December
9, 2019
Greetings from
the next chapter,
It turns out, that our story does not end. We release it to others, and they continue to
write it. It is a complex authorship,
but one that has survived for all of human existence. The reason I’m writing this morning is to
remind us of our part in that, and how it perhaps tempers a pain we all share.
One thing every one of us has in common is that we all know someone
who has died. The other thing we all have in common is grief, which, it turns
out, none of us have in common. Each of us
has the stories we have been given, and we begin to tell them and add to them
and struggle with them, and that is an experience so unique it defies a label
to share.
Just about a year ago my Mom celebrated her last birthday. Truth is, ‘celebrate’ was not what anyone
watching would have used to describe it. But those of us with her and reaching out to
her, knew better.
Less than a week later, there was no chance for any more
birthdays. In the five days between one
date and another, we held our breath and let it out and so did she. Until the moment we kept doing that and she
did not. What we were left with from
that date to this, is some version of grief.
Here I will pause and let some of you off this bus. I will tell all of you, including those who
stay, that there are no answers here about loss of a loved one, or about
grieving. We have only one path to the
answers, and while we may hold hands with others, it is our mystery to solve. I can only share from my perspective, and that
has images from my role as a writer.
Grief has been described as pain, as fear, as prickly, as a burden, as
a curse, as the price we pay for loving.
It’s all those things and more, some darker some lighter. A few brave souls have mingled joy and privilege
with the word grief, and in there somewhere is the hope. What I’m shown in this is the vast spectrum
of experience we have as humans as we face the loss, the last story we hear
from people we love.
Grief is a tattoo that our loved ones imprint upon us. In the first moments the pain is quick and
sharp, and then there is the ache, and perhaps, each in our own time, there is
simply the shape and color they left on us.
Time passes and we surround the sadness with the joy still around us,
the possibilities that exist because we are still here, carving out our lives. We are creating history, making life for us
and the others who are still here. In
doing that, in taking part, I extend my Mom’s story. My life, and those I touch with the same
senses she touched me, extends Barbara Mae’s influence in the world.
In spite of the complicated way she had to leave this world, there was
peace. It was too soon, it was too hard,
no one wanted her days to end, but the way she started her next chapter was
serene and calm and written perfectly, long before us, long before time. I want you to know that before I paint this
next image.
My Mom tore the pages from her book, rent them from the binding, and
there was pain in that. She gave us
these parts of her life, these loose bits of pressed pulp and ink, and said “I
can’t write anymore, I need you to keep these, and when you can, add to them.” We press them between our own pages and each
time we open the book it falls to that place we keep her life.
When we celebrated my Mom a year ago, we told her stories. That was how we began to accept the grief,
these pages of her that became pages of us. Back then, I wrote to you all, tried to tell
you about Mom. Her struggles, the
laughter, the great tales she told, the love she spread through her family
friends, and I knew before I wrote the first words that it would fail to give
all I wanted of our mother, our grandmother, wife, friend.
‘For nearly
nine decades Barbara Mae wove her story in with ours. And then she left it with us to tell. The poet Margaret Atwood once said, “In the
end we’ll all become stories.”
It is a legacy
as old as humanity. We tell the
stories. As long as the stories are
told, we are remembered, and we remain in the lives of those who tell them. It will be how we honor Mom, and how we carry
her with us after this day, and every day until we are together again.’
With the perspective of these twelve months, the truth in those words
has risen. I have seen it in my brother
and sisters, and in me, and in the people who knew our Mom. I like the idea of mingling the words from
her life with the words of mine, which will create a story she will be proud
of.
The other thing she would love is knowing that you see the purpose and
meaning in the pain, the grief. You see
that the pages have to be torn to be given to you. Every mark, every smudge, every letter on the
page is part of the life we cherish.
Even the jagged edges that show their last gift, where they separated from
us, and left us with their legacy, is a treasure.
Hope
this finds you scribbling in the margins,
David
Copyright
© 2019 David Smith
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