Yopping Update #11 - 24 and done

Look what's done!

Now to decide how to display them - I might knit the Alan Dart Advent tree.  Stay tuned.

I then picked up my fisherwoman's sweater and have knit about three more inches.

This has been a sad week.  On the way home from the little island on Tuesday afternoon I received the message that my friend had died at noon.  Wednesday my husband and I drove up to his house for the wake and sat with his family for a few hours.  The funeral was yesterday.  I have so many memories of him from the eleven years we have been friends.  It poured with rain yesterday, and today looks no different.  It seems more than appropriate.

This morning I am going to visit a dear friend who is in the midst of chemo treatment.  She wants me to help her knit a shawl so I have gathered some needles and wool for the pattern she has chosen along with a  project bag.

My daughter has been sending me many pictures of my grand-daughter to help ease my sadness this week.  Here is my favourite.

I will end this week with a poem my sister sent me.  It is by Billy Collins.  I read it to my friend as I sat by his body on Wednesday.  I have read it many times over the last few days.  It helps to think of his journey this way.

Directions

You know the brick path in back of the house, 

the one you see from the kitchen window, 

the one that bends around the far end of the garden

where all the yellow primroses are?

And you know how if you leave the path 

and walk up into the woods you come

to a heap of rocks, probably pushed

down during the horrors of the Ice Age, 

and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now

against the light-brown fallen leaves?

And farther on, you know

the small footbridge with the broken railing

and if you go beyond that you arrive

at the bottom of that sheep's head hill?

Well, if you start climbing, and you 

might have to grab hold of a sapling

when the going gets steep, 

you will eventually come to a long stone

ridge with a border of pine trees

which is as high as you can go

and a good enough place to stop. 

The best time is late afternoon

when the sun strobes through 

the columns of trees as you are hiking up, 

and when you find an agreeable rock

to sit on, you will be able to see

the light pouring down into the woods

and breaking into the shapes and tones

of things and you will hear nothing

but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy 

falling of a cone or nut through the trees, 

and if this is your day you might even

spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese

driving overhead toward some destination. 

But it is hard to speak of these things

how the voices of light enter the body

and begin to recite their stories

how the earth holds us painfully against 

its breast made of humus and brambles

how we who will soon be gone regard

the entities that continue to return

greener than ever, spring water flowing

through a meadow and the shadows of clouds

passing over the hills and the ground

where we stand in the tremble of thought

taking the vast outside into ourselves. 

Still, let me know before you set out. 

Come knock on my door

and I will walk with you as far as the garden 

with one hand on your shoulder.

I will even watch after you and not turn back

to the house until you disappear

into the crowd of maple and ash, 

heading up toward the hill, 

piercing the ground with your stick.

Billy Collins

Death is here

Death is in this room
The candle is flickering
The air cool
It is quiet

Death is in this room
A sunflower turns its face
The cat looks expectantly
A frog sings from the log pile

Death is in this room
Memories arise
Some laughter
and tears

Death is in this room
A hug, a few words
A touch, a primal sob
Mostly it is silent

Death is in this room
Not fear
Not emptiness
Not nothing

Death is in this room
You are not
You are heading home
We are not

Written for Arnold Grimm on his passing, September 10, 2019

Saint Martin

A wonderful man died last Wednesday night.  The father of a dear friend. 

Yesterday my husband and I went out to the wake.  I have never been to a wake.  I was a little nervous, but honoured to be invited all the same. 

When we arrived it was a glorious autumn day.  The sun was shining, the fall leaves scattered under our feet. 

As I entered the room where he lay I was struck by the beauty and serenity of his face.  The room was lit with candles, chairs had been placed around where he lay, and he was covered in a beautiful pale yellow cloth, his hands enfolded around a pale pink blossom.

His wife and I sat together, in that  room, with that wonderful man.  I swear I could see him move - as if he were still breathing and at any moment he would open his eyes and they would twinkle, and he would smile. 

At our school he would dress as Saint Nicholas, once a year, with his wife playing the part of his naughty page  Peter, and they would enter each classroom with cookies and oranges.  She would play tricks on the children and he would pronounce naughty and nice deeds from the golden book. 

He also played King Balthazar in the school's Three Kings Play - about the magi visiting the newborn baby Jesus.  King Balthazar was the older, wiser king who brought the frankencense.

To me he will always be Saint Nicholas and King Balthazar.  He was a great man.  A saint and a king. 

Later in the day some other friends joined us in the room, and one played the lyre and we sang Martinmas songs for him. 

Then his daughter brought some music she wanted her friends to learned for the funeral and we practiced our harmonies and I am certain he approved of our efforts. 

I have just returned home from his funeral.  There was some laughter, and there was music and I know he is at peace leaving us all the better for having known him. 

The next days and weeks and months and years will not be easy for his wife and children and grandchildren - but I know that these past three days were so peaceful and ensouled and those words, and songs, and companionship will carry them through the difficult days ahead. 

Rest in Peace, Dear Martin.  Rest in Peace. 

All Soul's Day

So far so good.  Day two and I am still editing my novel and blogging.

Before I share a small excerpt from chapter two of my novel, which is about All Soul's Day I have to tell you about a delightful moment in Grade Seven this morning.

One of the students is a boy from Korea.  He came up to me this morning before class and asked me if I knew the song 'Moon River'.

Well of course I did!  I remember the Andy Williams show and his rendition of the song, and I told him so.

"I can play it on the ukelele,"  he announced.

"Really?" I asked, "Do you have your ukelele here?"

Well, he did and at recess time he was at my desk, music book and ukelele in hand.

I figured he would strum the chords, but no, he picked out the melody and I began singing along.

It was so lovely.

Then he turned to another page and started to play a lullaby.

I recognized it as 'Edelweiss' from The Sound of Music and so I sang along to that and told him it came from the movie.

"Oh," he says, "I have another song I can play from The Sound of Music," and he turns the page and starts playing Doe a Deer a female deer.... so of course I sang along.

That's it.  Five minutes of pure delight with a ukelele, a student and a teacher.

He smiled broadly as he left my desk, and headed out for recess.

That moment has made me feel good all day. 

Thirteen year olds - they can surprise you!



and now for the excerpt in an entirely different mood:

Lost. 

That is such a stupid euphemism for death.  It reminded her of that line of Lady Bracknell’s from The Importance of Being Earnest. 

 ‘To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.’

She still could hear the high-pitched, proper English accented voice of a grade eight student uttering that line in a school play a few years before.  It was hilarious at the time, especially when one knew the reticence of the student playing that part.

But she hadn’t ‘lost’ her parents.  She hadn’t been careless.  One had been taken by cancer, the other through illness.  She hadn’t ‘lost’ her aunt.  Alzheimer’s had stolen her away.  Her actual death was merely a date on the calendar.  She had been ‘lost’ for some time. 

People are not going to ‘lose’ her, because perhaps they never really 'had’ her to begin with. 

The faces of grief

I know eight parents whose children have died before their time.
Nine if I count my grandmother
Whose son died far too early
And I was too young to know how truly young a forty nine year old is

I know two mothers each of whom had a  daughter die
Days before she was to be born
Years ago, and yet their private grief is etched into their hearts

I have seen wives lose husbands, and heard the grief in their voice as they mention his name.

I have seen a father so torn with grief over the loss of a daughter that he can only bury his head in this hands unable to look up for what must seem like interminable hours.

I have seen the face of a friend wrapped in a towel  The resolute look on that beautiful face.  The selfie of a brave face etched with grief from the loss of her breast.

I have seen my own grief in a mirror's reflection
My face distorted
The ugliness of my tears so vivid that I can only stare at the visual representation of a breaking and broken heart.

I have heard the wailing of my grief, my voice unrecognizable.

I have held others as they wailed, giving voice to the unthinkable. 

And yet.

And yet there are those still moments of laughter, of carrying on, of, what?

Forgetting?

Compartmentalizing?

Numbness?

Healing? 

Those moments when memories can flood in from a time when we were full of hope and innocence.

Before the world was lost and too real. 

Before death had the final say. 

As I walk past strangers I see grief etched on every face.

Except the faces of the very young. 

And it is those faces that make me brave enough to carry on and to know that what my mother said to me all those times over all those years is true.

This too shall pass.

All Souls' Day

All Souls' Day. The day, they say, that the veil is thinnest between the living and the dead. The day to remember loved ones who have passed.

The thing about getting older is that more and more names are added to the list of those to remember.

More and more loss.

My father and mother, all my aunts and uncles. Yes, I am of the flagship generation now.

It is a little scary. I feel orphaned.

There is the Mexican celebration: Dia des los Muertos. Part of this tradition, I learned recently, is milagros. Milagros are small charms that represent different miracles. If you have prayed for a child, the milagro may be a baby, if you prayed for a new home, the milagro would be a house, if you have prayed for love, the milagro may be a heart.

There have been miracles in my life and in the life of those close to me. There have been healings of heart and body and mind. There have been lost things found - possessions and relationships. There have been contests won, and apologies accepted.

Miracles are everywhere if we just look.

Everywhere.

So today I will think of my mother and father, my grandmother and aunt, my uncle and his wife, my husband's parents, my friend.

Today I will think of the two young men who left us far too soon. One through accident, and one through suicide.

Yes, today is a day to remember those lost, and, if possible, to strive for reconciliation if necessary. To remember the lighter moments, the lovely moments, the moments of grace.

If there is a milagro for that, for lovely moments, I wonder what shape it would take.

I didn't have to wonder very long.

5KCBWDAY5 - Poetic reflections of a Spring Morning

The challenge today was to write in a different way than I usually blog. I have written poetry before, but never rhyming poetry. This poem is a reflection the day after attending a Death Cafe.

Reflections on a Spring Morning

I look across the yard of green
hearing the songs of birds unseen.
The city begins to thrum to life
A myriad of stories, loss and strife.

The morning quiet gives me pause
To reflect on life and social laws.
To wish with hope as I draw a breath
for healing, and time before my death.

Time for laughter, peace and tears,
Time for comforting and allaying fears,
Time for birdsongs and campfires bright,
Time for moonrises and stars in the night.

Morning surrounded by towering trees
Feeling blessed by a god that sees.
For all my failings that haunt my sleep
Stillness and grace in my soul will creep.

September 1

You have been on my mind all day.
I haven't told anyone that all day. I don't know why I keep this day to myself.
I just do.

I felt bad to realize that I always remember this day, but not the day my mother died.
Perhaps it is because you were my first great loss.
There have been many since, but today still reminds me of a seventeen year old girl alone in her basement bedroom woken up by the news that you were gone.
The walk up those stairs that morning seemed long and foreboding.

Like with all deaths, things are never again the same.
It has been 40 years.
So today is for you.

Because it is September 1, and because I love you.

William Donald Burton
January 15, 1924 - September 1, 1973
My Dad.

I dreamt I was dying

It was an awful, vivid dream. I was at emergency. They told me I was dying. They sent me home. I had so much to do. So many loose ends to tie up. It was so real. Tied to the fact the I have a cold and was having trouble breathing in my sleep, and the fact that I was sleeping and couldn't wake up, it felt, physically, like I was dying.

When I woke up it took me quite a few minutes to realize it had been a dream and that I wasn't, in fact, dying.

But I am. We all are. We are all dying. Maybe it is not today, or tomorrow, or in four months. But it is a fact.

So why do we wait for the big wake-up call? If there are things to do, or say, or plan, or organize, shouldn't we get on it? Shouldn't I get on it?

I dreamt of planning to try alternate therapies. I dreamt of steeling myself for chemo. I dreamt of what I wanted to say to my children, my husband, my sister. How would I say good-bye? How do you say good-bye?

I was afraid. I didn't want to die. I wanted someone to do something to help me.

I woke up (or maybe I was still dreaming), thinking of my dear friend who died two years ago - in her own bed, with a friend by her side. A friend,one of many, who had kept vigil over her as she lived those last few weeks of life. She had made sure everything was organized and taken care of before she died. She tied up all those loose ends. I admire her for that. That and her huge heart and big smile.

Most days I don't think about dying. I imagine I have forever. Or at least a good 50 years.

But today, I am thinking about dying. My death. The death of others close to me.

It must be Fall. It has finally come and while I am admiring its beauty I must also herald its message. Winter is coming. I should prepare for it.

What did you do today?

What did I do today? I woke up, had coffee, did the dishes, studied my french lessons, sorted knitting patterns, went to a yoga class, read on the back porch in the late autumn sun, talked to my daughter on the phone. That is the stuff I did today.

What did I really do today? I took deep breaths. I sent prayers out to those that need them. I thought about my children, all my sisters and both my brothers, and my nephews and nieces. I thought about my Uncle who died earlier this year. I saw a picture of a dear friend when she was 16 and I thought about how much time has passed since that day in her backyard. I am glad we are still friends.

I thought about the ages of those I love and I can't imagine my life without them. And yet, I already live every day without those I love that have already passed onto the next adventure.

As I lay in meditation on my yoga mat I thought about how long I have to live. I am thinking 100 years old, aiming for 105.

That sounds about right. That gives me about 48 years to do something important.

What will I do tomorrow?
Breathe.
And go to a play of Saint Michael and the Dragon. We all have a dragon (or two) to tame, don't we? Some real, some imaginary. I am going to tackle the imaginary ones first.

Yes, that is now on my to-do list for tomorrow. I hope Saint Michael is somewhere nearby. I might be needing him.

Birth and Death

Today I received an email informing me that a student of mine from 8 years ago had died. In a crosswalk. He was 22.

Within 30 minutes I received a phone call from a midwife inviting me to a blessing ceremony for a friend who is due to deliver her first child in August.

30 minutes. Death and Birth.

And so it goes this circle of life. Illness, healing, sadness, comfort, tears, laughter, silence, reconciliation, rain, sun, good news and then not so much. And so it goes.

I have been ok through it all. Just ok. Kind of flat, actually, but that could be protection because, well, it has been that kind of month.

I am glad I have my faith through it all. I am glad that I can light a candle while someone is in surgery, or listen to that voice that tells me to make a phone call. I am glad that I believe there are angels everywhere and they are helping us through it all one step at a time. One breath at a time. One death at a time.

We reach out. We cry. We don't know what to say, but we try to speak anyways.

This is what it is to be human.

This has been a very human day.

I am glad that I am here - for them, for myself, for it all.

There is a design more perfect than human mind.

I have to believe that. If I didn't it just wouldn't make any sense.

A life too short

On Sunday I will be attending a benefit concert in memory of Wallace Leung. He was my son's violin teacher for 7 years. 7 years.

Wallace was cool. He was a gifted conductor and teacher. He loved soccer. He loved AC/DC. He didn't fit the picture one usually has of a 'classical' musician. My son and he had an incredible bond that went beyond teacher-student. I think if Wallace was still alive he and my son would have been good friends as adults.

Wallace taught at the school I now teach at, and the school my son attended from pre-school until Grade 11. I still remember the day I was walking down the hall, and Wallace was walking towards me. He was a handsome man. A sharp dresser. I was about to speak to him about my son's dedication to his violin and his practising. Something I felt was unusual for a 10 year old boy. Before I had the chance Wallace asked if he could take my son on as a private student. And so it began.

We would drive over to Kitsalano weekly to Wallace's apartment. I would sit and mark papers, or read, or just listen to their lesson. It was so lovely. So poignant in hindsight. Their relationship was so true.

Then Wallace moved to a very funky apartment in the old part of the West-end. Sometimes I would drop my son off and go walk on the beach, but mostly I sat in the dining room and listened. Wallace would often tease my son that he needing to stop tapping his toe while he played. Wallace would comment that perhaps my son should be a fiddler. Little did he know. Little did he know.

My son entered a few concerto competitions under Wallace's tutelage. My son played in the youth orchestra where Wallace was the Musical Director. The violin and classical music were a huge part of my son's life. Wallace got him a partial scholarship to attend a classical music camp. That was the beginning of the end.

Something profound happened to my son at that camp that August. He wouldn't talk about it. His drive for the violin had shifted. As a mother I knew something was wrong. So, I phoned Wallace.

Wallace was getting busier and busier. His conducting career was taking off. He was becoming well known in Europe. Kyle was meeting with him once a month, or so, for lessons.

After our phone conversation Wallace asked me to bring Kyle over to his apartment so they could talk.
And they did. A young 16 year old man, and his mentor, a young 33 year old man. And they made plans. Plans for Wallace to stick by him, and support him, in whatever musical direction my son chose. "You can do anything" Wallace told him. "You can go anywhere in the music world, and I will help you get there." My son had been wounded at that music camp, but with Wallace could have started to heal.

After their talk, Wallace asked if we could drive him somewhere - he had an appointment. We did. I let him off at a corner, at a red-light. He was heading to New York to spend Christmas with his fiance's family.

It was the last time either of us saw him.

On the plane to New York he became ill. He thought it was a bad cold. He ended up in a New York hospital. He went into a coma. He died a month later of viral meningitis. It was over.

My son and I attended his funeral, and the reception afterwards. We had never met the young woman that Wallace was engaged to. She was an opera singer.

At the reception, my son, my 16 year old son, went up to her, to share his grief, to acknowledge hers. He said "This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He and I had plans". She said, "I know, he and I had plans, too." And they both wept. And I wept, as I am weeping now. A life too short.

My son has remained in contact with her over the past 10 years. There is a benefit concert on Sunday. My son had composed a piece of music for Wallace that was released on my son's last album. He had sent it to her. She asked that it be played at the benefit concert. My son would not do that for just anyone, but he will do it for her, and for Wallace.

And I will be there. I will bring kleenex. Even after 10 years the tears still flow for all the things that died, all the plans that stopped, all the possibilites that ended that fateful day in January 2002.

Good-byes

I don't think our culture is very good at saying good-bye. Not the simple good-byes from one meeting to the next, or the harder good-byes when the end is final. I also don't think we are very good at good-byes when someone we have worked with for a few months, or for many, many years leaves their career, or their place of employment.

When my husband was retiring after 28 years with a company the company sent him an email and told him to purchase himself a gift for $700.00 and submit the receipt to them.

Of course, this same company, on his 25th work anniversary, sent him a catalogue and told him he could pick any gift on certain pages, and if he wanted it inscribed he could choose what the inscription read. Personal, eh?

Until I was in my 30s the only funeral I had ever attended was my father's. I have no memory of it. I have limited memories of the reception at our house after the funeral. I left for an island right after the funeral. My mother thought it better to get me away from it all. I never got to go to the hospital to say good-bye to my father. There is no blame in this statement. My mother made this decision for her and my father's reasons. I didn't agree with their wishes, but this was not for me to comment on. It was not my decision. I was seventeen.

When my mother was dying I tried to have a conversation with her about her death. I tried to say good-bye. It didn't work. She didn't want to go there, and I didn't want to force the issue. I still remember the last time I saw her. She was sitting on the porch of the care facility. She was sitting in a chair, having a cigarette. She looked so tiny, so frail. I think I knew as I drove away that this would be our last good-bye. I didn't do it very well.

My mother had raised me to know that 'she didn't do funerals'. For years I recited the same mantra. Then a 10 year old girl at our school died. I decided that I did 'do' funerals. They are important - they help us support the survivors, they help us cry and acknowledge our grief. They give us comfort. They acknowledge a life - whether it is only a few months, or many decades. Since that funeral I have been to many others: a friend's tiny baby, my son's violin teacher, my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, a son of a colleague, a teacher at my children's school,a mother in our school community, a friend from La Leche League, my aunt's, my husband's cousin, and my friend's son.

I am still not good at saying good-bye, but I find such comfort in these gatherings. I wish there had been a funeral for my mother. I wish I had been more 'awake' to my father's funeral. I wish saying good-bye wasn't so hard.

I do believe these good-byes are only temporary, but still they seem so permanent. All of these funerals remind me that a time will come when I might attend the funeral of a sibling. Funerals remind me that I may attend the funeral of my husband of 35 years. God willing I will not have to do what my grandmother did and attend the funeral of one of my children.

These are difficult thoughts. But, I think this is why saying good-bye is hard. Because there are some people in our lives we literally can't bear to have to say good-bye to.

So airport good-byes, collegial good-byes, holiday good-byes, daily good-byes are hard. Because we never know when those simple daily good-byes become permanent. We just never know.