Let children walk with Nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life.
~ John Muir
Somehow this bee seemed the right photo for this post. I’ve been spending some time in a similar posture, feeling this grief deep in my gut, curled over upon myself.
Too, I feel like bowing in gratitude for the gift of my grandfather’s long life and his powerful, joyful, meaningful presence in my own. I’m so grateful that I got to be there with him even at the end. I like to think his peaceful passing was in part due to the room being filled up with his children, grandchildren, and friends.
So much love in one room.
Grief, too, of course.
What a strange water I navigate across now! I almost wish our culture still mandated mourning clothes, still recognized a proscribed dress code, so that when I am a little odd, when my social mask goes missing, when I cannot do the polite public face at all, cannot pull it out of me for even two minutes’ interaction with a stranger, people would say to themselves, “Oh, well, it’s normal, she’s in mourning,” instead of maybe questioning what else might be wrong, whether I’m a cuckoo anti-social walking around their town, or whether they, themselves, have made a misstep.
So far, it’s peaks and valleys, like everything else. My Uncle Michael nodded sagely and whispered that in my ear yesterday, when I tried to describe for him how I was “holding up” through the process. I guess I’m not surprised. The very structure of the universe seems to be these waves, and here I am experiencing them again.
Sometimes I even forget for a moment. The night before the funeral, I cut my right thumb and palm, badly, on broken glass (yet another reason blog posts may be scarce for a bit). I’ve avoided touching the wound as much as I possibly can — but then I’ll just forget, and do something to make myself cry out from the pain. This morning I grabbed the broom to sweep the kitchen floor, a perfectly normal activity, and nearly bit through my own lip on the first stroke, as the deep cut reopened itself from the pressure.
I think it’s something like that. It’s just normal to forget. It seems Granddaddy must still be here because, well, my definition of “world” includes him in it, and so that is the default setting I revert to.
And then I remember.
I’ve been putting off writing this post partly because it makes it seem so real to put it here, in black and white — and partly because I really don’t know what to say yet. Sometimes it feels like I’m floating, or in a dream, moments from awakening. How could I possibly write a coherent post from within this strange, otherworldly place? (I’m most likely not. Oh, well.)
Yet surely I must share the news properly, not just as a small update within the last post. That note doesn’t show up in RSS feeds or Google Reader, and I’ve gotten several e-mails now, wondering what happened, asking how I am.
Well, this is what happened: Granddaddy passed away on Sunday night. I think his death was as “stingless” as a human death may be.
As to how I am, just typing that last sentence makes me go all hollow inside. (Maybe the stinger got lodged in my heart instead?)
Nature and the garden, as always, are solace. The tough part is that the last communication my grandfather and I had together was about my garden, and so much of our time together over the years revolved around our mutual love of Nature, of growing things, revolved around our joy in helping to birth food from the Earth — and all the attendant trials of the process. He used to say, with his characteristic, barely-there, mischievous wisp of a smile, that it was a relief at least one of his grandchildren was a farmer by nature. I was so glad — and so fortunate — to be that one.
So my great solace also now contains a thousand references to my great sorrow.
The plants now hold flowers, fruit… and memories.
Namasté, y’all.
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