death &mdash; The Lantern Room https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tag:death Clouded brilliance refracted through this human's heart. Tue, 18 Aug 2026 12:01:12 +0000 3000 Miles of Tears https://lanternroom.writeas.com/3000-miles-of-tears?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell !--more-- You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country. He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice. I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited. In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror. My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic. As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect. That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded. So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can. --- My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain. When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way. But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week. A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four. There and back. Turn and burn. --- His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing. When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone. Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for. SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing. Constantly. With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display. He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now. SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one. His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose. And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation. Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too. Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash. But mostly—silence. An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence. My God, how do you move on from that? Patience. Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses. I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.” Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost. Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door. --- --- Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around. Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.” Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him. --- #essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- 2025-04-11 09:35:00 --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/3000-miles-of-tears Fri, 07 Aug 2026 01:00:00 +0000 Butter scraped over too much bread. https://lanternroom.writeas.com/butter-scraped-over-too-much-bread?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ 'Dad's heart stopped after I said amen to a prayer' !--more-- iframe width="100%" height="166" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/soundcloud%253Atracks%253A2210102144&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/butter-scraped-over-too-much-bread" title="Butter Scraped over Too Much Bread" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Butter Scraped over Too Much Bread/a/div --- At 11:44am Sunday November 9, 2025, the Conductor took his last breath. My friend, a minister of the Bible, watched his father pass away even as he said a benediction for him. It is heartbreaking and beautiful. It was a 3 month long journey that resulted in the Conductor laying in a hospital bed for more than 30 days all told over the course of the illness. I read recently that none of us truly become men until our fathers die. Dubious logic, but absolutely beautiful poetry. And in the generations of today, losing our fathers may be the thing that is needed to trigger the metamorphosis of maturity. It is a hard passage if it's true. I think I'd prefer to be Peter Pan if it is. The Conductor and his family have been in and around my life since childhood. His widow, the Queen of Swords, is among my closest friends. He was a vaguer component for decades but in the last 10 years has emerged as a clear cheerleader for this wolf, often telling me how much he appreciated everything I've done for and with his family. He was a weird guy. One of our friends describes meeting him 30 years ago in a suit with no socks or shoes. Probably about the best and most succinct way of understanding this complex creature. He was gone a lot from his family. Conductors have to conduct (trains as well as symphonies) and his route kept him on the road for days at a time. It provided a good living for his family, but the absence took it's toll emotionally. I don't' think it was the job so much as it was the baggage of his life, but he struggled with addiction for decades before finally kicking the heavy stuff. Though he was hooked on tobacco until things got serious for him about 3 months ago. He had a sister who struggled emotionally too. She passed away a few years ago from heart failure. The same thing that killed her brother. His sons are now rightly worried about their own life-pumps. As I have watched him over my life, I have seen the Conductor through the eyes of his sons and wife, all close friends. They always hoped better for him and honored him as best they could in their own flawed ways. But he could never measure up to the standard the Bible holds out to those who hope for the approval of Jesus and His father. And so I did, as righteous men often do, judge him. Inferior, broken, needing to change. But, in all the years I knew him, he remained absolutely confident that he would have a place in God's kingdom. As a man myself who feels unworthy of that role, I always found it eyebrow raising. He would need to change this and that in order to yadda yadda. It's a life-long mantra of the Bible-thumper. In recent years, I've started to change my understanding and softened a lot. On others as well as myself—well somedays I'm less soft on myself, but trying. And I've started to see that there are good-hearted humans who just cannot meet that standard. Something in them is broken beyond repair and they are doing the best they can. We all have demons. Some of us are better at cowing them than others. Some of us have to hide under the bed, or behind a haze of chemical stupor in order to function. It isn't fair to say 'you aren't good enough' if you're doing the best you can. I think the Conductor was. I think I am. Sometimes all you can do is limp through life. In the end, he was a kind man, a good man—if flawed. In truth, I've known many 'better' men from a righteousness point of view who didn't have half the kindness or thoughtfulness. Maybe that's why we discuss Jesus we focus not on his righteousness, which no man could match, but rather, his goodness. He was a guidepost. A point of consistency on the landscape of my existence that's gone now. It will be far worse for his wife and his sons, but the loss of that waypoint will effect us all. It's terrible and sad. Another loss in a long line that will just continue until the Wolf breathes his last breath. And that's not the scary part; the last breath. The scary part is all the unknown between today and that moment. Death is only a problem for the living. Good night, Conductor. I'll keep waiting faithfully for my own line. I'll wait as best I can. Broken, tired and unworthy. Thank you for showing me that it's less about what others think of you and more about being honest with yourself. It's a weight I am still learning to carry. Just like all of us. #death #memorial #essay #writing #100daystooffset --- originally published: 2025-11-10 15:00:00 --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

'Dad's heart stopped after I said amen to a prayer'

Wolfinwool · Butter Scraped over Too Much Bread

At 11:44am Sunday November 9, 2025, the Conductor took his last breath. My friend, a minister of the Bible, watched his father pass away even as he said a benediction for him. It is heartbreaking and beautiful.

It was a 3 month long journey that resulted in the Conductor laying in a hospital bed for more than 30 days all told over the course of the illness.

I read recently that none of us truly become men until our fathers die. Dubious logic, but absolutely beautiful poetry. And in the generations of today, losing our fathers may be the thing that is needed to trigger the metamorphosis of maturity.

It is a hard passage if it's true. I think I'd prefer to be Peter Pan if it is.

The Conductor and his family have been in and around my life since childhood. His widow, the Queen of Swords, is among my closest friends. He was a vaguer component for decades but in the last 10 years has emerged as a clear cheerleader for this wolf, often telling me how much he appreciated everything I've done for and with his family.

He was a weird guy. One of our friends describes meeting him 30 years ago in a suit with no socks or shoes. Probably about the best and most succinct way of understanding this complex creature.

He was gone a lot from his family. Conductors have to conduct (trains as well as symphonies) and his route kept him on the road for days at a time. It provided a good living for his family, but the absence took it's toll emotionally.

I don't' think it was the job so much as it was the baggage of his life, but he struggled with addiction for decades before finally kicking the heavy stuff. Though he was hooked on tobacco until things got serious for him about 3 months ago.

He had a sister who struggled emotionally too. She passed away a few years ago from heart failure. The same thing that killed her brother. His sons are now rightly worried about their own life-pumps.

As I have watched him over my life, I have seen the Conductor through the eyes of his sons and wife, all close friends. They always hoped better for him and honored him as best they could in their own flawed ways. But he could never measure up to the standard the Bible holds out to those who hope for the approval of Jesus and His father.

And so I did, as righteous men often do, judge him. Inferior, broken, needing to change. But, in all the years I knew him, he remained absolutely confident that he would have a place in God's kingdom. As a man myself who feels unworthy of that role, I always found it eyebrow raising.

He would need to change this and that in order to yadda yadda. It's a life-long mantra of the Bible-thumper. In recent years, I've started to change my understanding and softened a lot. On others as well as myself—well somedays I'm less soft on myself, but trying. And I've started to see that there are good-hearted humans who just cannot meet that standard. Something in them is broken beyond repair and they are doing the best they can.

We all have demons. Some of us are better at cowing them than others.

Some of us have to hide under the bed, or behind a haze of chemical stupor in order to function. It isn't fair to say 'you aren't good enough' if you're doing the best you can. I think the Conductor was. I think I am.

Sometimes all you can do is limp through life.

In the end, he was a kind man, a good man—if flawed. In truth, I've known many 'better' men from a righteousness point of view who didn't have half the kindness or thoughtfulness. Maybe that's why we discuss Jesus we focus not on his righteousness, which no man could match, but rather, his goodness.

He was a guidepost. A point of consistency on the landscape of my existence that's gone now. It will be far worse for his wife and his sons, but the loss of that waypoint will effect us all.

It's terrible and sad. Another loss in a long line that will just continue until the Wolf breathes his last breath. And that's not the scary part; the last breath. The scary part is all the unknown between today and that moment.

Death is only a problem for the living.

Good night, Conductor. I'll keep waiting faithfully for my own line. I'll wait as best I can. Broken, tired and unworthy. Thank you for showing me that it's less about what others think of you and more about being honest with yourself. It's a weight I am still learning to carry.

Just like all of us.

#death #memorial #essay #writing #100daystooffset

originally published: 2025-11-10 15:00:00

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/butter-scraped-over-too-much-bread Fri, 07 Aug 2026 01:00:00 +0000 Graveside https://lanternroom.writeas.com/graveside?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2071465504&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/graveside" title="Graveside" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Graveside/a/div Friday April 04, 2025 I worked all night—finally crashing about 6am. It was part memorial video, part chatting via text with family about found video of my dead sister-in-law and part writing about the day. Who am I kidding, it was mostly writing. It seems I'd rather do that or draw than anything else these days. But I need to produce something. Sleep came hard this morning and did not last. I was back at the keyboard by 10am when client work drifted in. It was good; I need paying work to keep this fantasy alive. That wrapped by noon, it was time to dress and pick up brochures from the printer. It poured today. Fitting for a funeral. And the temperature required dragging out the cardigan (sans Harley Davidson logos) and shiny black boots for traipsing around the graveyard. I felt very handsome in my kit today. Too bad no one took any pictures. It's rare I can layer up in casual dress. It's usually a suit if it's dressy. I was complimented nicely in my tan drover hat. I'm very proud of that hat. It was all very fitting for the graveyard. Funny word that. Graveyard... it feels cartoony but describes such a heavy place. What human of the billions who have lived have not known of that place in one form or another? For sailors it meant sailcloth, a cannonball and a stitch through the nose. The Greeks and Vikings did their fair share of funeral pyres. But by and large, we all plant our lost ones in a hole in the ground. Or a tomb in the case of those with very shallow water tables. Looking at you, New Orleans. We arrived early, but not early enough. Cars were lined way back. No one ever thinks to pull PAST the funeral and then work back. They stop at the site and force everyone to walk the same direction, instead of spreading it out. I should have arrived early, then I could set the bar. Fail again, Mister Wolf. The boots were a good choice as the field was muddy and soft. The heavy rains really soaked the place down. And the wind was crazy. We were almost sideways. I guess my former comments that this was not a hill or crest were wrong. The slight rise and roll of the land means that in inclement weather, a slicing and bitter wind cuts right through you. I can see some did not anticipate the temps and so came only in shirt sleeves. I bet they are envious of my delicious sweater and corduroy jacket. The rain has stopped, so my bright yellow umbrella with little happy bees is just an ornament as opposed to functional tool. This is my favorite umbrella. Picked up at a museum in Roanoke, VA last year, I have only been able to use it to ward off the sun. Such is the style of rain here. Intense, but brief. A ten minute wait means you rarely need to carry an umbrella. Even very keen ones. Everyone has the appropriate countenance for a funeral. It is difficult for me. Even as a very dark and sometimes brooding mind, I deal with stress and confrontation in the same manner: A smile and a bright face. That is until I snap—then I'm Mister Hyde. But today, I'm sunshine and rainbows on the outside and bats in the belfry inside. I need to let the bats out so I fit in. Even though we have 10m before the ceremony (right word here?) everyone is in stone silence. I initiate a few conversations, but they are too afraid of violating this mob-induced culture of speak-none. So, I sit in silence next to my wife on the front row. Next to my wife, her sister and their mother. My brother-in-law (RV) is officiating this afternoon. He is VERY nervous. His energy is probably where the drama is coming from. Even on the best of days he has a stern look. I call it resting troubled face. The casket is polish mahogany with another splendid splash of roses. Are they the same from last night? Probably. I can't tell though. I didn't make a note of the arrangement beyond the floral aroma. Roses smell so delightful. I don't like that I am beginning to associate them with death. I noticed that when I walked into my mother-in-laws house. Roses wafted out of the front door and I immediately thought, 'it smells like the funeral home'. The ceremony starts promptly at 3pm. The crowd has a grown to about 60 people. Respectable considering the weather, the day and the time. The speaker offers simple words of condolences with little about Chris, the man who was the body in the coffin. A bit about the promise in John of a resurrection, and some reminders of Revelation's conclusion where we can no longer suffer this indignity called death. Ironic that the corporation that we are paying for all of this has 'Dignity Memorial' printed on nearly everything. His words, as I said, are brief. 8 minutes in and out. He is like that, Terse and to the point. Personally, I like a little more performance. But no one asked me. I hear him start to break when he reads Revelation 21:3, 4. His mother died about 20 years ago and I imagine he has as sudden stab thinking about her. But, he recovers by adding more force to his voice. Then, concludes with a thoughtful prayer asking for comfort and peace for the attendees. I never like condolence lines, but here I am at the front line of one. Many I do not know and they only speak spanish, so I nod and say 'gracias'. Some friends lean in for a tight hug, most reserve that for the girls though. After a particularly loving woman who squeezes me tightly, I start to weep a little. Glancing at my wife, I see she's been crying for the last 3-4 people. Glassy pools of water spill off her cheeks and down. Thankfully, not all 60 people engage us this way. Only about half. It is merciful. 
We sit for a while wondering what to do next and just letting our thoughts drift until the funeral director informs us they'll be lowering the coffin and offering to let us watch. The girls all pass though I am curious about the function of the event. Since we decide to leave, I snap off one of the rich red roses. A bulbous and fat thing that looks like an overfed cat. I snap a few photos. Not enough. No one wants to remember the funeral, but the faces... we always LOVE remembering the people. How they have changed, who we have lost. Those we love. We look at those faces especially close. Engaging with a few people afterward, there is scuttlebutt amongst the friends about the tension between my mother-in-law and the family of my dead sister-in-law. Both parties think the other is not being attentive enough to their suffering and want. On one hand, a husband has lost a wife, the most important person in his universe. On the other, a mother has lost a daughter... arguably closer? As a non-parent I lean on the whole 'one flesh' argument. But I see why each feels like they should be the belle of the ball. Of course, my dear brother loses because now my mother-in-law has ALSO lost a husband. So, her suffering outranks his by a score of one body. I feel bad for them both. If they would think of one another instead of themselves, they would ALL be much happier. Some personalities just wear that heart right out there on the sleeve for the whole world to see. Then the red-hot branding irons get wielded and all manner of injury occurs. :-( The view is not breathtaking, but it is notable. Stubby mesquite trees line the back fence of the field and occasionally decorate the cemetery. Everything is turning green and I can see the violet glow of bluebonnets ringing the outer fields. A pump-jack does the non-stop work of sucking liquid gold. Dignity Memorial is making money putting things into the ground and taking them out. But I don't mind. It's not Texas if there isn't a pump-jack within eye line any time you experience an open space. A conversation has consumed me with details about tomorrow's memorial presentation. We are going to interview my father-in-law's longtime confidant to give some spark to the talk. I welcome this. My last funeral, the oft-mentioned sister-in-law, suffered from a bit-too-clinical approach. I prefer a discussion that is about the person, seasoned with their hope and bible beliefs. Not a straight-ahead explanation of what the Bible says followed with 'oh, also so-and-so felt this way too.'. But, I'm a decent public speaker, so I can justify some criticism of my colleagues. The family has departed as have the guests. It is only the funeral director, the tent, the casket, my wife and a cousin who remain. I let them finish their conversation while I chase down my favored drover hat that the wind has finally managed to pry off of my noggin. As I stoop to place it back on my head, I hear the growl of a tractor in the distance. Looking up, I see that the real worker of the burial is about to arrive. Gone are the days of gravediggers slogging it out in the heat and rain. A backhoe will do the heavy lift of covering the grave without breaking a sweat. And probably by burning less than a gallon of fuel. A force-multiplier this one is. Next, we'll recover some with a steak, a beer, and a nap. My all-nighter is taking its toll on me now. As I am now post-beer and post-nap, I can write that it was a VERY effective recovery mechanism. Tonight, I can hear my wife in her studio watching Runaway Bride while retouching photos for the final push of the memorial video. I am here penning this missive instead of editing video. But, I seem incapable of resisting the urge to just spill every blessed and cursed thought in my head. Thank you, dear reader for sticking around this long, if you have. Having purged myself of these recollections, I will spin up an old playlist and get back to my editing. The sun will be up in a few hours. Maybe it already is where you are. What a funny thing life on this planet is in the 21st century. We all occupy the same time-space. There is no here or there, there is only us. And in this moment, I am in your mind. And to some degree, you are in mine. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect. --- #essay #memoir #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/graveside"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Wolfinwool · Graveside

Friday April 04, 2025

I worked all night—finally crashing about 6am. It was part memorial video, part chatting via text with family about found video of my dead sister-in-law and part writing about the day. Who am I kidding, it was mostly writing. It seems I'd rather do that or draw than anything else these days. But I need to produce something.

Sleep came hard this morning and did not last. I was back at the keyboard by 10am when client work drifted in. It was good; I need paying work to keep this fantasy alive. That wrapped by noon, it was time to dress and pick up brochures from the printer. It poured today. Fitting for a funeral. And the temperature required dragging out the cardigan (sans Harley Davidson logos) and shiny black boots for traipsing around the graveyard. I felt very handsome in my kit today. Too bad no one took any pictures. It's rare I can layer up in casual dress. It's usually a suit if it's dressy. I was complimented nicely in my tan drover hat. I'm very proud of that hat. It was all very fitting for the graveyard.

Funny word that. Graveyard... it feels cartoony but describes such a heavy place. What human of the billions who have lived have not known of that place in one form or another? For sailors it meant sailcloth, a cannonball and a stitch through the nose. The Greeks and Vikings did their fair share of funeral pyres. But by and large, we all plant our lost ones in a hole in the ground. Or a tomb in the case of those with very shallow water tables. Looking at you, New Orleans.

We arrived early, but not early enough. Cars were lined way back. No one ever thinks to pull PAST the funeral and then work back. They stop at the site and force everyone to walk the same direction, instead of spreading it out. I should have arrived early, then I could set the bar. Fail again, Mister Wolf. The boots were a good choice as the field was muddy and soft. The heavy rains really soaked the place down.

And the wind was crazy. We were almost sideways. I guess my former comments that this was not a hill or crest were wrong. The slight rise and roll of the land means that in inclement weather, a slicing and bitter wind cuts right through you. I can see some did not anticipate the temps and so came only in shirt sleeves. I bet they are envious of my delicious sweater and corduroy jacket.

The rain has stopped, so my bright yellow umbrella with little happy bees is just an ornament as opposed to functional tool. This is my favorite umbrella. Picked up at a museum in Roanoke, VA last year, I have only been able to use it to ward off the sun. Such is the style of rain here. Intense, but brief. A ten minute wait means you rarely need to carry an umbrella. Even very keen ones.

Everyone has the appropriate countenance for a funeral. It is difficult for me. Even as a very dark and sometimes brooding mind, I deal with stress and confrontation in the same manner: A smile and a bright face. That is until I snap—then I'm Mister Hyde. But today, I'm sunshine and rainbows on the outside and bats in the belfry inside. I need to let the bats out so I fit in. Even though we have 10m before the ceremony (right word here?) everyone is in stone silence. I initiate a few conversations, but they are too afraid of violating this mob-induced culture of speak-none. So, I sit in silence next to my wife on the front row. Next to my wife, her sister and their mother. My brother-in-law (RV) is officiating this afternoon. He is VERY nervous. His energy is probably where the drama is coming from. Even on the best of days he has a stern look. I call it resting troubled face.

The casket is polish mahogany with another splendid splash of roses. Are they the same from last night? Probably. I can't tell though. I didn't make a note of the arrangement beyond the floral aroma. Roses smell so delightful. I don't like that I am beginning to associate them with death. I noticed that when I walked into my mother-in-laws house. Roses wafted out of the front door and I immediately thought, 'it smells like the funeral home'.

The ceremony starts promptly at 3pm. The crowd has a grown to about 60 people. Respectable considering the weather, the day and the time. The speaker offers simple words of condolences with little about Chris, the man who was the body in the coffin. A bit about the promise in John of a resurrection, and some reminders of Revelation's conclusion where we can no longer suffer this indignity called death. Ironic that the corporation that we are paying for all of this has 'Dignity Memorial' printed on nearly everything.

His words, as I said, are brief. 8 minutes in and out. He is like that, Terse and to the point. Personally, I like a little more performance. But no one asked me. I hear him start to break when he reads Revelation 21:3, 4. His mother died about 20 years ago and I imagine he has as sudden stab thinking about her. But, he recovers by adding more force to his voice. Then, concludes with a thoughtful prayer asking for comfort and peace for the attendees.

I never like condolence lines, but here I am at the front line of one. Many I do not know and they only speak spanish, so I nod and say 'gracias'. Some friends lean in for a tight hug, most reserve that for the girls though. After a particularly loving woman who squeezes me tightly, I start to weep a little. Glancing at my wife, I see she's been crying for the last 3-4 people. Glassy pools of water spill off her cheeks and down. Thankfully, not all 60 people engage us this way. Only about half. It is merciful.


We sit for a while wondering what to do next and just letting our thoughts drift until the funeral director informs us they'll be lowering the coffin and offering to let us watch. The girls all pass though I am curious about the function of the event. Since we decide to leave, I snap off one of the rich red roses. A bulbous and fat thing that looks like an overfed cat.

I snap a few photos. Not enough. No one wants to remember the funeral, but the faces... we always LOVE remembering the people. How they have changed, who we have lost. Those we love. We look at those faces especially close.

Engaging with a few people afterward, there is scuttlebutt amongst the friends about the tension between my mother-in-law and the family of my dead sister-in-law. Both parties think the other is not being attentive enough to their suffering and want. On one hand, a husband has lost a wife, the most important person in his universe. On the other, a mother has lost a daughter... arguably closer? As a non-parent I lean on the whole 'one flesh' argument. But I see why each feels like they should be the belle of the ball. Of course, my dear brother loses because now my mother-in-law has ALSO lost a husband. So, her suffering outranks his by a score of one body.

I feel bad for them both. If they would think of one another instead of themselves, they would ALL be much happier. Some personalities just wear that heart right out there on the sleeve for the whole world to see. Then the red-hot branding irons get wielded and all manner of injury occurs. :–(

The view is not breathtaking, but it is notable. Stubby mesquite trees line the back fence of the field and occasionally decorate the cemetery. Everything is turning green and I can see the violet glow of bluebonnets ringing the outer fields. A pump-jack does the non-stop work of sucking liquid gold. Dignity Memorial is making money putting things into the ground and taking them out. But I don't mind. It's not Texas if there isn't a pump-jack within eye line any time you experience an open space.

A conversation has consumed me with details about tomorrow's memorial presentation. We are going to interview my father-in-law's longtime confidant to give some spark to the talk. I welcome this. My last funeral, the oft-mentioned sister-in-law, suffered from a bit-too-clinical approach. I prefer a discussion that is about the person, seasoned with their hope and bible beliefs. Not a straight-ahead explanation of what the Bible says followed with 'oh, also so-and-so felt this way too.'. But, I'm a decent public speaker, so I can justify some criticism of my colleagues.

The family has departed as have the guests. It is only the funeral director, the tent, the casket, my wife and a cousin who remain. I let them finish their conversation while I chase down my favored drover hat that the wind has finally managed to pry off of my noggin. As I stoop to place it back on my head, I hear the growl of a tractor in the distance. Looking up, I see that the real worker of the burial is about to arrive. Gone are the days of gravediggers slogging it out in the heat and rain. A backhoe will do the heavy lift of covering the grave without breaking a sweat. And probably by burning less than a gallon of fuel. A force-multiplier this one is.

Next, we'll recover some with a steak, a beer, and a nap. My all-nighter is taking its toll on me now. As I am now post-beer and post-nap, I can write that it was a VERY effective recovery mechanism.

Tonight, I can hear my wife in her studio watching Runaway Bride while retouching photos for the final push of the memorial video. I am here penning this missive instead of editing video. But, I seem incapable of resisting the urge to just spill every blessed and cursed thought in my head. Thank you, dear reader for sticking around this long, if you have.

Having purged myself of these recollections, I will spin up an old playlist and get back to my editing. The sun will be up in a few hours. Maybe it already is where you are. What a funny thing life on this planet is in the 21st century. We all occupy the same time-space. There is no here or there, there is only us. And in this moment, I am in your mind. And to some degree, you are in mine.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

#essay #memoir #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Discuss...

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/graveside Sat, 05 Apr 2025 09:03:56 +0000 The Viewing https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-viewing?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Every day is a new day... !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2070732280&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/the-viewing" title="The Viewing" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"The Viewing/a/div --- Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today To get through this thing called life Electric word life it means forever and that's a mighty long time... Getting through tonight means being in a dimly lit room with beige walls and wooden furniture. There are live plans sprouting in the corners, tended by some service that no doubt comes weekly to make sure they are watered, fertilized and dusted. 
The 2 dozen seats ranging in comfort levels between austere bench to proper dining chair and plush couch are filled with supporters, most of whom seem to be in my father-in-law's peer group. One foot on a banana peel and all. We are not early, but not particularly late for this scheduled formal viewing (6-8pm). The ancient crowd already seated no doubt arrived 15m early instead of the fashionably late 15m after. Is a funerary viewing the place for fashionable tardiness? With my wife, EVERYTHING is appropriate to be late for. Including her father's funeral events. Earlier in the day, I heard her mother ask, 'You're not wearing THAT, are you?!' commenting on the jeans, colorful blouse and sparkly pink ball cap my wife had donned for a spanish-language translation session for the obituary and a run to the printer. 'Make SURE you wear some makeup!' She punctuated the commentary. My doll of a wife just laughs off the sharp statements. Especially the makeup one. She IS wearing make-up... just a very subtle application. I suspect her mother may be jealous of my wife's delicious skin that allowed her to live well into her fifties without needing any paint. At 65, I have to admit, it does brighten up her face, but it's hardly required to go in public. In any case, she has heeded the call for decorum and dressed in a smart pair of black slacks with very fine pin stripes and a wonderful flowing blouse that has bold black and white swirls. First glance told me they didn't match, but after giving it a good look, it's a nice matching contrast. She decided to not opt for the hat. She looks very smart. The room, ringed by elderly friends, leaves ample empty space in the center. So, I decide standing conspicuously in the middle of the room will confront that unease of being in front of people. It's a similar feeling to public speaking. Fear of man. It's a good choice—new arrivals have to approach someone, and having someone standing in the middle provides a natural anchor. It's far less awkward introducing yourself to a standing person over a shy corner-dweller in any case. My nephew is here before me. SLBY the boy. I've never made it clear, but his wife has the same name as he, hence the 'the boy' and 'the girl' monikers. He is very sad, I can tell. I compliment his VERY handsome-looking cardigan. Since shaving off his rat-tail and cleaning up his hideously sketchy beard, he appears quite dashing. The sweater gives him an almost scholarly quality. This is dashed when, upon complementation, he stands and turns to show me 'Harley Davidson' emblazoned boldly across the entire back. On brand for my redneck kin. The crowd is picking up now that we are about an hour in. The early adopters aren't leaving. The room will grow crowded to capacity and people will spill out into the adjacent hallways. The many bodies pressed together are making it uncomfortably warm. My mother-in-law is relishing in this, I know. Not just that she enjoys the attention, but that it is a true sign of respect for so large a crowd to come all this way to see a corpse and say 'I love you'. I spot a family of old friends who I haven't seen in a decade. The father of the family, my brother-in-laws dad and a peer of my dead father-in-law is looking very frail and brittle. He now walks with a cane. His three daughters trail him. The oldest, once a very close friend now looks aged in her late 40's and sporting neon pink hair that spills in coils and roles off of her shoulders and own her back. It is a topic of conversation for me. She wears it his way all the time. Though sometimes blue or purple. She confesses she is starting to think about dropping it due to the cost and damage to her aging mane. We laugh about the old days when she was married to my dear friend. We lost touch after they divorced and he moved to Michigan and she ran away with a truck driver. Her sisters were closer to my own to younger siblings. The three of us lament my own younger sister's situation (brain damaged after a failed attempt to murder her). The youngest, CV, gave me a TERRIFIC hug. Long and firm. So few people really hug. They are usually polite engagements. Once a friend hugged me so hard and long I wept. She just kept holding on and holding on. It was amazing. Hugs are such good therapy. I make it a point to hug my wife at least once a day, long and firm. The youngest, SV, kind of brushes me off. Not sure if there's beef there, or just circumstantial. I see an adult woman following her around... the daughter I only knew when she was an infant? Good lord, now long has it been since I've seen these people? More hellos and muddled spanish greetings. I makeup in enthusiasm what I lack in skill when it comes to foreign language. 
My wife's dad looks like he is asleep. We saw him sleep nearly all the time the last 3 months. Someone has pinned a small copper pin on his lapel. It's a nice touch. My mother-in-law reaching in to adjust his shirt sleeves. She comments that 'He wanted to have a viewing... but he wouldn't like all these people staring at him.' She means it with humor, and I understand. He was a deeply private man, but here he is utterly defenseless under the scrutiny of all. He has a gorgeous red-rose arrangement splashed across the casket. It smells wonderful and I imagine is doing its job to mask the chemistry of death. I wonder how my wife senses it. She has an incredible olfactory sense but makes no comment. Emotion maybe dulls the usual superpower. Seeing him in this state is bringing back the other opportunities that I have had to experience the presence of a dead body. I had a sudden sensation of the last viewing I attended about 10 years ago. It was for my younger cousin. He suicided when in his early 40's. I recall his body looking puffy and almost stuffed. Probably because he had put on weight and I remembered him as a very thin young man, like his father. The makeup artist had over-powdered him, but his hair was immaculate. He had long thick locks brushed out straight and feathered slightly. The perfect coif. I remember his body looking odd with a dress shirt and tie buttoned un-naturally high. He was not a christian and never went to church, so I recall it just being strange seeing him a dress shirt and tie. But, as I am relating the story to a friend, I have a lightning bolt of memory that it wasn't a dress shirt and tie, but a red silk cravat. He had hung himself... Our brains do amazing things to protect us from reality. It guilds our memory in the best possible light. Psychologists have done a lot of study on how the mind constructs fantasies to protect us from reality. Wrapping us in a protective clothe as it were. It's like that episode of MASH where Hawkeye is having PTSD at having almost been caught with a busload of South Koreans and one of the mother's chokes a chicken to death to keep it from squawking and going them away to the enemy patrol. During therapy he realizes the chicken was actually a baby. I have another appointment tonight, so must take my leave as the crowd is at its thickest and we say our farewells. Many we will see tomorrow at the burial. Some we will never see again. How strange to reach that point in life when just a few years can wipe out whole families. The drive out is absolutely gorgeous. Today's rain has brought the world back to life. A contrast to the death we've been confronting lately. The hillsides have sprouted the long wheat-like stems that make seas of grass and it waves gently in the evening breeze. This is one of the most beautiful things in life, this waving grass. I always imagine I could sail gently away in a canoe. The grassy seas are punctuated with big purple-blue islands of bluebonnets. In the coming days, a common sight will be whole families traipsing around through the beautiful little blue flowers to have their portraits taken. What joy this all is. It is so true that beauty is all around us, we just have to lift our heads up and see. Brother Rogers Nelson was right, life is an electric word. Death and loss are difficult, draining burdens to bear. Just when we're feeling drained, we plug in to the exquisiteness of nature and it charges us. Let it be me That drops— The poet
, The artist Needs the cut So deep So we'll Bleed A magnum opus Or two But maybe, just maybe that cut that lets in so much energy and light can be salved with the outpouring of love we saw tonight. And no doubt will again in the coming days. Time is up. I should go. There is still a funeral to prepare. --- #essay #death #memoir #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- !--comment--- --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Every day is a new day...

Wolfinwool · The Viewing

Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today To get through this thing called life Electric word life it means forever and that's a mighty long time...

Getting through tonight means being in a dimly lit room with beige walls and wooden furniture. There are live plans sprouting in the corners, tended by some service that no doubt comes weekly to make sure they are watered, fertilized and dusted.


The 2 dozen seats ranging in comfort levels between austere bench to proper dining chair and plush couch are filled with supporters, most of whom seem to be in my father-in-law's peer group. One foot on a banana peel and all. We are not early, but not particularly late for this scheduled formal viewing (6-8pm). The ancient crowd already seated no doubt arrived 15m early instead of the fashionably late 15m after. Is a funerary viewing the place for fashionable tardiness? With my wife, EVERYTHING is appropriate to be late for. Including her father's funeral events.

Earlier in the day, I heard her mother ask, 'You're not wearing THAT, are you?!' commenting on the jeans, colorful blouse and sparkly pink ball cap my wife had donned for a spanish-language translation session for the obituary and a run to the printer. 'Make SURE you wear some makeup!' She punctuated the commentary.

My doll of a wife just laughs off the sharp statements. Especially the makeup one. She IS wearing make-up... just a very subtle application. I suspect her mother may be jealous of my wife's delicious skin that allowed her to live well into her fifties without needing any paint. At 65, I have to admit, it does brighten up her face, but it's hardly required to go in public.

In any case, she has heeded the call for decorum and dressed in a smart pair of black slacks with very fine pin stripes and a wonderful flowing blouse that has bold black and white swirls. First glance told me they didn't match, but after giving it a good look, it's a nice matching contrast. She decided to not opt for the hat. She looks very smart.

The room, ringed by elderly friends, leaves ample empty space in the center. So, I decide standing conspicuously in the middle of the room will confront that unease of being in front of people. It's a similar feeling to public speaking. Fear of man. It's a good choice—new arrivals have to approach someone, and having someone standing in the middle provides a natural anchor. It's far less awkward introducing yourself to a standing person over a shy corner-dweller in any case.

My nephew is here before me. SLBY the boy. I've never made it clear, but his wife has the same name as he, hence the 'the boy' and 'the girl' monikers. He is very sad, I can tell. I compliment his VERY handsome-looking cardigan. Since shaving off his rat-tail and cleaning up his hideously sketchy beard, he appears quite dashing. The sweater gives him an almost scholarly quality. This is dashed when, upon complementation, he stands and turns to show me 'Harley Davidson' emblazoned boldly across the entire back. On brand for my redneck kin.

The crowd is picking up now that we are about an hour in. The early adopters aren't leaving. The room will grow crowded to capacity and people will spill out into the adjacent hallways. The many bodies pressed together are making it uncomfortably warm. My mother-in-law is relishing in this, I know. Not just that she enjoys the attention, but that it is a true sign of respect for so large a crowd to come all this way to see a corpse and say 'I love you'.

I spot a family of old friends who I haven't seen in a decade. The father of the family, my brother-in-laws dad and a peer of my dead father-in-law is looking very frail and brittle. He now walks with a cane. His three daughters trail him. The oldest, once a very close friend now looks aged in her late 40's and sporting neon pink hair that spills in coils and roles off of her shoulders and own her back. It is a topic of conversation for me. She wears it his way all the time. Though sometimes blue or purple. She confesses she is starting to think about dropping it due to the cost and damage to her aging mane. We laugh about the old days when she was married to my dear friend. We lost touch after they divorced and he moved to Michigan and she ran away with a truck driver.

Her sisters were closer to my own to younger siblings. The three of us lament my own younger sister's situation (brain damaged after a failed attempt to murder her). The youngest, CV, gave me a TERRIFIC hug. Long and firm. So few people really hug. They are usually polite engagements. Once a friend hugged me so hard and long I wept. She just kept holding on and holding on. It was amazing. Hugs are such good therapy. I make it a point to hug my wife at least once a day, long and firm.

The youngest, SV, kind of brushes me off. Not sure if there's beef there, or just circumstantial. I see an adult woman following her around... the daughter I only knew when she was an infant? Good lord, now long has it been since I've seen these people?

More hellos and muddled spanish greetings. I makeup in enthusiasm what I lack in skill when it comes to foreign language. 
My wife's dad looks like he is asleep. We saw him sleep nearly all the time the last 3 months. Someone has pinned a small copper pin on his lapel. It's a nice touch. My mother-in-law reaching in to adjust his shirt sleeves. She comments that 'He wanted to have a viewing... but he wouldn't like all these people staring at him.' She means it with humor, and I understand. He was a deeply private man, but here he is utterly defenseless under the scrutiny of all.

He has a gorgeous red-rose arrangement splashed across the casket. It smells wonderful and I imagine is doing its job to mask the chemistry of death. I wonder how my wife senses it. She has an incredible olfactory sense but makes no comment. Emotion maybe dulls the usual superpower.

Seeing him in this state is bringing back the other opportunities that I have had to experience the presence of a dead body.

I had a sudden sensation of the last viewing I attended about 10 years ago. It was for my younger cousin. He suicided when in his early 40's. I recall his body looking puffy and almost stuffed. Probably because he had put on weight and I remembered him as a very thin young man, like his father. The makeup artist had over-powdered him, but his hair was immaculate. He had long thick locks brushed out straight and feathered slightly. The perfect coif.

I remember his body looking odd with a dress shirt and tie buttoned un-naturally high. He was not a christian and never went to church, so I recall it just being strange seeing him a dress shirt and tie. But, as I am relating the story to a friend, I have a lightning bolt of memory that it wasn't a dress shirt and tie, but a red silk cravat. He had hung himself...

Our brains do amazing things to protect us from reality. It guilds our memory in the best possible light. Psychologists have done a lot of study on how the mind constructs fantasies to protect us from reality. Wrapping us in a protective clothe as it were. It's like that episode of MASH where Hawkeye is having PTSD at having almost been caught with a busload of South Koreans and one of the mother's chokes a chicken to death to keep it from squawking and going them away to the enemy patrol. During therapy he realizes the chicken was actually a baby.

I have another appointment tonight, so must take my leave as the crowd is at its thickest and we say our farewells. Many we will see tomorrow at the burial. Some we will never see again. How strange to reach that point in life when just a few years can wipe out whole families.

The drive out is absolutely gorgeous. Today's rain has brought the world back to life. A contrast to the death we've been confronting lately. The hillsides have sprouted the long wheat-like stems that make seas of grass and it waves gently in the evening breeze. This is one of the most beautiful things in life, this waving grass. I always imagine I could sail gently away in a canoe.

The grassy seas are punctuated with big purple-blue islands of bluebonnets. In the coming days, a common sight will be whole families traipsing around through the beautiful little blue flowers to have their portraits taken.

What joy this all is. It is so true that beauty is all around us, we just have to lift our heads up and see.

Brother Rogers Nelson was right, life is an electric word. Death and loss are difficult, draining burdens to bear. Just when we're feeling drained, we plug in to the exquisiteness of nature and it charges us.

Let it be me That drops— The poet
, The artist Needs the cut So deep So we'll Bleed A magnum opus Or two

But maybe, just maybe that cut that lets in so much energy and light can be salved with the outpouring of love we saw tonight. And no doubt will again in the coming days.

Time is up. I should go. There is still a funeral to prepare.

#essay #death #memoir #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-viewing Fri, 04 Apr 2025 09:37:01 +0000 Gravesite https://lanternroom.writeas.com/gravesite?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2067958120&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/graveside-esv2-90p-bg-10p" title="Graveside -esv2-90p-bg-10p" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Graveside -esv2-90p-bg-10p/a/div I find myself back at the funeral home today. The flowers in the corner are plastic and the drywall is beginning to crack ever so slightly at the ceiling joint. The table where we meet, a very nice table, is cluttered with binders of options and details about my father-in-laws life. I am advising my wife and her sister and mother on the signing of the documents that will officially close the final chapter of life by this man she called dad. What a surreal job—to sit with people every day all day who are just upside down with grief over their loss. The only comfort they can offer is to make the last rite of their loved one as flowery and shiny as possible. With my sister-in-law, it was a 40 minute visit, in and out. Today is shaping up to be north of two hours. Caskets, embalming, digging and filling holes.... It all takes a lot of time when you aren't just cremating someone. And a lot of money. This non-elaborate burial will be just north of $10,000—almost exactly what the burial insurance policy my mother-in-law purchased will cover. It is entertaining watching her be slightly rabid with the funeral director over a minor policy point. No dollar spent unnecessarily if she can help it. Finally, flowers chosen, casket decided and plot approved, we wrap necessary business with my wife's family and I think of my own. I went to see my grandparents grave. I haven't visited since I delivered her graveside eulogy nine years ago. Before that, I had only visited in 2011 when I did the same for my grandfather. I don't recall a lot about either occasion, except getting choked up talking bout my grandmother's favorite song... something about a roller-skate and a key and at my grandfather's, I recall his coffin being draped in an American flag. Or maybe it was just folded on top. As a veteran of 3 wars, the military side of the family insisted on it and my grandmother was never a hardliner on those kinds of things. I had forgotten where their graves were located, but the cemetery guy knew just where to point his boney finger after consulting his ledger. It's just a place in an empty field of dry, brittle grass and stubby mesquite trees. Easy to overlook and no different than almost any other field in the part of the country, so I suppose it's the raw emotion at the recent losses in my life that welled up in me when I saw my grandparents headstone. I had forgotten that the marker they chose is rose marble with their names, date of birth, date of marriage and my grandfathers date of death. According to the headstone, my grandmother is still out there raising heck. When asked, my mother explains that it's a financial argument. My grandparents prepaid their entire burial, including the bronze roses my cousins collected and the aforementioned joint headstone, sans Feb 8, 2016. When my family called the headstone maker, the company loopholed the obligation to come and have the date of death carved into the appropriate spot. The carver wants $800, but my family insists they fulfill their contract. I guess this is a Scots-Irish standoff? One thing for certain—my grandparents don't care. I smile when reminded their anniversary was on Valentines day. That famously romantic date that really doesn't mean anything special to people really in love. But for Helen and Alfred, it always did mean something special. My own anniversary is in early January and I think how their celebrations, like ours, were likely always when it's cold. How wise it seems in the dark of January, that some dear to me chose July to start their lives together. While we seek warmth, they seek the cold. If only we could trade temperatures just for a day. I suppose, in the end, it makes no difference. On a long enough timeline, all of our anniversaries are in the cold. At least today they are. My grandparents are joined in death as they were in life. My father-in-law lies in wait. Will his teenage bride join him there? Or will this world change drastically for the better before she can. May all of your anniversaries be filled with love and laughter. And may you never have to taste the sting of death. --- #essay #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Wolfinwool · Graveside -esv2-90p-bg-10p

I find myself back at the funeral home today. The flowers in the corner are plastic and the drywall is beginning to crack ever so slightly at the ceiling joint. The table where we meet, a very nice table, is cluttered with binders of options and details about my father-in-laws life.

I am advising my wife and her sister and mother on the signing of the documents that will officially close the final chapter of life by this man she called dad.

What a surreal job—to sit with people every day all day who are just upside down with grief over their loss. The only comfort they can offer is to make the last rite of their loved one as flowery and shiny as possible.

With my sister-in-law, it was a 40 minute visit, in and out. Today is shaping up to be north of two hours. Caskets, embalming, digging and filling holes.... It all takes a lot of time when you aren't just cremating someone. And a lot of money. This non-elaborate burial will be just north of $10,000—almost exactly what the burial insurance policy my mother-in-law purchased will cover. It is entertaining watching her be slightly rabid with the funeral director over a minor policy point. No dollar spent unnecessarily if she can help it.

Finally, flowers chosen, casket decided and plot approved, we wrap necessary business with my wife's family and I think of my own.

I went to see my grandparents grave. I haven't visited since I delivered her graveside eulogy nine years ago. Before that, I had only visited in 2011 when I did the same for my grandfather. I don't recall a lot about either occasion, except getting choked up talking bout my grandmother's favorite song... something about a roller-skate and a key and at my grandfather's, I recall his coffin being draped in an American flag. Or maybe it was just folded on top. As a veteran of 3 wars, the military side of the family insisted on it and my grandmother was never a hardliner on those kinds of things. I had forgotten where their graves were located, but the cemetery guy knew just where to point his boney finger after consulting his ledger.

It's just a place in an empty field of dry, brittle grass and stubby mesquite trees. Easy to overlook and no different than almost any other field in the part of the country, so I suppose it's the raw emotion at the recent losses in my life that welled up in me when I saw my grandparents headstone. I had forgotten that the marker they chose is rose marble with their names, date of birth, date of marriage and my grandfathers date of death. According to the headstone, my grandmother is still out there raising heck.

When asked, my mother explains that it's a financial argument. My grandparents prepaid their entire burial, including the bronze roses my cousins collected and the aforementioned joint headstone, sans Feb 8, 2016.

When my family called the headstone maker, the company loopholed the obligation to come and have the date of death carved into the appropriate spot. The carver wants $800, but my family insists they fulfill their contract. I guess this is a Scots-Irish standoff? One thing for certain—my grandparents don't care.

I smile when reminded their anniversary was on Valentines day. That famously romantic date that really doesn't mean anything special to people really in love. But for Helen and Alfred, it always did mean something special. My own anniversary is in early January and I think how their celebrations, like ours, were likely always when it's cold. How wise it seems in the dark of January, that some dear to me chose July to start their lives together. While we seek warmth, they seek the cold. If only we could trade temperatures just for a day.

I suppose, in the end, it makes no difference. On a long enough timeline, all of our anniversaries are in the cold. At least today they are. My grandparents are joined in death as they were in life. My father-in-law lies in wait. Will his teenage bride join him there? Or will this world change drastically for the better before she can.

May all of your anniversaries be filled with love and laughter. And may you never have to taste the sting of death.

#essay #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/gravesite Mon, 31 Mar 2025 22:57:11 +0000 Supplication of the Damned https://lanternroom.writeas.com/supplication-of-the-damned?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Help me. !--more-- iframe width="1200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2067386052&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/supplication-of-the-damned" title="Supplication of the Damned" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Supplication of the Damned/a/div Help me help me help me… Oh! God, where is this peace? Why am I filled with this loss, frustration and sadness? Am I not a good man? Have I not done well? Made decisions for the benefit of all and not my own selfish want! Death is in me, death is of me, death is on me… I stink of it. I tire of it. I welcome it. No doubt, my God, you are more weary than I, facing the suffering of this family since our beginning. But, I would be remiss if I ignored your omnipotence as compared to my powerless impotence. My weak, pathetic intellect is breaking (broken) under this. It is not death, after all, that is the problem, it is the living—both the doing of it as well as dealing with those that continue in it. As the treasure hunter scrapes away those last rocky kernels covering the chest, so my sanity is brushed away to open the vault of my mind only to discover an empty vessel. No riches of strength, wisdom or fortitude. Just piles and piles of promissory notes that one day I would be a spiritual giant, capable of facing these difficult times with gratitude and graciousness. Her madness is my madness. Where is my strong arm to support her? Make this all better? I have nothing but desperation and anger this morning. Words of consolation feel meaningless… exciting my lack of faith. Faith! Where have I laid this cloak that served me so well through the storms all these many years? Has the wicked one been so effective in dressing me in my own hubris that I can no longer even recall its fit? Jehovah is my Shepherd. I will lack nothing. In grassy pastures he makes me lie down; He leads me to well-watered resting-places. He refreshes me. He leads me in the paths of righteousness for the sake of his name.  Though I walk in the valley of deep shadow, I fear no harm, For you are with me; Your rod and your staff reassure me. You prepare a table for me before my enemies. You refresh my head with oil; My cup is well-filled. Surely goodness and loyal love will pursue me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the house of Jehovah for all my days. My shepherd. My shepherd. My shepherd. --- --- #essay #death #confession #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/supplication-of-the-damned"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Help me.

Wolfinwool · Supplication of the Damned

Help me help me help me… Oh! God, where is this peace? Why am I filled with this loss, frustration and sadness? Am I not a good man? Have I not done well? Made decisions for the benefit of all and not my own selfish want!

Death is in me, death is of me, death is on me… I stink of it. I tire of it.

I welcome it.

No doubt, my God, you are more weary than I, facing the suffering of this family since our beginning. But, I would be remiss if I ignored your omnipotence as compared to my powerless impotence. My weak, pathetic intellect is breaking (broken) under this.

It is not death, after all, that is the problem, it is the living—both the doing of it as well as dealing with those that continue in it.

As the treasure hunter scrapes away those last rocky kernels covering the chest, so my sanity is brushed away to open the vault of my mind only to discover an empty vessel. No riches of strength, wisdom or fortitude. Just piles and piles of promissory notes that one day I would be a spiritual giant, capable of facing these difficult times with gratitude and graciousness.

Her madness is my madness. Where is my strong arm to support her? Make this all better? I have nothing but desperation and anger this morning.

Words of consolation feel meaningless… exciting my lack of faith. Faith! Where have I laid this cloak that served me so well through the storms all these many years? Has the wicked one been so effective in dressing me in my own hubris that I can no longer even recall its fit?

Jehovah is my Shepherd. I will lack nothing. In grassy pastures he makes me lie down; He leads me to well-watered resting-places. He refreshes me. He leads me in the paths of righteousness for the sake of his name.  Though I walk in the valley of deep shadow, I fear no harm, For you are with me; Your rod and your staff reassure me. You prepare a table for me before my enemies. You refresh my head with oil; My cup is well-filled. Surely goodness and loyal love will pursue me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the house of Jehovah for all my days.

My shepherd. My shepherd. My shepherd.

#essay #death #confession #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Discuss...

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/supplication-of-the-damned Mon, 31 Mar 2025 12:09:39 +0000 Fifty-Nine Days https://lanternroom.writeas.com/fifty-nine-days?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ yay, more loss !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2067383784&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/fifty-nine-days" title="Fifty-Nine Days" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Fifty-Nine Days/a/div Living 59 days longer than his 2nd daughter, Chris made it almost to 90. Almost. At 4:45 am CST he legally ended his time here. Finally beating the game of life. Winning his fight against city hall. In truth, his life ended months ago. He’s been a crumbling husk for… well long enough that I’m having a hard time remembering him any other way. What an inglorious death. To waste waste waste away into the ether with a whimper. Where is the rage against the dying light? Maybe that’s something you are supposed to do now while you still can. Before sickness hobbles us. Like traveling to Spain or France or driving around the country instead of warming this spot in on one’s study and marinating in sadness. And rage. Between the loss, the relief and the guilt, it is it difficult to know which is worse. For my life-partner, it is the loss. She has accepted this long ago but the shadow of her sister’s death is far more powerful. It’s a shame really that Deb’s loss will darken the coming weeks and what would be a celebration of a long life well lived will instead be sidelined by our thoughts of her. We'll be confused about this. What are we sad about? His loss, her loss, our loss? Missed friends? Spurned lovers? It will all boil and froth to the top and we'll have to confront it. Or numb it. But, numbing only delays the inevitable. At least my father-in-law doesn’t have to worry about losing his little girl any longer and she’ll never know the loss of her daddy. Silver linings. This phase of life, the taking-more-than-giving part, comes to us all. And it f#@%ing sucks. For some of us, life starts taking a little sooner. Some fewer still—a lot sooner. But it comes to us all. It’s part of the journey we all take on the way to the long house of our fathers. In spite of it being universally experiential, we just aren’t designed to confront this kind of ongoing load and loss. And so we flail and flop, grasping for meaning and wanting to feel whole. To be loved completely and not piecemeal. But it seems that’s just not something we can have now, the feeling of wholeness. Being complete. I glimpsed it once, and it was beautiful. But, as I said, it seems that it just isn't something we can have now. Instead, you and I are getting a PHD in patience. It becomes a fight against bitterness and disdain. It’s getting hard to see the clarity and beauty of life through all the tears. It’s hard to heal from ongoing assaults. I’m praying for the peace of God that excels all thought… but at night, when I am quiet in bed… a burrito on the edge of oblivion, I only have the specters of loss with me. I only have my amputated soul. And so I want to escape the windbags and the a-holes and just walk in the woods for a while. To sit by a fire side and a waterfall and not think. That place of solitude that through my own life has been the restorative respite I need so desperately right now. Deb was my first experience with that respite. She introduced me to my first waterfall and my first peaceful night beside a fire. And Chris introduced her. How serendipitous. But, i have a feeling that 'not thinking' is just not something I can do. Maybe the demons I keep locked in the bottles on the high shelf can help. They at least offer the brilliance of numb. Then again… I think it’s the dance that lets us forget. But what do I do with all of this… electricity? Surging and coursing through me is the fuel of a 1000 generations of drunken Scott’s, Irishmen, Danes and Indians fighting and f#@%ing through their funerary rites. But here’s little ole me, civilized and proper—speaking words of quiet and comfort in whispers when I really want to shout and flail and dance. What is the right way to grieve? Quiet contemplation? Shouting? Rage? Death is quiet, but getting there sure isn't. It is loud and noisy. Muddy and fun. Maybe this is the time to burn and shout and rage in the face of the dark night. Making love and writing books. Painting and sculpting. Running and dancing. Talking—in whispers, and in song. When I go, please make your grieving a place of healing in whatever form that needs to be. A walk in the woods will be good. I can howl at the moon that lights us all. --- --- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2067382256&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/do-not-go-gentle-dylan-thomas" title="Do Not Go Gentle - Dylan Thomas" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Do Not Go Gentle - Dylan Thomas/a/div Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night BY DYLAN THOMAS Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. --- Worse Than I Imagined Then She Died Obituary The Parting Ceremony Oh, I Miss You --- #memoir #memory #essay #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

yay, more loss

Wolfinwool · Fifty-Nine Days

Living 59 days longer than his 2nd daughter, Chris made it almost to 90. Almost. At 4:45 am CST he legally ended his time here. Finally beating the game of life. Winning his fight against city hall. In truth, his life ended months ago. He’s been a crumbling husk for… well long enough that I’m having a hard time remembering him any other way.

What an inglorious death. To waste waste waste away into the ether with a whimper. Where is the rage against the dying light? Maybe that’s something you are supposed to do now while you still can. Before sickness hobbles us. Like traveling to Spain or France or driving around the country instead of warming this spot in on one’s study and marinating in sadness.

And rage.

Between the loss, the relief and the guilt, it is it difficult to know which is worse. For my life-partner, it is the loss. She has accepted this long ago but the shadow of her sister’s death is far more powerful. It’s a shame really that Deb’s loss will darken the coming weeks and what would be a celebration of a long life well lived will instead be sidelined by our thoughts of her. We'll be confused about this. What are we sad about? His loss, her loss, our loss? Missed friends? Spurned lovers? It will all boil and froth to the top and we'll have to confront it. Or numb it.

But, numbing only delays the inevitable.

At least my father-in-law doesn’t have to worry about losing his little girl any longer and she’ll never know the loss of her daddy. Silver linings.

This phase of life, the taking-more-than-giving part, comes to us all. And it f#@%ing sucks. For some of us, life starts taking a little sooner. Some fewer still—a lot sooner. But it comes to us all. It’s part of the journey we all take on the way to the long house of our fathers.

In spite of it being universally experiential, we just aren’t designed to confront this kind of ongoing load and loss. And so we flail and flop, grasping for meaning and wanting to feel whole. To be loved completely and not piecemeal. But it seems that’s just not something we can have now, the feeling of wholeness. Being complete. I glimpsed it once, and it was beautiful. But, as I said, it seems that it just isn't something we can have now. Instead, you and I are getting a PHD in patience.

It becomes a fight against bitterness and disdain.

It’s getting hard to see the clarity and beauty of life through all the tears. It’s hard to heal from ongoing assaults. I’m praying for the peace of God that excels all thought… but at night, when I am quiet in bed… a burrito on the edge of oblivion, I only have the specters of loss with me. I only have my amputated soul.

And so I want to escape the windbags and the a-holes and just walk in the woods for a while. To sit by a fire side and a waterfall and not think. That place of solitude that through my own life has been the restorative respite I need so desperately right now. Deb was my first experience with that respite. She introduced me to my first waterfall and my first peaceful night beside a fire. And Chris introduced her. How serendipitous.

But, i have a feeling that 'not thinking' is just not something I can do. Maybe the demons I keep locked in the bottles on the high shelf can help.

They at least offer the brilliance of numb. Then again… I think it’s the dance that lets us forget.

But what do I do with all of this… electricity? Surging and coursing through me is the fuel of a 1000 generations of drunken Scott’s, Irishmen, Danes and Indians fighting and f#@%ing through their funerary rites. But here’s little ole me, civilized and proper—speaking words of quiet and comfort in whispers when I really want to shout and flail and dance.

What is the right way to grieve? Quiet contemplation? Shouting? Rage? Death is quiet, but getting there sure isn't. It is loud and noisy. Muddy and fun. Maybe this is the time to burn and shout and rage in the face of the dark night. Making love and writing books. Painting and sculpting. Running and dancing. Talking—in whispers, and in song. When I go, please make your grieving a place of healing in whatever form that needs to be.

A walk in the woods will be good. I can howl at the moon that lights us all.

Wolfinwool · Do Not Go Gentle – Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

BY DYLAN THOMAS

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Worse Than I Imagined Then She Died Obituary The Parting Ceremony Oh, I Miss You

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