One Final Fling

A dozen colleagues gathered exactly one year after our buddy Marc died. He came to the party under the redwoods in a unique costume. He would have been the first to pipe up about "making an ASH of himself."

Each of us walking along the path had to play both roles, imagining what our buddy would have said about flying free in the breeze 'neath the oaks and bays, dusting our shoes and clothing with his condensed essence as we flung ash by the spoonful, or poured it out prayerfully?

We got pretty corny about "Our friend, the answer, is blowing in the wind... our friend is blowing in the wind." (Sorry, Bob D.)

In life, Marc loved the redwoods, so we gathered in a circle in a sweet grove and read aloud, "Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye...

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

We sang perfectly imperfectly the words we could remember of Marc's favorite song: Luis Armstrong's version of  "What a Wonderful World." It was the last song to enter his ears a year ago.

And finally, "Hit the Road Jack" by Ray Charles.  That song contained Marc's marching orders. 

These three things he'd gathered as part of his choreographed departure. We honored him again Saturday as best we could, we fellow Somatic Experiencing colleagues of his.

I don't think it was more than a mile up from Linda's home to the spot in the grove that felt just right, in a regional park, but the visits we got to have spread out along the trail were sweet, deep, and nourishing.

Later, back at Linda's, we enjoyed breaking bread, continuing the conversation, and watching the perfect sunset out the window, over the Bay, between the pines. All were aglow with fellowship.

Thanks again, Brother Marc, for the final fling... of your beautiful white ash.                          You always were proud of your ash, buddy!  

Rest In Peace