• About
  • Z-Blog Award
  • My Life with an Enigma
  • Index – My Life with an Enigma
  • Photography
  • Everything else
  • Uncategorized

Rangewriter

~ What Comes Next?

Rangewriter

Tag Archives: mourning

Gallery

The cruelest thief

04 Sunday Aug 2019

Posted by rangewriter in Everything else

≈ 25 Comments

Tags

death, grief, mourning, tragedy

This gallery contains 3 photos.

She glides out the door, brown hair momentarily suspended in her wake. Quick glance backward. The hair swings over her …

Continue reading →

Lessons on a life well lived.

01 Sunday Aug 2010

Posted by rangewriter in Everything else

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

death, dying, grieving, loss, mourning

I have ignored this blog for the past few weeks. It’s not that I haven’t lived. It’s not that I haven’t had things to think about. It is more that life and technology have come between me and my blog. First there was a death, for which I was present and greatly moved. Then, there was my own selfish and solitary adventure, during which, technology failed me completely. Then there was the memorial event for the deceased. And now there are a few moments for me to summon everything, all of the events of the past month, or perhaps for the past four years, in an to attempt to make sense of it all.

At this point, I must caution any followers—especially SJH— you may not be ready to read what follows. Last month, before technology gremlins made off with the data on my computer, I had begun to process my presence at the passing. Those thoughts, born in the moments of sheer terror and loss, have vanished into some cyber-space void. Now, the more recent memorial celebration inhabits my heart.

I had come to terms with the end of Tom. He had fought an extraordinary battle against cancer for over two years. Inwardly, I viewed his passing as a blessing for him and for everyone who loved him and grieved for the misery that had swallowed him. I assumed that I would sail through the hyped-up, emotion-squeezing formality of his memorial service with the dry-eyed aloofness that I am known for. After all, I’d only known the man for a few years and our relationship was filtered through the families that had brought us together.

Arriving at the Cathedral early, close family milled about, bouncing off one another’s raw emotions. I picked up a program and glanced at the familiar color image of Tom, piloting his fishing boat, cell phone to ear, intense blue eyes framed by the bill of his iconic KatMan Derby – Bush Point 2000 fishing hat. I opened the program and noted the image of the gardenia that had opened during the final few hours of Tom’s life. A Prayer of Faith, author anonymous, formed the image of a vase below the photo of the gardenia.

I scanned the contents the facing page and noted who would speak during the service. Then I flipped the program to the back, expecting a blank page. Instead, an arresting, full-color image of Tom as he is best to be remembered—a relaxed pose on a sun-dappled golf course, one hand on his hip, the other resting nonchalantly on a club, head cocked toward the camera with a grin of utter satisfaction and joy— jumped off the page.

My heart exploded without warning. Some emotion that I was completely unaware of boiled up and sent convulsing shudders to my chest and tears leaped from my eyes. I had to walk outside the building and down the street to allow this unexpected grief to run its course. It felt like all the unshed tears of an adult lifetime were gathering force to suck me under the current. Where did all this come from? I’m still bewildered. Was this unspent grief from my mother’s death? My divorced-husband’s death? My horse’s death? My cat’s death? My continuing life—the unfairness of such a life-force cut so short? Mortality in general? Commiserate misery for Tom’s fiancée, now widow? The moment passed. Most of my composure returned. I returned, warily, to the cathedral, to all the heart-wrenching events that followed.

Still, I’m left with the puzzle about what it all means. Rachel Naomi Remen talks about life on the edge and what the dying teach us, the living. She asks, “What if we are exactly what is needed to heal the world?” Her point is that, as we trudge through our daily lives, perhaps we expend far too much energy in the pursuit of perfection. We work to achieve wisdom, wealth, and success. But, the view at the edge of life is pinpointed to something more crucial than all those strivings toward perfection. Remen suspects that perfection may be the booby prize of life. Perfection is isolating; it is impossible to achieve. And in the final analysis, we are never loved for our perfections, but for our humanity, our ability to reach out and touch others with our lives.Our very imperfections become the link to those who remain. Reports of our imperfections and vulnerabilities illicit loving laughter and recognition that overwrite our formal achievments. The real story is the wisdom to live well.

Of those people who have departed from my physical world, the ones whose vitality lives on through me are those who lived life to its fullest; those who challenged themselves every day to extract the most out of life; those who faced challenges, not with resentment and pity but with vitality and courage, are the ones who hover somewhere above me, coaxing me, accompanying me through my own trivial rough spots. Those are the people whose stories continue through the ages, passed from one mouth to the next, from one generation to the next, living on through wisdom and love.

And perhaps the greatest lesson we can take away is that answers, like perfection, are superfluous. What if there are no answers? What if life is simply about living? We will always have questions. Each answer leads to yet another question. This pattern has shadowed mankind throughout recorded history. Perhaps questions are as important to life as stories are. Perhaps we need to be comforted by the inevitable presence of questions. We do not know what comes next or why we are who we are. We simply are and it is up to each of us to make the most of our time here and to live in the very imperfect now of this moment.

← Older posts

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 4,607 other followers

That's me!

Some of my favorite Blogs

  • Alles ist gut Great opportunity to practice reading German while enjoying photos, recipes, and adventure essays from across the pond.
  • Catterel Catherine’s blog is as esoteric as mine, filled with poetry, photos, and general ruminations.
  • Cinemuse Some of the best film reviews I’ve read. My go-to site when considering my entertainment options.
  • Denise Bush Photography Fine arts photography with a deep connection to the landscape
  • Explorumentary A sublime melding of the eye of a scientist with the visual and verbal poetry of an artist. Sue shares her hikes into some of the most remote regions of our glorious country.
  • In Flow Creativity is what this one is all about. Great photography, tips, and inspiration.
  • Jane's Heartsong Your heart will sing right along with Jane’s when you see how she captures the essence of life in the world outside her door.
  • Licht Years: Where are you going, where have you been? “Nirvana is this moment seen directly.” Susan Licht offers us nirvana in each of her lovely images. She excels at taking advantage of existing light to see into everyday objects. And how very fitting that her last name means “light.”
  • Musings of an old fart Independent and scrupulously-researched perspectives on current events
  • Renee Johnson Writes: There is no going back behind a dark curtain of self-doubt. Following her dreams, writing, honing her craft, and engaging with other writers.
  • Zeebra Designs & Destinations An artist’s eyes never rests, nor does Z. Living here and there, writing, teaching, beautifying and spreading joy where ever she goes.

I’ve been Freshly Pressed!

All that jabber -archive

Flickr Photos

IMG_2096IMG_2093IMG_2095IMG_2091IMG_2089
More Photos

Into War With an Empty Gun

Available now!

Available Now!

Available at Amazon.com

Available now!

Goodreads

Blog at WordPress.com.