily as English. I can still read and sing in French, although I don't speak it very well any more and my understanding is weak at best.  Google translate has to do a lot of the work for me, these days.

Because of her, I learned exquisite table manners - I can, if pressed, still recall which utensil is for what and I have fond memories of high tea with her.  I still have the eggshell China teacups we used for such occasions. 

She drove like a maniac, but I would sleep in the car without fear.  She hated flying and would take pills and ride the Concord to minimize the horror.

In the evening, she and Papa would watch the news in their living room, and I would sit with her, leaning on her, and she would stroke my head.  She taught me how to pour and appreciate wine.  I can eat just about anything with a knife and fork thanks to her.  At Christmas she would let me set up the nativity scene.

She said horrible things to me with the best of intentions, never knowing how she devastated me.  Some of the the shadow demons with which I do battle sprang from her.

I wasn't much connected to her French family, but I adored one of her nieces (Christine) and found the rest tolerable.

She was a staunch friend and ally to those she loved and believed in.  She was opinionated and acerbic.  Her anger was terrible, her approval rare, her favor much sought after.  No one wanted to be left in the dark, arctic chill of her bad side.
She stuck with my grandfather through his end, and that was no small thing.  I believe that she loved him, and he loved her, even when they didn't see eye to eye (which happened a LOT).  She was relentless in making sure he was well taken care of.  A bulldog on his behalf.  It must have been exhausting.

She wasn't terribly interested in church when I was little, but she was Catholic and became more so as she aged.  I hope her God saw the good in her and let her in to his halls.  There are those who would say she deserved a place in Hell, but I don't think so.  I think she knew enough of Hell here in her earthly life. 

One of the last things I said to her was that she had hurt me, deeply, but that I loved her, and that nothing would change that love.  I meant it then, and ever after.

I hope she remembered that.

There's so much more that I could say, but she was too complex to encapsulate in a blog.

Rest in peace, Isabelle, Mimi, grandmother, force of nature.  Rest in peace.

Rook

Last weekend, the kids and I went down to an event in Florida.  My band had a gig, and I thought it'd be a nice camp-out for us as well. We had a lovely time at a beautiful site.

We headed home on Sunday.

As I was breaking camp and packing, Someone texted me and asked me to call him.  I needed a break, so I paused tear-down and dialed him up.

With a broken voice and a broken heart, he informed me that he'd found one of our beloved furbabies dead that morning.  She'd been acting a bit off since before we left, but not worryingly so, and then on Saturday she'd seemed content to sit in the sun room on the fluffy pink heart pillow and collect pets and love whenever he passed through.  That night, she took her accustomed place at the foot of the big, comfy bed, went to sleep, and slipped away sometime in the dark hours.

I told the Evil Genius and we cried a bit together.  I opted to wait and tell Sprout once we were on the road - she was having a fine old time catching caterpillars and chasing chickens with a few new friends, I didn't want to spoil it for her.  We all had a cry as I drove, and talked about what we loved and would miss about our Rookers.

She was a damn fine cat.  She was a marvelous mouser.  We will miss her lashing tail, which usually indicated she required more petting, now, if you please.  She had an odd "meow", likely the result of the enormous wolf worm I removed from her neck when she was a kitten (the reason she was brought into Casa de Crazy in the first place) and she was hilarious when we played and got her riled up enough to spit.  She had fierce eyes and a huge backside - I would call her a footstool kitteh - and acted like she owned the place, as any cat would.

She usually slept at the foot of the bed, guardian of my feet, but sometimes would lie beside me and consent to let me sleep with my hand on her.

She only just started purring sometime in the last year.

She was eight, not so very old for a cat but old enough for her, I guess.  We won't know what caused her death; I opted not to have a necropsy because it won't change anything.

On Monday, the kids and I took her up to Mom's to bury under the Evil Genius's tree, next to the circle.  Someone had to start his new job and couldn't come with us, but I made sure that a laser pointer went in with her - she loved the damned thing and would perk up and come running as soon as he clicked the button - and Mizz A was with us, too.  She takes care of the kittehs and the kids when we're working or away, and is family to us.  We all helped dig the hole, placed her in, said a few words, returned her to The Mother, and had a little cry.

I miss her in fits and starts, looking for her when I put down the leftover milk from my cereal or sit on the lounge.  Today I stripped the big, comfy bed and wondered where my furry helper was - she liked to jump up on the bed when I took the sheets off and put fresh ones on, especially when I tossed the sheet over her and she was a cave kitteh.

May her journey over the rainbow bridge be swift and easy.  May she leave behind all memory of sorrow and pain, and carry with her all of her memories of happiness and love.  May she be met by those who went before her with fellowship and joy.  May there be catnip, mice to chase, lots of loving petting, a soft cushion in the warm sun, and wet food to nom, and if she returns to the circle, may those of us who loved her recognize her once again.

For the Dead

I have been dreaming of the dead.  Of?  With?

They've been with me.

We talk.

Not ghosts.  Ghosts don't bother with me.  No, really - haunted places are suddenly not haunted when I'm around, and I have plenty of stories to back that claim.

They're kind of oblique, slippery, like they've forgotten how to say things.  They feel around for words and meanings and try to catch a hold of what they want to say, but what's clear to them is mud to me.

Mostly I like sitting with them and remembering good times.  We laugh.

Shayne's been around, and John Watson, and my grandfather.  Someone who is either my father's mother or Amelia Earhart dressing in old-timey flying togs has come to call.  Tom Swirble.  Even Miss Pat, my father's step-mother.  I really liked Miss Pat.  I never got to say farewell to her - I was in boarding school and no one told me she was ill, and when she passed I wasn't given the option to go to the funeral.  At the time I felt like no one wanted to be bothered with me, and I was left to mourn at school.  I mourned quietly and never let anyone see my tears.  That wasn't the beginning of a trend, but it certainly helped cement the behavior into place.

So, yeah, the dead are on my mind and I felt like posting some of my thoughts/rituals regarding the passing from one world to the next.
~~~~~

I believe that we honor the dead by living.

To me, Death, that incarnation of immortality, the archetype, is no one to be feared or hated.  Death is the final lover,  the last dance.  The kiss of Death is what carries us away, and that embrace is the ultimate comfort.  I don't seek Him (for me, he is male.  It is what you need it to be) but I won't run from him when it's my turn.

Prayers for the dead:

May the waters receive her gently,
Wash her clean of all sorrow,
Heal her spirit
Carry her home
May the fire burn brightly for her
Turn her burdens to ash
Warm her spirit
Light her way home
May the winds lift her softly
Clear away her confusion
Help her spirit soar
Help her fly home
May the earth embrace her
Wrap her in a loving embrace
Transform her once more
Now she is home
~~~

May her journey to the next life be swift and easy.  May she leave behind her all memory of sorrow or pain.  May she carry with her the memories of love and laughter and all that was good in her life.  May she be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before.  If she returns to the circle once more, may she be known by those who loved her in this life.
~~~

I'm the one who will laugh at a funeral.  I will tell the outrageous story.  I will remember how their eyes lit with mischief and how they taught my children inappropriate things.  I will not likely weep where you can see, but laugh?  Oh, yes, I will.  I remember the living.  The dead, I honor, but they are gone and what is left is a distillate of recollection.  I wish it to be more sweet than bitter, and so I invoke Giggliata, goddess of mirth and merriment, and I send my beloved dead away on a tide of happy tales.  I hope when I die, if anyone mourns, they'll mourn with jokes and stories full of warmth and humor.
~~~~~

What about you?  How do you feel about death and dying?

Turtles

Terry Pratchett passed away today.  I am saddened by this.  I know we all follow Death through the gate eventually, but I would have liked it if he'd gone a bit longer on this side before crossing over to the next.

Monstrously unfair that it was the very mind that created the charming, engaging, intelligent, and often tart Discworld, that same mind, that turned on him and brought him too swiftly to his end.

He made me laugh.  That is one of the best accolades I can give, for all it's not worth much out there in the real world.  He made me laugh.

May his journey to the next place be swift and easy.  may he leave behind all memory of pain, sorrow, or loss but carry with him the happiness, pleasure, and love that he knew in this life.  May he be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before him, and if he returns again to this life, joins the circle once more, may those who loved him know him again.

Read Neil Gaiman's take on Terry Pratchett here.

Some quotes from Terry Pratchett here.

Terry Pratchett's take on what would lead him to the end of his days here.

There are some folks who, simply by being who they are and doing what they do, add a little lightness to the world.  From my perspective, Terry Pratchett was one such.  There will always be a place in my library for his work.

What the Fuck

Last night, I happened to see a plea for prayer from a friend on Facebook. She's someone I consider a friend, although we've not known each other long. Her husband Lo is...was...also a friend in the same vein.

He took ill just after Thanksgiving.

Went to the hospital.

Came home.

Died this morning while I was making pancakes.

Fucking Strep throat.

How does this happen?

He made amazing spaghetti sauce, welcomed us into his camp and his heart with a grin and some good-natured teasing, and made me one of the sweetest, most flattering (if stunning) offers I've had in my life.

When he saw me on FB or AOL, he'd message me and we'd chat.

Last year, when I was just beginning the divorce and newly in love with Someone, I happened to be at an event with Lo. He worked the late night medical shift. Each evening, I would walk up the hill to the one spot where my phone had signal, and I would call Someone for a chat. Lo tease me about lighting my way back with the resulting smile. He teased me about getting my feet back on the ground rather than floating around. He listened to me as I worked through my feelings about my failed marriage and this new man with whom I'd unexpectedly fallen in love. He hugged when it was needed, was fierce when it was needed, and never once left me feeling judged for being myself, for loving, and for trying to balance on a very thin line.

When he met Someone this year, he welcomed him into the community.

He was a fan of the band, knew our stuff better than we do. He shot one of the few pictures/videos in existence of Someone and I together (usually, one of us is working the camera - difficult to get shots of the pair of us, then), dancing to a Marley tune just before I was due to perform at Wisteria this year

How does this happen?

He and his wife invited our family to come for Thanksgiving. I declined because we had people coming here. Good people, they were sweet to offer.

I was already planning the please-don't-make-me-take-this-food-home potluck for Wisteria next year, and Lo and his wife figured in those plans. I was going to try and weasel his spaghetti sauce recipe out of him...or at least score a jar of it to bring home. Not a chance in Hell, I know, but it would have been fun to try.

I wanted him to see Sprout - he was so happy for me when he found out, and he and his wife were among the first people to know.

When she asked for prayers, I sent mine immediately...because there's a dearth of good souls on this planet, a surfeit of hurt...and when, this morning, I saw people leaving condolences...I wanted to tell them they were mistaken, that she'd only said he was ill, that she'd be posting an update soon that he was rallying.

Prayer works for so many assholes in this world...why not for a good man?

I had to check and double check...and wanted to tell her "J, tell these people they misread..."

I can only imagine, then, what she must be feeling...

Maybe I can't.

How does this happen?

Lo, you'll be missed. We did not have enough time in this life. May your soul find its way to the Summerland, where it is met and honored by your gods and ancestors. When you return to the circle, may I know you as friend.

Hail and farewell.

Holes

I've been called cold-hearted before. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Distant.

I suppose I can understand that.

I'm not awfully demonstrative. I never learned how to put my feelings on display for others to see, and have always felt a bit...I don't know...ashamed, I guess...when I've let things slip. I don't mean in writing...written words are different. I can write 'em and walk away and leave 'em to their own devices. While there's an air of permanence to them, it's a more distant permanence, one I can leave behind for others to mull over at their leisure. Spoken words and actions are so immediate and tend to linger in unsavory ways long after the sponsoring emotion is spent.

Also, when I was kid, visible strong emotion was frowned upon. It smacked of histrionics and bids for attention.

Nature and nurture have combined to make of me a woman who does not wear her feelings on her sleeve...not readily, anyway, and certainly not in public. Given my druthers, I'll just keep myself to myself, keep from dragging anyone else into my nonsense.

The problem with internalizing things is...people tend to think one isn't feeling anything at all, or that one doesn't require commiseration or comfort when one is hurting. Hell, most of the time, folks can't tell that I'm hurting. I'm usually OK with that...who needs all the fuss? Life goes on anyway, doesn't it?

This isn't going where I thought it would. I was thinking about my grandfather and how I mourn him in odd moments. Some twenty years after his death, I still miss him and find an emptiness where his silent, stern, huge presence used to linger. I talk to him, to my Papa, just about every day. When I greet the sun, I say "Hey, Papa" and half the time I don't know if I'm talking to the sun or my grandfather. I never mourned him with tears and wailing and the wearing of black clothes. I've just...missed him...every day since he died.

I imagine that's how it'll be for Snake. I didn't cry at his funeral...not much, anyway, and more for the folks he left behind. But on odd days, in odd moments, I'll remember that my grumpy curmudgeon of a friend isn't here any more...that when it's storming during an event, there won't be a phone call to the tower and a gruff voice lecturing me on the proximity of lightning and how it's bad for the net and (not inconsequently)(although secondary to protecting the communications equipment) for the workers connected to the net by wires...workers who'd probably prefer not to have their brains fried via their ears due to lightning strike.

There won't be a battered old blue truck parked right next to the Emergency Vehicles base, blocking half the drive and sometimes the doorway in. No stern lectures at the beginning of the Petit le Mans about charging the handheld every night and don't forget to bring the charger back at the end!

It'll take years, probably, for me to get used to his absence...if I ever really do. And probably no one except the few of you who're reading this (bless you for your tenacity) will ever know that I do miss him...and all of my dead...deeply. There's a Snake shaped hole that won't ever be filled again...right next to Papa, and Bart, and Fred, and my other grandparents, a host of other friends, and even a few cats, some birds, and a dog or two. I'll mourn quietly and in out of the way places, unseen and unnoticed because that's how I am.

And life does go on, whether we will or no...

Snake

I have a friend named Snake. Well...no that's not really his name...it's his nickname. There's a story behind why, but I am told it's not safe for human ears. Heh.

I first met Snake when I was sixteen, back when Mum first started going to the track as a worker. He's been a fixture there since dirt. He once told Mum he'd like to take out his dentures and gum her. Yes. He did.

Snake has a mental lexicon of dirty Irish jokes that are knee-slappers. He's Irish by blood, American by birth.

I've worked turns with his kids and given his grandkids guest passes to the track when I had 'em. Our families have gone out to dinner together, camped together, and raised (just a little) Hell together. his Daughter C and my Mum used to tear up the dance floor (also known as the grass/dirt at Fitzy Park) together, dancing with each other because the fellas lacked the chutz to join in...or couldn't keep up.

For many years, Snake has been the caretaker of our radio equipment, keeping our aging and often ailing landline system going with spit and bailing wire and safe-guarding the handheld radios with the ferocity of a really irritated spitting cobra.

Snake is dying.

He's had cancer for...umm...wow, I can't remember how many years. A lifetime of smoking, drinking, sunshine and hard living caught up to him. Snake is a tough old bird, though, and hard to kill. Still...time and tide catch us all, and it is Snake's turn to dance the last dance.

He's in hospice care as I type this. There's not much hope he'll outlast the week...maybe not even the next day or so.

I'm not going to visit him. Not because I don't care - the idea of a world without Snake in it is disheartening, to say the very least. I'm not going because he's not there. Not the part of him that I know, not my friend. He won't care that I'm there, nor miss me if I'm not.

Instead, I am going to relate one of the racing stories he told me a very long time ago...to this day, it's one of my favorites. I've told it my way because I don't have the skill to capture Snake's style...
~~~~~
When I first started working turns, we had a fairly extensive "breaking in" period, with classes to help train us in safety and response and even a fire certification school. A popular pastime for more experienced workers was to tell us newbies horror stories. Snake liked to tell new folks about one particularly horrid incident, which may or may not really have happened and one incident that did happen. The story itself always elicited wry laughs...stick with it to the end and you'll see why.

During one event, there was a somewhat spectacular wreck, the kind that shuts down the session. Back then, we had a lot more workers on the turns, and we would run onto a hot track (hot meaning the session was still...er...in session, race traffic still on the go) if needs must. The incident was severe enough to warrant a call for medical, but it would take a minute to get there, so workers responded to the cars involved. One worker noticed a helmet on the ground by the track and ran to retrieve it - a helmet can tell the medical crew a lot about what sort of injuries to expect. Much to the worker's horror, there was a head in the helmet!

A few years ago there was a motorcycle event at the track. Motorcycles have always been notorious for spectacular incidents and more than a few bizarre injuries (and yes, deaths). New workers are usually given "quieter" turns where more experienced workers help them learn the ropes. At this event, one of the new workers had been initiated with Snake's head-in-the-helmet story, and was hoping that no such incident would occur on his turn.

All was well for the first day or so - good riding, very few riders going down.

Day two, however, was a zoo. Perhaps the riders had partied too hard the night before (What?? Never!!), or perhaps the gremlins were simply having a field day...whatever the reason, bikes were sliding all over the place, and workers were running response and calling for transport so fast and so often, it seemed more like an ambulance race.

Our new worker was sent to respond to one such incident. His corner captain couldn't understand what seemed to be a sudden fit of hysteria, the worker dancing about, waving his arms, signalling for an ambulance, and retching in the tire wall.

The rider was sitting up and seemed OK, so what was the problem.

Hmm.

Oh, wait...the leg still attached to the bike might be a clue.

Wait. Rider over here. Bike over there. Leg on bike.

And yet...the rider didn't seem all that concerned. Must be in shock.

Not so much.

You see, this rider had a prosthetic lower leg...a fact none of the workers knew at the time. While a prosthesis isn't particularly hampering to a racer, it can be a bit of a boor when the foot constantly slips off the foot-peg and hits the track - makes cornering a bitch.

Being a competitive fellow, and somewhat innovative, our rider decided that a judicious application of Duct Tape was in order. He taped the foot to the peg, problem solved.

Until he went down and the bike went one way while his body went another.

Ouch. And, erm...oops.

Eventually the new worker was made to understand the situation, poor fellow. The rider, with some assistance, reattached his leg, got back on his bike and limped (hah!) back to the pits. The worker returned to his station and was the recipient of some not unkind ribbing from his fellows, and the race went on.
~~~~~
So long, Snake...I'll miss you, you grumpy old cuss. The track just won't be the same without you. See you on the other side...

Mass, Turtles, and Ice Cream, in One Post

We survived the mass. It was...erm...Catholic. Really, really Catholic. And I got a little peeved at the priest, truth be told, because he intimated several times that Aunt D wouldn't make it to heaven without prayers of intercession...and I loved her and considered her a wonderful person who more than answered the criteria for a pass through the gate. I actually thought "How dare he!"

Also, for some reason, when he mentioned that whole "I am the resurrection and the life..." part where Christ said people would never die? Yeah, umm...I thought "epic fail!" and nearly giggled. I managed not to, but it was a close one.

It was even harder when I noticed that the Christ on the crucifix was doing the Nixon peace-fingers thing while hanging up there...good grief...

I got a real workout, all that stand and sit and stand and sing and sit and pray and kneel and stand and sing and stand some more...whew.

We went to Uncle T's house after, met a number of folks, talked about Aunt D and how she could piss off my grandmother like a champ, and hold her own with my grandfather, and her time as a Brannif (sp?) stewardess, and her life and how well she lived it. It was nice.

After a while, I felt like it was time to go...probably because Bird wanted to swim in the pool and I didn't want him in there with no adults, sooo...we hugged and good-byed and promised to keep in touch...and maybe we will. I know I'll e-mail Uncle T, anyway.

We changed into casual things and headed to a turtle rehab center nearby with Aunt A (Mum's sister) and Cousin K (Aunt A's daughter). It was cool - they had a sort of museum room with shells, fossils, and turtle lore, and then outside were tanks with recovering turtles. Some of them were up for adoptions. We adopted one:

His name's Carlisle - isn't he cute? He's freakin' huge - the picture doesn't do him justice...I have a ton of photos of different turtles, but that's a post for another time.

We drove back towards the hotel, but decided to stop for ice cream. When I was a kid and we lived down here, we'd spend the whole day at the beach, out in the sun, in the water...and on the way home we'd get ice cream, and try to eat it before it melted all over us. The car windows were open because we didn't have A/C, and we'd get splattered by the droplets of melt-off as we rode and licked like mad.

This time, we ate inside the shop. It was Bird's first real cone, so of course I took pictures! This one was my favorite:

But I have many more, and...again...it's a post for another time.

Interspersed with all this hilarity are thoughts of my Uncle and cousins, of their loss and sorrow. I wish I could tell them what I know - that she made it through the gate and is raising hell up there, joking with Papa (my grandfather) and grinning like a fiend (she had a marvelous smile). I know she misses my Uncle - you could tell how much they loved each other when you looked at the pictures. Any time she was near him in a photo, she was grinning like a Cheshire Cat. I am worried about how he will miss her...and I hope that he'll look to the people still here, still loving him, when he feels low...

Meanwhile, life goes on, we honor the dead by living, and I intend to figure out what I need to do to smile like Aunt D did, love life like she did, and get on with it.

Aunt D

Last night my Aunt D slipped through the veil, surrounded by her husband, children, and grandchildren.

The moon was full and beautiful, and I am certain the Lady lit Aunt D's path. We'll miss her.

Sorrow, Joy, and the Turning Wheel

There is a song running through my head. I wrote it a few (eleven!!) years ago for a friend who died of cancer and AIDS. He was young, and it didn't set right with me that he should die. Young people shouldn't die. No parent should outlive their child.

Twenty-eight year old young men who I knew as a child shouldn't suddenly be gone but last week, another friend died. Rumor has it, he was deeply unhappy, and that his sorrow may have influenced his mortality. Rumor also has it that his father is the one who discovered his state of non-life.

Well, shit. I would like to think the rumor is wrong, but have little hope of that. This lad was bright - beyond bright, he was brilliant. I knew him when he was a track brat, covered in Georgia clay dust from the bottoms of his feet all the way to his arm pits. I know his brothers. His mother and father watched my back on a turn many times, and I watched theirs. I watched their kids grow up. It keeps striking my in the psyche, that this young man is gone. I won't see him in October, registering to work the event or bumming a guest pass from me (of course I'd give him one!).

The song is called "Why Do You Call?" I can sing it without crying, but then - I wrote it. My band, my friends, the people who are the family of my heart, we've sung this song on more occasions than we'd like. We harmonize beautifully, four, six, eight, more parts, all weaving around each other, all looking beyond the here and now and into a place where Spirit dwells, and we mean what we sing.

It'll be running through my head tomorrow when I go to the memorial service for a twenty-eight-year-young man who heard the call so loud, so persistent, that he couldn't deny it - I don't think he necessarily wanted to die...he just didn't want to keep living as he was. If you can't see the difference, perhaps you've never been there...and thank all that's holy for that.

The song will be running through my mind as I greet other old friends who have come to pay respects. It'll deafen me while I hug his father, hug his mother, hug his brothers, listen to people wonder what happened - not everyone has heard the rumors, all they know is...he's gone. None of us may ever know - it's not the sort of thing you ask stunned, emotionally bruised, spiritually bleeding parents on the day they are bidding farewell to their child with his family and friends...or ever, really.

On Sunday, still touched by the gentle sorrow of a life finished too soon (from my perspective), I will celebrate a birth - it's Noodle's birthday, and we will go play in the park, have cake, milk, juice, chat, laughter. I will be reminded of life, of exuberance, of children and their delight in the world around them - they're not worn down, yet. It's all shiny and new.

The wheel turns.

Where There's a Will (Part Two)

Mum has, for some time, been trying to get T and I to write our wills.

I am an advocate for wills - I think everyone who's out on their own or who has property should have one. I send out a reminder every November First to all my friends - if you don't have a will, write one, and if you have one...update it. Don't leave it to the State to decide who gets the model car collection, the set of thimbles from nations starting with "W", or the Franklin Mint commemorative plate collection featuring artists who died tragic, chopstick related deaths. Write it down, file it, and let a few people know that you've done so.

I had a will, but it was old and I needed to update it. In a fit of productivity that I later medicated away with liberal applications of Fig Newtons and Quaaludes Earl Grey tea, I finally wrote a will for both T and I. Mum read it, laughed until she almost wet herself, and told me it wouldn't fly. Apparently, I have to have it all done up in dry (you know, like the turkey your mother-in-law cooks every year that's practically powdered and even your rich, brown gravy can't help it) legalese. Sigh. I promptly lost the lovely legal, tidy and boring papers she gave me to base the new will on, only recently uncovering them. I plan to get to them sometime next century weekend, but I told mum I want my original one stapled to the top, and I want it read first.

Want to see it? I don't think it's that funny; you be the judge. Some details (OK, names) have been altered to keep them, you know, private and stuff.
~~~~~
Our Will (or Won't, depending whether you're the glass-half-full or glass-half-empty type)

Being of sound mind (hah!!)(quit laughing, Mr. Lawyerpants, we know we aren't supposed to fib in legal documents, but really, who's to say we weren't briefly lucid when we wrote this thing?) and body (unless you ask our physician, which we hope you won't do, because it's not nice to speak ill of the dead), K and T have determined the following, should they suddenly be crushed to death in a freak Orangutan stampeded, or more likely, should they explode like Mr. Creosote in The Meaning of Life because they couldn't be rude and turn down the wafer thin mint, no matter how full they were, because their mamas raised them right and they didn't want to hurt the hostess' feelings, or if they should, you know, generally have done with life in any manner:

What to do with our remains:

K – cremate me and scatter me somewhere nature is still wild, or make me into a rude statue (preferably one that has a remarkable figure and absolutely no resemblance to my current state)(especially don't give the statue my fifty-acre ass, because I really don't like pigeons enough to give them that much perch) and park me somewhere that I'll irritate some stuck up bitches or pompous jack-asses on a regular basis. Oh, I know - make me a fountain where the water shoots out my nose or my navel or somewhere else that's interesting!

T – cremate me and pour me into Jeff Gordon’s gas tank…I'll put a stop to his evil one way or another!

If T goes first and K is still kicking: K gets everything, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can go pound sand.

If T goes after K has snuffed it: Everything goes to Bird, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can go spit in the wind.

If K goes first and T is still rolling along: T gets everything but whatever K inherited from Mum or Dad (providing Mum or Dad are actually pushing up daisies and not vacationing in Guam or something). Whatever K inherited from Mum or Dad (whew, typing that three times was exhausting, and now I need a nap) goes to Bird to be held in trust until he’s 21. Since Mum is alive and well (and watching Peter Pan with her grandson) at the typing of this document, it may all be moot, anyway. We are fairly certain that Dad is still on this planet, but won't be held to that.

If K and T both go together, say in a freak double parachute failure on their anniversary sky-diving expedition: Well, pooh! Everything goes to Bird, poor little orphaned mite, all alone in the world (sniff, sniff). So the poor motherless boy doesn't wander around in the woods wondering where everyone went, T and K would like Mum (aka Gramlin) to keep him cleaned, fed, and generally guardianed until he’s fit for society or the law springs him from her diabolical grasp. If Gramlin doesn't want him (What?? Not want him?? What’s wrong with the woman???), or is dead (boo!), or can't raise him on account of she’s been kidnapped by aliens (or, at least her brain has), or she’s been deemed far too mentally interesting to be responsible for a child as precocious and clever as Bird, then J (T's sister) has grudgingly agreed to keep an eye on him, with the understanding that K weird friends may come kidnap him for weeks on end to go frolic with the pagans and learn about his mother’s spiritual bent whenever they like, with reasonable (say, more than an hour) notice. If J can't be bothered (What? Can't be bothered?? What’s wrong with the woman???) Then Michelle R. will do nicely, if only she would. If she can't or won't, then we have to wonder what’s wrong with Bird, or if there’s a funky curse going on here.

If one parent dies and the other escapes Death’s bony grip for a while longer, the surviving parent gets to muddle through as a single-parent…but hey, kids are babe magnets, aren't they??
Meanwhile, back at the body…

Oh, yeah, we need an executioner…er…executor…executrix…managerial type; we choose Gramlin, on account of she’s zany enough to know how we think (poor woman).
~~~~~
Now really, wouldn't you rather hear that than a bunch of "The party of the first part..." blathering??

Where There's A Will (Part One)

I read Chris' entry about aging over at Wat da Wat, and it reminded me that I've been wanting to write about this for a while, now, but I've been distracted and lazy. Oh, well, better late than never.

When my mum was in her fifties, she had her will done by a very nice attorney who is not only clever, he has a sense of humor. I know!! When the will was prepared, she had a reading. The (not at all) deceased sat at one end of the table, the lawyer at the other, and Big Brother, myself, and a trustee occupied the middle seats. Mr. M (the lawyer) read the will and made sure we understood everything - then told mum that was possibly the oddest experience he's ever had as a lawyer. The decedent isn't usually sitting there smiling and laughing with the heirs and trustees when the will is read. Heh...he didn't know us very well at the time, although I think he understands our weirdness a little better, now. Mum had a reason for doing this - when her own father died, no one knew what the will said...who would inherit what, if anything. It's not the first thing on your mind when someone you love pops off, but it did make for some confusion later on. Mum wanted to avoid that, so she went about making sure that we know what's what when she shuffles off this mortal coil.

Death, at least to me (and to some extent, mum) is no mystery. It is not unexpected. All that lives, dies. Whether the living have a long strand or a short one, they are all cut by the fates eventually. It is, in my opinion, the height of folly to avoid thinking about mortality (to pretend it will never happen, I mean), be it our own or of those we love. I don't say "If mum ever dies...", I say "When mum dies..." We have talked openly, mum and I, about aging - about her aging, and eventual death, and what she wants if she'd sick, demented, dying, dead. We laugh a lot. I'm trying to talk her into letting me make her into a reef ball when she goes, or maybe fire her into space, or make her into a diamond, or perhaps all three. She may end up a truly tacky piece of garden art, some sort of gnome statue or a pink flamingo. I don't know, and she's still considering what she wants after being lightly toasted to an ashen grey. If she doesn't make up her mind before she snuffs it, I'll decide...and if she hates it, well...too bad. She can haunt me.

I have known a lot of death in the last decade. I've lost more than a few friends to AIDS, and been with them while they faded from the bloom of health to skeletal, unable to move, reduced to mumbling, babbling speech. I sang one friend from this life to the next, possibly one of the most amazing experiences I have ever had. I've lost family to age or to cancer and wept even while I remembered their Hell-raising days. I have thought of my own demise, even contemplated accomplishing it on my own when it seemed like Death was taking his sweet time. He and I have chatted, and we're good; I'll keep plugging along without trying to do his job for him and he'll leave my garden alone - except the chives, because even Death can't seem to kill an established chive bed, but it gives Him something to do on off days.

Some quick thoughts on death and dying (please don't confuse quick with poorly thought out or frivolous):
1. Death is not dignified, but if we're lucky we won't have to care about that when we are in the midst of it.
2. Death is not the difficult thing. Life is. Even Death knows that, and if you dance with Him enough, He'll tell you all about it before sending you back out into world to finish your chores.
3. If a living being is loved while living, they never really die - they are contained in every thought, every memory, every association with them, their habits, their living that was experienced by the ones left behind.
4. Light travels in particles and waves. When we see things, we are taking in these particles and waves. We are making the things we see a part of us. I see the stars, I make them part of me. I see a tree, it is part of me. I see you, you are part of me. This is basic stuff. If you see a living being, it/they become part of you, passed on to all who see you and take you in only to pass you on to the ones who experience tham. We are, in this way, beautifully eternal.
5. We honor the dead by living. When I die, I want a party...with cake, punch, and all the music I loved in life. I want people dancing, laughing, making a mess that (for once) I won't have to clean up. I don't want to be mourned, I want to be celebrated, and I hope I have a life worth remembering.

The oldest sorrow.

Bird, ready to play

Yesterday, just as it began to snow here in Georgia, a little boy in Texas was finally letting go of his struggle with cancer. While my family and I frolicked in our seemingly magical winter morning, Julian's family were bathing his empty shell, dressing it, holding it, grieving over it.


My son, Bird, is just five. Julian wasn't quite five. Forgive me if I take this to heart. I only know about Julian because of Dawn's blog over at http://mom2my6pack.blogspot.com/ . I am unutterably sad for this boy's mother, even while I thank the powers that be that this child doesn't have to struggle any more. Now he can find respite, and perhaps one day return in a body that won't betray him.


Of all the injustices in the world, a child's death seems the greatest. Children should be loved, treasured, and grow up to become annoying teenagers and adults. They shouldn't waste away when they've hardly begun, denied the simplest joys by a disease with teeth and claws and no mercy.


Julian's mum has made her pain, sorrow, grief, and joy public. I hope it has helped her, because I know it took a hell of a lot of guts to let strangers in on what is usually deeply personal and private. Want to reach out to a stranger who has lost so much in such a short time? Go here: http://www.gratefulness.org/candles/view.cfm?l=eng&c=5169254 and follow the directions until it tells you to click on the candle with MLKB on it, then instead find one with an unlit wick and click on that, then follow the directions.


Then go hug your kids, or your neighbor's kids, or some random kid within reach and thank your gods they are whole and healthy enough to irritate the crap out of you today.

The sorrow that accompanies death, even a death that is more gift than not, is the oldest of sorrows. If only it didn't visit the youngest of lives...