The Furious Spinner

In times of old, The Furies protected Mother Right. If a mother (or any woman) was harmed, The Furies swooped down and took their vengeance. They were one of the last vestiges of a world that existed before the patriarchy. When we feel righteous anger, it is The Furies who are calling out to us to make what is wrong right again.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

End Days

Linda's memorial is done. It's been a week and a day since she died. It's been a difficult week. With ups and downs and all arounds. I became more and more exasperated as the week went on. I kept telling myself I needed to let go of expectations. Needed to realize life had changed. I kept hearing Sister Bea Wilder admonishing me, "Things change. Get over it." For years I've had a second home: Linda's. Her dogs were my dogs. Her wildflowers were mine. Her door was always open to me. I was always welcome. That's over. She is gone, and so is her home.

Gotta get used to it.

Our day started at 6:30 a.m. and did not let up until about 6:45 p.m. I won't bore you with the details of setting up the place and all that entailed. We were ready by the time it was ready to begin.

The memorial went well. I think I did my job. I'm a good public speaker. When I do book readings, I usually do well. At those times I am establishing a relationship between the audience and myself that is essentially about me. This is not my first memorial. I have facilitated one other. For a memorial, it's not about me and my relationship with the audience. I need to put them at ease enough for them to trust me to carry them along on this journey we take together. But it's not about me being charming or a star or anything. I am the facilitator: the conduit for their memories. It's a completely different way of speaking, and I have to be aware of that. (We've been a part of two other memorials in the last six months. Three dead friends in six months. I hope that trend ends here today.)

I began the memorial with a kind of eulogy—or liturgy, maybe. Her brother in law called it that. I thanked the family and the people who helped Linda and Serena during her illness. I talked about her life and her importance to the community. I could have gone on all day, but I just skimmed the surface of her life. I called my talk "Sauntering with Linda."

I said, "Before she got sick again, Linda and I would walk in the woods several times a week. These weren’t really hikes. If you’ve ever walked in the woods with Linda, you know what I mean. She noticed everything. We sauntered rather than hiked. Back in the day, in Europe, pilgrims used to walk to the Holy Land. When people asked where they were going, they’d say, “a la sainte terre.” To the holy land. So they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. That’s what it was like walking with Linda. We were always sauntering to the holy land and on the holy land—because she believed the woods, nature, this place is holy land. Walking with her, sauntering with her, was always an amazing and wonderful experience."

Then we told jokes. The audience was skeptical of this at first, but soon we were laughing. People got up and told jokes for about half 'n hour. It was great fun. Serena laughed. I sat where I could keep eye contact with her, so I would know how she was doing. Then she did her powerpoint photo essay of herself and Linda. After that, we told Linda stories. This went on for some time. I didn't hurry it. We allowed for moments of silence.

On the program for the memorial, we put quotes I'd found underlined in her books and quotes by John Muir, whose life and writing she admired:

When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.
—John Muir

Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. —John Muir

It is a dark and cold world we sit in if we will not open the inward eyes of the spirit to the inward flames of nature. —Gustav Fechner

The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness. —John Muir

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul. —John Muir

I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. —John Muir

Death is not only a time of mourning. It is a time of truth. —Emmanuel’s Book

Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe.
—John Muir

When we finished telling stories, I read the prose poem I had written a few hours earlier.

Farewell

This is what I do, my old sweetheart.
I use words to find meaning.
You said there was a reason for everything.
I see no reason or sense in your death.
Yet that is what has happened.
We looked into each other’s eyes many times
And knew the end was near,
Knew this was not what either of us wanted
Or planned.
I wanted to be with you all the time
But some of those times were difficult
Watching you birth your death
It was messy, painful, sad
We all felt the labor pain
Rumbling through valley, hills, river.
I asked what sign you would give me
After you were gone. To prove to me
That you were right, after all.
Even in the end. Even about the end.
"Something with a bird," you said.
"Not quite sure. You’ll know."
Days after you told me this
A hummingbird flew right up to me
Wings whirring, tiny eyes gazing at me.
But you were still alive.
Had your spirit already flown the coop?

One night when you still had your strength
You called and left a message on our phone
I was on the coast, you in Home Valley
Where you were witnessing a summer storm.
Lightning, thunder, and clouds were creating
A masterpiece just for you.
You sounded so excited as you described to me
The beauty all around you. I wept as I listened
To your message. Your message of beauty and joy.
I pressed save. I wanted to have a record of your
Voice, your beauty and joy forever.

But someone erased the message.
And now you are gone.
A few days after you died
I went out to your campsite.
I stood out in the stream on a rock
And said, “Linda where are you?”
I looked around at the beauty
At the stones, the creek, the green.
The blue sky, and I couldn’t find you.
“You aren’t here,” I whispered.
Then I looked down and
Saw a tiny white feather floating on
the water in a small pool encircled
By stones. I watched the feather for a long while.
I remembered once when I asked where you’d
Be after you died and you said,
“I will be in the breeze coming
Across the field. I will be in the
Songs of the birds. I will be the
Sun on your shoulders.”
Although you didn’t say so, I know
When I see a wildflower and wonder
its name, you will tell it to me.
When I linger along the path, it
Will be because your hand is on my
Shoulder reminding me to pause.
One day I will smell a Doug Fir
And know you brought that scent to me.
And when I reach my arms around a tree
I know I will be embracing you too.
It is not enough today.
But someday it will be.
Farewell my old sweetheart.

Her brother Daniel read the Rilke poem (below) to end the memorial, and then we ate together and continued to tell stories and jokes.

You mustn't be frightened
If a sadness
Rises in front of you,
Larger than any you have ever seen;
If an anxiety, like light and cloud shadows,
Moves over your hands and everything you do.
You must realize that something is happening to you,
That life has not forgotten you,
That it holds you in its hand
And will not let you fall.
—Rainer Maria Rilke

And that's the way it was. Lots of hugs and love all around.

That's all for now.

Blessings on your days, all.

Labels: Linda