Quote

That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.

--Tennyson, In Memoriam

Muff Would Have Loved This Book

This is how I believe my best friend passed from this world:

"It is not the end.
She died that night. Her last breath took her soul, I saw it in my dream. I saw her soul leave her body as she exhaled, and then she had no more needs, no more reason; she was released from her body, and being released, she continued her journey elsewhere, high in the firmament where soul material gathers and plays out all the dreams and joys of which we temporal beings can barely conceive,all the things that are beyond our comprehension, but even so, are not beyond our attainment if we choose to attain them, and believe that we truly can."
From "The Art of Racing in the Rain" by Garth Stein

I think that Muff believe her dog Kelly was a human covered in a dog suit, and she would have understood Enzo, the dog that narrates this book. He longs to be reincarnated as a human. His final thoughts are these:

"When I return to this world, I will be a man. I will walk among you. I will lick my lips with my small, dexterous tongue. I will shake hands with other men, grasping firmly with my opposable thumbs. And I will teach people all that I know. And when I see a man or a woman or a child in trouble, I will extend my hand, both metaphorically and physically. I will offer my hand. To him. To her. To you. To the world. I will be a good citizen, a good partner in the endeavor of life that we all share."
Ibid.

And finally, she would have appreciated this excerpt about driving as a metaphor for life, because Muff really lived her life, and she was generous with the giving of herself to others and to humanity.

"I know this much about racing in the rain. I know it is about balance. It is about anticipation and patience. I know all of the driving skills that are necessary for one to be successful in the rain. But racing in the rain is also about the mind! It is about owning one's own body. About believing that one's car is merely an extension of one's body, about believing that the track is an extension of the car, and the rain is an extension of the track and the sky is an extension of the rain. It is about believing that you are not you; you are everything. And everything is you."
Ibid

Happy 48th Birthday, Muff

Today, June 1, would have been Muff's 48th birthday.
I wish she were still alive to celebrate it, and to get a goofy card from me and some oddball present that I would send her from the West Coast.
She was always gracious about receiving gifts, even when they were things she didn't like, or want, or know what to do with.
She once told me she'd gone through more than one Christmas getting boys toys, like a GI Joe action figure, instead of something a girl would want, so she always tried to make sure that she gave gifts that were fitting for the recipient, and she wanted to be gracious about getting presents that were well thought out by the giver.
One year at Clarke I'd given her a gift of some of her favorite whiskey and some Irish coffee mugs for making Irish coffee at home before summer break.
She was so happy with such a simple gift that I felt like an idiot for having given her other presents in the past.
Yet she never failed to give appropriate gifts to me or to my son once he was born.
She sent lovely books, like Blueberries for Sal, Make Way for Ducklings, Don't Let the Pidgeon Drive the Bus and Possum Come A Knockin' that had Nick crowing with delight every time they were read to him (and I had to read them over and over again, because he loved the stories so much). She predicted Nick would come to love the Captain Underpants series (he did) and she regaled me with tales of reading to her brothers when they were kids, as well as reading to children at the Marshalltown Library where she worked.
Muff was amazing with children, she seemed to know so much about them, how they thought and what they felt and needed that I always figured she'd get married and have children of her own once she got out of college. But it was not to be, and Muff never found a man to settle down with and have those wonderful offspring she could nurture.
Still, she often told me that she felt she'd raised Michael, Bear and Danny, her brothers, and that they'd turned out so well she felt a real sense of pride in them as men.
Though her loss still batters and buffets my soul, I hope that she will look kindly on me this week from Gods library, and help me heal swiftly and well from my Crohns surgery.
Meanwhile, I hope that she's having a heckuva party up there, and that they're serving Irish coffee.

The First Anniversary of Muff's Death

Today marks the one year anniversary of one of the saddest days of my life, the day BJ Larson called to tell me that Muff had died in her sleep that morning. BJ had arrived at Muffs home early because I believe they were going to church, discovered her body, and was devastated. I will always be astonished that he had the presence of mind in such a situation to call me and tell me that she had passed away. I remember screaming "No, no, no!" into the phone and hearing my heart break. It was a dark day, but Muff's funeral was inspirational, respectful and despite the keening and tears, what came through was the love that everyone had for Muff, from her family, friends and community.
Go with God, my friend. I still miss you.
Here is a poem provided by the wonderful Aidan Maher, an Irishman who was kind to both Muff and I when we visited Ireland and who provided a phrase for me to recite at her funeral, about her worthy soul being at the right hand of God.

Bean tSleibe Ag Caoineadh A Mic - An Old Woman of the Mountain Laments Her Son

Brón ar an mbás, 's é dhubh mo chroíse.
D'fhuadaigh mo ghrá is dfhág mé cloíte,
Gan caraid gan compánach fá dhíon mo thíse
Ach an léan seo im' lár, is mé ag caoineadh'


Ag gabháil an tsléibhe dom tráthnóna
Do labhair an éanlaith liom go brónach,
Do labhair an naosc binn 's an crotach glórach,
Ag faisnéis dom gur éag mo stórach

Do ghlaoigh mé ort is do ghlór ní chualas,
Do ghlaoigh mé arís is freagra ní bhfuaras,
Do phóg mé do bhéal, is a Dhia, nárbh fhuar é!
Och, is fuar í do leaba sa gcillín uaigneach.


'S a uaigh fhódghlas 'na bhfuil mo leanbh.
A uaigh chaol bheag, ós tú a leaba,
Mo bheannacht ort, is na mílte beannacht
Ar na fódaibh glasa atá os cionn mo pheata.

Brón ar an mbás, ní féidir a shéanadh,
Leagann sé úr is críon le chéile –
S a mhaicín mhánla, is é mo chéasadh
Do cholainn chaomh bheith ag déanamh créafóig'!

Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart:
It has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.


As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.


I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard.


O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.


Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together, -
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay!

The second to last poem

Dean Cadalan Samhach, A Chilean Mo Ruin
Easbuig Fullarton

Sleep Softly, My Darling Beloved

Dean cadahn sàmhach, a chuilean mo rùin;
Dean fuireach mar tha thu, 's tu an dràsd' an àit' ùr.
Bidh digearan againn, Iàn beairteis 'us cliu',
'S ma bhios tu 'nad airidh, 's leat fear-eiginn dhiubh.

Sleep softly, my darling beloved.
Stay as you are, now that you are in a new land.
We'll find suitors abounding in wealth and fame,
and, if you are worthy, you shall have one of them.

Another memorial poem

Cò a leughas na dàin nach do sgrìobh mi?
Nuair bhàsaicheas mi
spìon mo chridhe ds mà chorp,
's le cutaig mhln
dèan bearradh beag,
is chì thu leabhar
sa bheil sgelobhte na dàin nach do sgfiobh mi;
fuasgail e gu cùramach
le slùilean caomha, blàth',
tog às na briathran
aon mu seach
is gheibh thu dealbh
air Eden mar a bha e
mus do nochd an nathair ann.

Who will read the poems that I have not written?
When I die
pluck my heart out of my body,
and with a delicate gutting-knife
make a little incision,
and you will see a book
in which are written the poems which I did not write;
free it carefully
with gentle, warm eyes,
lift out the words
one at a time
and you'll have a picture
of Eden as it was
before the serpent appeared in it.
Dòmhnall Iain MacÌomhair
Donald John Magiver

Todays memorial Poem

An Even-Song
St. Patrick Sang This

May Thy holy angels, O Christ, son of living God,
Guard our sleep, our rest, our shining bed.

Let them reveal true visions to us in our sleep,
O high-prince of the universe, O great king of the mysteries!

May no demons, no ill, no calamity or terrifying dreams
Disturb our rest, our willing, prompt repose.

May our watch be holy, our work, our task,
Our sleep, our rest without let, without break.

Gaelic Poems in Memory of Muff

The Dream of the World without Death.

Now, sitting by her side worn out with weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:

Crying aloud, "The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.

And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,
Saying, 'Thy wanderings on earth are ended."'

And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle
Even at the silver gates of heaven,
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,
And puts his silence among men no longer.

*

The world was very quiet. Men in traffic
Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen
Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;

And women barred their doors with bars of iron,
In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise
Trembled behind the husbandman afield.

I could not see a kirkyard near or far
I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision
Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.

But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,
And felt the cold wind of a lost one's going.

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,
And faded in a darkness; and that other
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish

One struck his aged mother on the mouth,
And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearth-stone.
One melted from her bairn, and on the ground

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.
And many made a weeping among mountains,
And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,
Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,
Crying, "I am grievous for my children."

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean
Crying, "Burial in the breast of me were better,--
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals."

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,
Saying, "The thing ye cursed hath been abolished--
Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!"

And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,
And men and women feared the air behind them;
And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.

*

Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:

Saying, "O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.

"I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanished upon God!

"I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,
And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.

"I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.

"And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.

"The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;

"And we can sit above them where they slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.

But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grow the silence and the distance.

There is no space for grieving or for weeping
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!"

*

Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut
Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,
And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.

Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;
Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow
Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.

And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,
But red light scorched their edges; and above her
There was a soundless trouble of the vapours.

"Whither, and O whither," said the woman,
"O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,
My little ones, my little son and daughter?

"For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,
And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths
Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes

"Looked violets at the violets, and their hair
Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing
Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;

"And suddenly my little son looked upward,
And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going
Was like a blow of fire upon my face.

"And my little son was gone. My little daughter
Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;
But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it

"By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one
Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,
Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.

"And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,
And I sank among my hair, and all my palm
Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.

"Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither
Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly
By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.

"I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight
I sought him in great forests, and in waters
Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me.

"And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,
Though her voice was like a wild-bird's far behind me,
Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.

"And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward
To the forest where I missed him; and no voices
Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,

"And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,
And no mark of little footsteps any farther,
And knew my little daughter had gone also."

*

But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,
The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,
And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.

And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,
The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,
And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.

And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,
The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,
The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.

The dog in lonely places cried not over
The body of his master; but it missed him,
And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.

The traveller's horse lay swollen in the pathway,
And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller
Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.

The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind
Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,
And the father's bed was empty in the morning.

The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,
Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,
And wakened,--and the cradle there was empty.

I saw a two-years' child, and he was playing;
And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,
And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother.

The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,
And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;
And another white bird flitted round and round it,

And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,
And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,
Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.

*

So far, so far to seek for were the limits
Of affliction; and men's terror grew a homeless
Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.

There was no little token of distraction,
There was no visible presence of bereavement,
Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.

There was no comfort in the slow farewell,
Nor gentle shutting of belovéd eyes,
Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.

There were no kisses on familiar faces,
No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering
Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.

There was no putting tokens under pillows,
There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,
Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.

There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking
How near the well-beloved ones are lying.
There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,

Till grief should grow a summer meditation,
The shadow of the passing of an angel,
And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.

Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

*

But I woke,
And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,
And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,
And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.

I eased my heart three days by watching near her,
And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,
And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.

And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,
And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth
Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.

And I cried, "O unseen Sender of Corruption,
I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,
Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.

"I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,
The bloomiess face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers.

Muffs Favorite Music

As we near the anniversary of my best friends death last year at the end of March, I keep thinking of the things she loved to talk about and that engaged her lively mind.
One of those things was her Irish heritage and her love of Irish music.
Though she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, Muff dreamed of singing the old standard Irish songs of the Dubliners, the Chieftans, the Irish Rovers and the Wolftones. She would roam about the campus at Clarke, humming Celtic tunes off key, thinking her thoughts and reveling in the campus' Irish feel and heritage.
When we went to Ireland together in March 2001, Muff and I enjoyed the nightly music in the Gogerty Pub in Temple Bar.
She would have adored this web site, and it makes me sad that I can't send it to her.
But here it is anyway, in honor of my dear friend, may she rest in peace and be enjoying many evenings of Irish story and song.

Somewhere a Voice is Calling: American Irish Musical Interpreters, 1850-1975
"Through the lives and careers of a few public musical figures, this exhibit shows some of the breadth of 'American Irish' vocal and instrumental music." Features essays, images, and sound clips of music by P.S. Gilmore, John McCormack, Michael Coleman and James Morrison, Francis O'Neill, Annie "Ma" McNulty, and the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. From Boston College University Libraries.
URL TRUNCATED, SEE LII ITEM
LII Item: http://lii.org/cs/lii/view/item/27558