Ron Paul, Don’t Pull, and the Lunar Eclipse
Winthrop, Washington (while on vacation)
2/21/08
I had to squint to look at the moon tonight. Like a spotlight only it didn’t blind me. Instead, it illuminated everything. Full and white. A hole in the sky. Light streaming through a ripped black canvas.
We arrived yesterday early afternoon. It’s been three years since we were last here, here being Winthrop east of the Cascades at the southern end of the Methow Valley. The drive was relatively easy. Despite the depth of snow on the roadside, the highways were bare and dry all the way into town allowing us to really pay attention to the landscape instead of the treacherous driving conditions we’d experienced in the past.
Eastern Washington is a stark contrast to Western Washington. Firs give way to pine trees; dense forests give way to organized linear orchards. On the west side, line of sight is limited and layered with green. On the east side, you can see for miles and most of what you see is brown. Whitewater rivers flow off the Cascades to become wide, flat, meandering waters that often look like lakes they move so slowly.
While we prefer the west side to the east, the snow to the north is crisp and dry, perfect for cross-country skiing and so, when we can, we like to escape the mountainous ruggedness of the west side and play in the valleys of the east.
The east side is also much more conservative than the west. Often, liberal Democrats win elections by earning a majority of votes from Seattle (located on the west side), obliterating any hope of democracy for the voters from the east side who are far more conservative. This was evident as we wound are way up the east side.
“Ron Paul,” I said to Ann pointing out the first political sign we’d seen. “Interesting,” was her only response. And then again, a sign stuck into a snow bank on the side of the road. “Ron Paul,” I said again to which Ann “hummphed” and then continued scanning the scenery for hawks and deer.
By the time we reached Winthrop, we’d counted at least 20 Ron Paul signs and soon began to speculate as to his appeal.
“Freedom from government interference,” I postulated.
“But why?” Ann pondered. “What would the government care about this wide expanse of scrub?”
“Precisely,” was my response, “All this land and the government might try to make rules about how it should be used.”
When we finally piled out the car – Ann, Rubin, all our gear and me – the sun warmed our faces and reflected off the snow. It was 34 degrees. The air was dry, but nippy and despite the temperature and the warmth of the sun, it was cold.
We skied right away after checking into the resort stretching our tired car riding muscles and allowing Rubin some needed puppy energy release. The Methow Valley is relatively flat, which makes for incredible cross-country skiing as well as expansive views of the surrounding valleys and mountains. Because of its latitude and easterly location, the snow is abundant and dry, if that’s how snow can be described. No matter because it’s perfect for skiing and it’s even more perfect for dogs to run and run and run and run.
Rubin did just that for 9 miles. Actually, we skied for 9 miles, he probably ran far more than that as he raced back and forth between us, ahead of us, and then back behind us. By the time we got back to the car his tongue lolled off to one side and he didn’t have the energy to jump up into the back seat.
We drove into town for dinner and ate under the Christmas lights and ornaments that hang in the funky restaurant all year round. Dinner consisted of burritos and rellanos and two baskets of chips. By the time we left the restaurant, the night sky came alive with stars and a full moon sat fat on the horizon. We walked in the snow back at the resort while the moon hid itself behind the earth. A full lunar eclipse wasn’t on our itinerary, but oh what a surprise. We watched the shadow of the earth edge its way across the white globe not quite obscuring it, but transforming the brightness into a dingy ball of dirt. It was magnificent to see ourselves silhouetted in a kind of philosophical way – we were nothing but insignificant matter now cast as shadow in the night sky. It almost made me want to howl at the moon.
We woke early this morning, suited up and hit the same dog friendly trail. Rubin was delighted. The cold air was a stark contrast to the warm sun. We thought we’d skied for hours only to return to the car at noon, just in time for lunch in Mazama. We warmed ourselves on the porch of the Mazama Country Store and then headed out for another short ski while Rubin rested in the car.
We ate dinner in our room, read our books, and then walked around the resort one last time before bed. The moon, no longer eclipsed or fully full, was bright. Not just in its contrast to the night sky, but bright like overwhelmingly so. I squinted. With Rubin’s leash wrapped around my waist, we crunched through the snow. The snow, they say, concentrates the smells so Rubin was transfixed by certain spots and anxious to get to others. “Don’t pull,” I told him and gave a quick yank to the leash. He backed off a bit, but soon edged ahead pulling me along with him. Snow drifts carried the scent of rabbit and deer, raccoon and fellow domestic dogs. “Don’t pull,” I said again and then laughed. “Donpull, ronpaul,” I said in my best Russian accent and I heard Ann laugh beside me, her smile lit up by the spotlight of the moon.
Getting away like this feels necessary. I know that soon, with the changing of careers, I will not have access to such gloriously long vacations. A week off in February is a luxury. Four days to ski in Winthrop feels even more so. Today, after we skied in the morning and realized it was only noon when we were done, was almost surreal. “Shouldn’t it be like 3 in the afternoon?” I asked Ann.
But time is moving slowly today and perhaps it will tomorrow. I’m trying to pay attention. I’m trying to soak up each moment of sun, each moment of light reflected off the white, crystallized snow. I’m trying to laugh longer and breathe deeper. I’m trying to make my heart pump harder and my muscles push a little bit farther. Not because it’s my last “mid-winter break,” not because I don’t think I’ll ever be here again skiing like this. It’s something much more elusive than that. I was trying to put my finger on it as we walked in the moonlight with Rubin tugging at the leash. It has to do with the infinitesimal feeling of the shadow on the moon, of the bazillion stars in the sky, of the rise of the mountains to the west and the rumble of the river to the south.
I am not a religious woman. I’ve leaned more toward the animist view that we are part of something larger, something spiritual in the sense that my existence is connected to the existence of the coyote howling in the distance or the pine forest along a rivers edge. Coming here, to this valley so far from home, makes me realize how much I need reminders of my place in the fabric of things. Coming here keeps me grounded in a way that the city can’t. Coming here lets me see that what I do in the world matters at the same time that it doesn’t matter, and it’s in that paradox of contradictions I am able to let go for a little while. It allows me to truly relax and not carry the burden of choices and obligations that overwhelm me.
This is a world that contains pulling dogs, Ron Paul, and lunar eclipses. This is a world where the moon can blind and illuminate, where the snow can be cold on the land and warm on the skin. This is a world where mountains divide the land and the people, where rivers cut through valleys, and rain gives way to snow. This is a world where dogs can bury their noses in one spot and smell a week’s worth of history with one sniff.
I feel like I’m doing that now – smelling this one spot trying to understand my light in a ripped black canvas.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Choosing
We have been away skiing in Eastern Washington. I had a chance to do a bit of writing, though not much as the weather was glorious. Those posts will come later since I need to download them from my laptop. For now, these are my thoughts...
I am often asked how I became a teacher. Or more accurately, why I chose to be a teacher. I don't have an answer. I don't remember ever really choosing it. I actually don't remember choosing much in my life, at least consciously. I did choose Ann (and was lucky she wanted to be chosen by me) and I did choose Rubin (with Ann's input). But when I think back on my entire life, the real choice I remember consciously making was choosing my kitten when I was a kid. (But did I really? Or was he just there and I remember picking him up and equating that with choosing?)
Of course I've made little choices. I chose the color of the paint on the kitchen wall, I chose a new pair of shoes just this past week, and I chose countless meals from countless menus in my life, but actually choosing something really important, life-changing important where I weighed the options -- well, I'm hard-pressed to come up with more than a handful of examples.
I chose to leave Port Townsend after 17 years there. That was conscious...in a way. I was very sad. Crying actually while house sitting for a friend. I was weeping and trying to figure out what I was going to do to stop all the emotions. What was I? Who was I? What were my choices?
And then it hit me...I didn't need to live in Port Townsend anymore. I could go any where, do anything and I didn't have any ties to bind me to that place -- aside from a job and friends.
But a job could be had somewhere else and friends I could keep from a distance, so almost in a flash, I knew I needed to move away and live back in Seattle.
So yes, it was a choice, but a choice that struck me and was not at all planned out.
Back to teaching. Within my career, I've chosen to teach different subjects or at different grades depending on the opportunities, but I've never considered not teaching. Well, that's not completely true. I've considered it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, but I never knew what I'd do instead. I had ideas, but I never had the gumption to try them.
I worried about a steady paycheck. I worried about my financial obligations. I worried about healthcare and benefits and retirement plans. I worried that I wasn't skilled at anything but teaching and most of my career, I worried that someone would figure out that I wasn't really a very skilled teacher. (I've gotten over that one perhaps because of time, but more likely because I've seen some pretty crappy teachers in my day and I figure I can hold my own in the skill department.)
I'm worrying about all of those things now as I get closer to leaving teaching. But still, even that doesn't feel like a choice. I just woke up and said, "I'm done. I can't do this for the rest of my life. I need to do something else." And then I announced it to Ann who was supportive and encouraging, and then I announced it to my employer who hasn't really said anything about it, and then I announced it to people randomly who show an interest in my choices.
But now, thinking back on it, what choice was I making? Was it thoughtful? Was it planned well? Was it a good move?
Probably not, but now that I'm in the flow of that choice -- the counting down of days, the getting my shit in order -- I worry that the choosing was random and not at all what I should be doing.
Then again, I know I can't continue teaching. I know that. I really, really know that.
So I look around now with different eyes. How did all those people in the world who aren't teaching choose their lives, their days, their professions? Do they just let the choices happen, like I have, and move on about their merry ways? Or are they more deliberate in their choosing?
What I've realized in these observations is that there are a lot of choices out there to make and that the choosing, if one becomes conscious of it, can be overwhelming and mortifying. For instance, we ate at one of our favorite low-priced restaurants while on vacation this week. I perused the menu and really considered my choices. I wasn't all that hungry, but in the past that never stopped me from eating. So this time I deliberately chose a smaller meal and then, when Ann ordered dessert, I passed only nibbling on the crust of her cherry pie.
That kind of choosing wasn't too difficult, but in the course of the day there are so many choices we make it's no wonder we just make them hastily and without much forethought.
And another thing I've realized is that what I've really done by resigning my job at the end of the school year is all a matter of perspective. I am choosing to leave. That's one choice, but I'm also choosing to focus my time learning to be a dog trainer and carving out some time to write. Those are two other choices separate from the first.
So really, the choosing to leave is on a different level of magnitude than the other choices because once I'd chosen to leave, I could have chosen a bazillion other things to pursue -- like working in a bookstore or climbing a mountain or taking a job at a restaurant.
I did put a lot of thought (and research) into choosing to be a dog trainer and in actuality, it has been something I've toyed with for years and years. I remembered just the other day a conversation I had with a good teacher-friend who was, at the time, the high school librarian. This was perhaps my sixth year of teaching and I just couldn't picture myself doing it for another 30 years. My friend, Marty said, "What would you like to do if you didn't teach?" Not an earth-shattering question, but I knew at that point that I loved animals and wanted to do something that involved dogs. "Dog training sounds interesting," I said to her and she beamed back, "You'd be perfect at that job!"
That was 15 years ago and it's always been in the back of my mind -- the dog trainer thing -- but what's kept me from it is this weird combination of not believing I could actually do it (like learn how) and not believing I could actually choose it for myself.
Now I have.
Old dog, new tricks.
Now I just have to be patient before the choice can evolve into the thing that it will be. Meanwhile, I go back to work on Monday -- teaching for another 4 months -- and all the while, practicing the art of choosing.
I am often asked how I became a teacher. Or more accurately, why I chose to be a teacher. I don't have an answer. I don't remember ever really choosing it. I actually don't remember choosing much in my life, at least consciously. I did choose Ann (and was lucky she wanted to be chosen by me) and I did choose Rubin (with Ann's input). But when I think back on my entire life, the real choice I remember consciously making was choosing my kitten when I was a kid. (But did I really? Or was he just there and I remember picking him up and equating that with choosing?)
Of course I've made little choices. I chose the color of the paint on the kitchen wall, I chose a new pair of shoes just this past week, and I chose countless meals from countless menus in my life, but actually choosing something really important, life-changing important where I weighed the options -- well, I'm hard-pressed to come up with more than a handful of examples.
I chose to leave Port Townsend after 17 years there. That was conscious...in a way. I was very sad. Crying actually while house sitting for a friend. I was weeping and trying to figure out what I was going to do to stop all the emotions. What was I? Who was I? What were my choices?
And then it hit me...I didn't need to live in Port Townsend anymore. I could go any where, do anything and I didn't have any ties to bind me to that place -- aside from a job and friends.
But a job could be had somewhere else and friends I could keep from a distance, so almost in a flash, I knew I needed to move away and live back in Seattle.
So yes, it was a choice, but a choice that struck me and was not at all planned out.
Back to teaching. Within my career, I've chosen to teach different subjects or at different grades depending on the opportunities, but I've never considered not teaching. Well, that's not completely true. I've considered it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, but I never knew what I'd do instead. I had ideas, but I never had the gumption to try them.
I worried about a steady paycheck. I worried about my financial obligations. I worried about healthcare and benefits and retirement plans. I worried that I wasn't skilled at anything but teaching and most of my career, I worried that someone would figure out that I wasn't really a very skilled teacher. (I've gotten over that one perhaps because of time, but more likely because I've seen some pretty crappy teachers in my day and I figure I can hold my own in the skill department.)
I'm worrying about all of those things now as I get closer to leaving teaching. But still, even that doesn't feel like a choice. I just woke up and said, "I'm done. I can't do this for the rest of my life. I need to do something else." And then I announced it to Ann who was supportive and encouraging, and then I announced it to my employer who hasn't really said anything about it, and then I announced it to people randomly who show an interest in my choices.
But now, thinking back on it, what choice was I making? Was it thoughtful? Was it planned well? Was it a good move?
Probably not, but now that I'm in the flow of that choice -- the counting down of days, the getting my shit in order -- I worry that the choosing was random and not at all what I should be doing.
Then again, I know I can't continue teaching. I know that. I really, really know that.
So I look around now with different eyes. How did all those people in the world who aren't teaching choose their lives, their days, their professions? Do they just let the choices happen, like I have, and move on about their merry ways? Or are they more deliberate in their choosing?
What I've realized in these observations is that there are a lot of choices out there to make and that the choosing, if one becomes conscious of it, can be overwhelming and mortifying. For instance, we ate at one of our favorite low-priced restaurants while on vacation this week. I perused the menu and really considered my choices. I wasn't all that hungry, but in the past that never stopped me from eating. So this time I deliberately chose a smaller meal and then, when Ann ordered dessert, I passed only nibbling on the crust of her cherry pie.
That kind of choosing wasn't too difficult, but in the course of the day there are so many choices we make it's no wonder we just make them hastily and without much forethought.
And another thing I've realized is that what I've really done by resigning my job at the end of the school year is all a matter of perspective. I am choosing to leave. That's one choice, but I'm also choosing to focus my time learning to be a dog trainer and carving out some time to write. Those are two other choices separate from the first.
So really, the choosing to leave is on a different level of magnitude than the other choices because once I'd chosen to leave, I could have chosen a bazillion other things to pursue -- like working in a bookstore or climbing a mountain or taking a job at a restaurant.
I did put a lot of thought (and research) into choosing to be a dog trainer and in actuality, it has been something I've toyed with for years and years. I remembered just the other day a conversation I had with a good teacher-friend who was, at the time, the high school librarian. This was perhaps my sixth year of teaching and I just couldn't picture myself doing it for another 30 years. My friend, Marty said, "What would you like to do if you didn't teach?" Not an earth-shattering question, but I knew at that point that I loved animals and wanted to do something that involved dogs. "Dog training sounds interesting," I said to her and she beamed back, "You'd be perfect at that job!"
That was 15 years ago and it's always been in the back of my mind -- the dog trainer thing -- but what's kept me from it is this weird combination of not believing I could actually do it (like learn how) and not believing I could actually choose it for myself.
Now I have.
Old dog, new tricks.
Now I just have to be patient before the choice can evolve into the thing that it will be. Meanwhile, I go back to work on Monday -- teaching for another 4 months -- and all the while, practicing the art of choosing.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Sunshine
It's been quite a weekend. We took Friday off and headed up to the mountains for a ski with Rubin in tow. (See Rubinations link.) He was tired after that, but then Paul and Patti came up from Oregon on Saturday and we spent a great weekend visiting the public market, eating out, and taking a long walk along the lake in the sunshine.
Yes, sunshine. Like a gift from the gods. Blue skies, too, and fairly warm temperatures. We've needed it. Even Rubin seems a bit more alert.
Yesterday, after Paul and Patti left, we headed to Woodinville for a romp at the dog trainer's ranch. We sat on their new deck and ate smoked chicken and laughed at our silly dogs. Then to Starbucks where the trainers buy everyone a coffee and we mingle with the crowds at the mall. Rubin loves it. He especially loves the walk to the pet store where he got a new ball and treats from the owner.
Oh, and new ski booties. He hates those, but it was entertaining for everyone involved. Like a dog tap dancing.
Today, a long walk with Colleen and Monty at Seward Park while Ann worked in the yard. The sunshine makes you want to work in the yard. Well, it makes Ann want to work.
We're packing now for our ski trip though there is still laundry to be done and a car to clean out before we stuff it full of everything for the trip. Rubin and Ann are asleep in the living room. Not a very inspired blog, but it is the mundaneness of the day, which is just fine with me.
Oh, and the sunshine is spectacular!
Yes, sunshine. Like a gift from the gods. Blue skies, too, and fairly warm temperatures. We've needed it. Even Rubin seems a bit more alert.
Yesterday, after Paul and Patti left, we headed to Woodinville for a romp at the dog trainer's ranch. We sat on their new deck and ate smoked chicken and laughed at our silly dogs. Then to Starbucks where the trainers buy everyone a coffee and we mingle with the crowds at the mall. Rubin loves it. He especially loves the walk to the pet store where he got a new ball and treats from the owner.
Oh, and new ski booties. He hates those, but it was entertaining for everyone involved. Like a dog tap dancing.
Today, a long walk with Colleen and Monty at Seward Park while Ann worked in the yard. The sunshine makes you want to work in the yard. Well, it makes Ann want to work.
We're packing now for our ski trip though there is still laundry to be done and a car to clean out before we stuff it full of everything for the trip. Rubin and Ann are asleep in the living room. Not a very inspired blog, but it is the mundaneness of the day, which is just fine with me.
Oh, and the sunshine is spectacular!
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
1979
I lived in a one bedroom apartment. I lived with a woman whom I was soon to leave. (Actually, she left me for a school back East and I just decided to stay behind.) Next door to our tiny apartment lived a deaf woman who, when starting her car in the morning, revved the engine loudly, unable to hear the ruckus she caused. The bus stopped right outside our front door. All night long, the rumble of the bus up the hill. Even now, I sometimes have dreams about that apartment, about walking up the hill after missing the bus.
The apartment was dismal. Dark, smelly, and sparse I sat on the couch one night all alone, watching the Presidential election returns. I was depressed. The numbers projected Reagan and I was angry. I thought for sure the world was going to come to an end. What an asshole. What an incompetent mumble mouth. What a blow job he was passing off as a personality. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. I sat on that dilapidated old couch and ate stale popcorn uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.
Tomorrow came. Tomorrow went. Then the disappointment of the first Bush. Then the hope (and frustration) of Clinton followed by an even more disappointing Bush the Second.
And now, I sit in the study listening to the TV in the other room as the announcers dissect another election. "Historical" they say, "Monumental" they say, "Stunning" they say. Of course, it's only the primary (Super Tuesday), but the way they sling it, this is the most fascinating stuff on earth!
I want the pollsters to interview me. Call me up, I say, and this is what I'll tell you: I don't care who wins the primary because when it's all said and done, the Democratic candidate has my vote...by default. Obama...sure, I'll vote for him. Clinton...okay, I'll do it. Clinton/Obama I might even get excited, but the bottom line is this -- I will vote for someone other than a Republican. Isn't that how some Republicans feel, too?
Perhaps not. Rush Limbaugh thrust his tripe at McCain clamoring that he was not "conservative" enough. Others have chimed in too and are, in fact, doing it right now as I type. But still, you can't tell me that Republicans, when given the choice between a wimpy conservative and Hillary Clinton won't choose the wimp? You can't tell me that some hardcore right-wing Christians won't vote for the "moderate" McCain over a black man?
My house now is much more pleasant than that dreary apartment. I have a partner I want to spend my life with and dog to match. I have dear, dear friends who I enjoy as much as I can. I haven't lost hope as I thought I had in 1979, but I'm not the foolish optimist I was either. Still, this election stuff can give me an ulcer. Please don't make it McCain. Please not Romney. Please not Huckabee (though think of the fun you could have with that name in a foreign tongue). Get Bush out. Give me someone a bit more sensible. Give me someone a bit more realistic and not so bumbling or bombastic. Give me someone who can say "terrorist" and not sound like their mouth is filled with cheap beer.
Sometimes 1979 doesn't feel that far back. Sometimes I think politics is God's joke (if there is a God) on all of us. Sometimes I see life as a lumpy couch in a miserable one-bedroom apartment.
But most of the time I don't.
Give me a candidate, Democrats. Just give me a candidate. Piss on all this waiting and weighing.
The apartment was dismal. Dark, smelly, and sparse I sat on the couch one night all alone, watching the Presidential election returns. I was depressed. The numbers projected Reagan and I was angry. I thought for sure the world was going to come to an end. What an asshole. What an incompetent mumble mouth. What a blow job he was passing off as a personality. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. I sat on that dilapidated old couch and ate stale popcorn uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.
Tomorrow came. Tomorrow went. Then the disappointment of the first Bush. Then the hope (and frustration) of Clinton followed by an even more disappointing Bush the Second.
And now, I sit in the study listening to the TV in the other room as the announcers dissect another election. "Historical" they say, "Monumental" they say, "Stunning" they say. Of course, it's only the primary (Super Tuesday), but the way they sling it, this is the most fascinating stuff on earth!
I want the pollsters to interview me. Call me up, I say, and this is what I'll tell you: I don't care who wins the primary because when it's all said and done, the Democratic candidate has my vote...by default. Obama...sure, I'll vote for him. Clinton...okay, I'll do it. Clinton/Obama I might even get excited, but the bottom line is this -- I will vote for someone other than a Republican. Isn't that how some Republicans feel, too?
Perhaps not. Rush Limbaugh thrust his tripe at McCain clamoring that he was not "conservative" enough. Others have chimed in too and are, in fact, doing it right now as I type. But still, you can't tell me that Republicans, when given the choice between a wimpy conservative and Hillary Clinton won't choose the wimp? You can't tell me that some hardcore right-wing Christians won't vote for the "moderate" McCain over a black man?
My house now is much more pleasant than that dreary apartment. I have a partner I want to spend my life with and dog to match. I have dear, dear friends who I enjoy as much as I can. I haven't lost hope as I thought I had in 1979, but I'm not the foolish optimist I was either. Still, this election stuff can give me an ulcer. Please don't make it McCain. Please not Romney. Please not Huckabee (though think of the fun you could have with that name in a foreign tongue). Get Bush out. Give me someone a bit more sensible. Give me someone a bit more realistic and not so bumbling or bombastic. Give me someone who can say "terrorist" and not sound like their mouth is filled with cheap beer.
Sometimes 1979 doesn't feel that far back. Sometimes I think politics is God's joke (if there is a God) on all of us. Sometimes I see life as a lumpy couch in a miserable one-bedroom apartment.
But most of the time I don't.
Give me a candidate, Democrats. Just give me a candidate. Piss on all this waiting and weighing.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Funeral Songs
Perhaps it's morbid to think of songs one should play at their funeral, but after this weekend's service for Jim, I've been thinking a lot about the music I might choose to be played when I die.
Jim's choices were perfection. "Cattle Call" with LeeAnn Rimes and Eddie Arnold. How perfect is that? Tom Waits singing "Picture Frame." It doesn't get any better than that.
Of course, it's not what I might choose. On the way home this afternoon, Ann and I tossed around titles. She likes music, too, but her knowledge of what she likes is limited. "What's that song," she begins and I have to squeeze clues from her. "Sing it," I urge, but that doesn't work because she can't just pull tunes out of her memory. "What are some of the lyrics?" I prod, but there are only snippets, one-word clues that offer know real hints. "What's the song about," I finally ask, but she sits quietly, trying to think and nothing is offered.
I have too many songs to choose from. Way too many. I'm certain Jim did, too. How did he decide on the ones that were played? How did he winnow out the songs that weren't suited for such an occasion from the songs that were?
It was a beautiful service, if that's what funerals can be considered. Not just the music, but everything. The setting, Kay's eulogy, the words of reflection -- and especially my mother's reading of her own special memory of Jim. I cried a lot yesterday, but I really cried when my mother stood up to recount her story.
It's not dying that is sad. Yes, dying is sad, but the wake of grief it leaves behind is the saddest. That Kay was able to offer such a perfect eulogy for her husband was one way she expressed her grief. It was eloquent, it was poignant, it was full of love and laughter with tidbits of memory sprinkled throughout.
My father cried. I saw the tears drop from under his eye patch. I couldn't watch for too long because his tears fueled my own. My mother cried, too, though not when she read her remembrance. She stood right by me as she read and when she moved, her leg brushed my shoulder as I sat listening and crying. I hope she felt my love for her that moment.
The wake Jim left behind, the wake of tears and sadness is wide. He was loved. If anything seemed apparent yesterday it was how much love surrounded his life.
I feel lucky to be one of the many who was able to love him.
And be loved in return.
I always knew I was lucky, but as we left the fellowship with Leonard Cohen (not really) singing but "poeting" (if there is such a word) I realized how Jim's service was a big thank you card to all of those who had touched his life.
I'm not sure I'll be lucky enough to plan my own service. I could start now, but there's this sense that my life will change before it ends and what I might choose now as a song or a poem or a verse may not be the kind of thank you card I'd want to send then whenever that then happens.
Jim's death was tragic in the sense that it came too soon and at the hand of a poison he could not control. But Jim's death, or the memory of his life shared yesterday, was one of most beautiful arias I've ever heard, music included.
That's the kind of man Jim was. Of course he'd leave behind the lingering notes of a beautiful song. Of course he would.
Jim's choices were perfection. "Cattle Call" with LeeAnn Rimes and Eddie Arnold. How perfect is that? Tom Waits singing "Picture Frame." It doesn't get any better than that.
Of course, it's not what I might choose. On the way home this afternoon, Ann and I tossed around titles. She likes music, too, but her knowledge of what she likes is limited. "What's that song," she begins and I have to squeeze clues from her. "Sing it," I urge, but that doesn't work because she can't just pull tunes out of her memory. "What are some of the lyrics?" I prod, but there are only snippets, one-word clues that offer know real hints. "What's the song about," I finally ask, but she sits quietly, trying to think and nothing is offered.
I have too many songs to choose from. Way too many. I'm certain Jim did, too. How did he decide on the ones that were played? How did he winnow out the songs that weren't suited for such an occasion from the songs that were?
It was a beautiful service, if that's what funerals can be considered. Not just the music, but everything. The setting, Kay's eulogy, the words of reflection -- and especially my mother's reading of her own special memory of Jim. I cried a lot yesterday, but I really cried when my mother stood up to recount her story.
It's not dying that is sad. Yes, dying is sad, but the wake of grief it leaves behind is the saddest. That Kay was able to offer such a perfect eulogy for her husband was one way she expressed her grief. It was eloquent, it was poignant, it was full of love and laughter with tidbits of memory sprinkled throughout.
My father cried. I saw the tears drop from under his eye patch. I couldn't watch for too long because his tears fueled my own. My mother cried, too, though not when she read her remembrance. She stood right by me as she read and when she moved, her leg brushed my shoulder as I sat listening and crying. I hope she felt my love for her that moment.
The wake Jim left behind, the wake of tears and sadness is wide. He was loved. If anything seemed apparent yesterday it was how much love surrounded his life.
I feel lucky to be one of the many who was able to love him.
And be loved in return.
I always knew I was lucky, but as we left the fellowship with Leonard Cohen (not really) singing but "poeting" (if there is such a word) I realized how Jim's service was a big thank you card to all of those who had touched his life.
I'm not sure I'll be lucky enough to plan my own service. I could start now, but there's this sense that my life will change before it ends and what I might choose now as a song or a poem or a verse may not be the kind of thank you card I'd want to send then whenever that then happens.
Jim's death was tragic in the sense that it came too soon and at the hand of a poison he could not control. But Jim's death, or the memory of his life shared yesterday, was one of most beautiful arias I've ever heard, music included.
That's the kind of man Jim was. Of course he'd leave behind the lingering notes of a beautiful song. Of course he would.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)