In roughly three weeks it will be the 2nd anniversary of Muff's death.
Though the 'hole' she left behind in my heart hasn't healed completely, it is less painful than it was two years ago.
Still, not a week goes by that I don't think of her, and remember what a good friend she was to me.
She would have enjoyed being on Facebook and chatting with me about books and libraries. She would have commiserated with me through the hard financial times my family has slogged through for the past two years, and she would have rejoiced in Nick's growth and accomplishments. She was, and I like to believe still is, his godmother.
She gave me sane and rational advice when I needed it, laughed with me about life's absurdities, and we'd cry together over the loneliness she felt in not having a life partner or someone to love who could share her appreciation of books, music, Dr Who, writing, Cyrano De Bergerac and all things Irish.
I will miss her 'sagas' and her wit, the way she ate a sandwich (she tore it into bits and ate like a mouse, in small bites) the way she would poke holes in pomposity, pretentiousness, ignorance and prejudice. She couldn't bear the fact that children were going hungry when she could help, so she sponsored a child in a third world country. She also wrote to the troops, because she felt compelled to lift their spirits and let them know they were not forgotten back home in the US.
She was remarkable, talented, brilliant and a wonderful friend who died too soon.
And she lives on in my memory.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
--Tennyson, In Memoriam
Monday, July 27, 2009
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
"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
Monday, June 1, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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!
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!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 27, 2009
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
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
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