What It Meant

There’s been so much going on this week, I have found it hard to write, and I’m only trying to do so now in the hopes that the process will help me to see things more clearly and find some meaning in all that has transpired. I’m a firm believer in writing as an act of discovery and exploration, or, as Patricia Hampl has said: “I don't write about what I know: I write in order to find out what I know.”

Maybe I will start simply by remembering our good friend Jeff, whose memorial service we attended on Whidbey Island Saturday. Jeff was a man of infectious exuberance, prone to saying yes, unfailingly kind and good-natured even when suffering, and, as one speaker said, when it came to faith, Jeff did not preach it––he lived it.

And so there is that, the passing of a peer, and the memories and reflections it brings about. “Who are all those old people?” I thought at a backyard gathering the evening before the service, watching four friends sitting on the steps by a pot of red geraniums, deeply immersed in conversation, everyone slow and sensibly shod, good-looking in an AARP way, vaguely familiar, but altered by time and imbued with experiences about which I know little, the myriad progression of events that followed the period when we were young together.

Of course there is the temptation of self-rebuke. Why did we not visit while our friend was still alive? Why are we all so busy? How were we so oblivious to the decades racing by? We are newly reminded of the precious and ephemeral nature of our lives, and we reaffirm our resolve to make friendship a priority.   

There is joy here too. Interesting and picturesque young adults, beautiful children, Jeff’s remarkable mother at 92 reciting the 23rd Psalm from memory and the depths of her heart, leaving no doubt that goodness and mercy shall follow. There is the litany and laughter of memories recounted, like a kind of mythology, but all of it true. We linger, and the weather is uncharacteristically warm, and sometimes the sunlight fills the ache of loss with its shining.

And there was that geomagnetic storm. As electrons collided with earth’s atmosphere in the deepest hours of night, the Northern Lights were visible to us even here. We were staying in a place on the Puget Sound, with dark northern skies, and we climbed out of bed and stepped outside to watch from the deck. At first it was thin needles of light raining down, shimmering, silver white…far more subtle than I had imagined, but magical nonetheless. In one part of the sky, I saw a rose-pink hue, also subtle, just a pale glow. I was satisfied with this muted version of the spectacle, especially since it had not been necessary to travel to some freezing cold and distant destination. But then we discovered the trick––Is this cheating? Is this real?––which was to look at the sky through the camera lens, hold steady, and take a slow shot. The colors were amplified, the range revealed, and we saw the rays and ripples of luminous green, and purple and magenta, and we were filled with wonder.

The next day, we ferried back to Seattle to visit a little family to whom we are related. We went to a park near their house and walked along a path through an old growth forest to the water, and a dear boy named Henri, who is almost four, led the way on his bicycle, protecting us from all the dangers. We set down a blanket and had a picnic, and Henri built me an open-face sandwich on top of a cracker, tall like a skyscraper, with a cherry tomato on top. He was a generous boy; he told us stories, and he knew about gardens and books, and he found us presents—like a seashell and a mossy walking stick. The sunny weather had brought everyone out, and there was a festive feeling. It reminded me of my own childhood days in a city park, and the jubilation that erupts with the first warm day in winter places.

Henri’s mother asked me what age I was inside, and I said that I was somewhere between ten and twelve, but the good thing about being 73 is that one is also armed with some wisdom and autonomy. The possibilities are extensive if one manages to stay upright. We talked a little about the woes of the world and how ominous the future sometimes seems, and she was very honest about that. “I just have to tune it out for now,” she admitted. “I sort of channel Ayn Rand and focus on my own self-interest, taking care of my life and the people I love.” I understood. And maybe tending lovingly to a family and modeling diligence and decency are excellent contributions.

And then there came a blizzard. As we walked back to our cars, a gust of wind encircled a stand of cottonwood trees, and the white seeds swirled through the air like snow, even piling in little drifts at the feet of the trees, and we all stood there in a state of enchantment, watching.

“The world is filled with wonder,” I said.

“The world is full of love,” said Henri.

I swear. He really said that.

And I think I’ve just found the meaning. I can put down my pen.