My eyes are filled with gods

This was a strange summer — busier than usual, and everything seemed to have just been a little bit more. More problems with students, more health concerns, more soul-baking heat, more exhaustion.  I began to feel a subtle shift, at the end of last week, out of the winds of more, but perhaps that’s just to be expected with the sudden advent of autumn-like weather. The break from the heat is welcome, but a little bittersweet — I missed the last few perfect driving nights of August. If I’m lucky we’ll see one or two yet before the leaves begin to fall.

Recent events have had me thinking of those who have passed away over the years. Not in a sad way, necessarily. I believe it’s important to remember our honored dead and their places in our lives;  when they first pass, it’s difficult not to. The reminders are there in every impulse and every breath. As time goes on, the sting of their loss recedes into our hearts. We never lose it completely, but their memories become woven into the fabric of who we are and who we want to become. We’re no longer faced with hourly, daily, weekly reminders of the loss because it’s no longer an external awareness of separation. Until, that is, something suddenly triggers a memory — a photo, a song, a memento, a favorite food or TV show, a silly in-joke that no one else would get. The unmistakable and undeniable feeling of their presence there in the room with you (regardless of what you believe happens after death).

June 4 was the 10th anniversary of my father’s death. It’s a strange thing to commemorate, the day someone passed away. By itself, it’s just another calendar date that means nothing at all, but the abrupt realization that a particular date and time is suddenly upon you can be an instant and powerful memory trigger (sometimes good … but more often, not). So I mark these days on my calendar just as I do birthdays. I make plans to spend some time with my memories that day in whatever way seems natural at the time.

In many ways, this is hardest with my father. Although we were close when I was very young, Dad and I grew apart in drastic ways as soon as I hit double-digits. That rift never really healed, although we were just beginning to find common ground again when the heart attack took him. After ten years, though, my mother still misses him terribly, so we make a point to spend time together on the important days — his birthday, the anniversary of his death, their wedding anniversary — so she can share her memories if she feels up to it. This year was harder for her than the last few, perhaps because the number ten seems intrinsically momentous to our modern reckoning.

I usually don’t have much to say, beyond asking questions. Ten years on, there’s still too much regret and bitterness muddying the waters for the little girl who used to live for Saturday bike rides with her daddy.

And still, his photo is on my mantle. I make a point to remember, because for good or ill, he had a large part in making me who I am. When Samhain comes, I’ll have the peanut brittle and cigars waiting for him, this year and for many years to come.

He is my father, and he is one of many among my honored dead.

—

Edit: Strange timing. Not ten minutes after posting this, a post along similar lines popped up in my RSS feed by Jason over at Wild Hunt (titled “How We Deal with Our Dead”).

Why the increased interest in reincarnation, in ancestor veneration, in being remembered? I think it has partially to do with an impulse that has always been with us. One that, to certain extents, has been discouraged by our post-Enlightenment culture, or only approved in special contexts (saints, national heroes). For so long we have been afraid to acknowledge that we long to make the dead a part of our lives. To not simply “move on”, but to continue to weave them into the tapestry of our existence. That it isn’t morbid, but loving. As we approach Samhain, Day of the Dead, and other Winter holidays of remembrance and ancestor veneration, let us focus on how we integrate those who are no longer with us, but are still very much with us.

Uncle Jim’s funeral was today. I saw out-of-state cousins I haven’t seen in 20+ years, most of whom I didn’t even recognize. Thankfully, there was minimal drama. I’m considering that a win.

The minister was half an hour late; he’d written the time down wrong and had to scramble over when the funeral director called to find out where he was. As another aunt pointed out, though, Uncle Jim would have thought that quite a hoot — there would have been much in the way of eye-rolling and dramatic sighs and and head shaking. And he would’ve groused about it to anyone who would listen. Repeatedly, and with a gusto he might otherwise reserve for ND games and NASCAR races. As soon as Aunt D. pointed that out, an audible chuckle made its way around the room. No one was particularly upset by the delay, and apparently the minister did a fine job in the end, I’m told.

My family is typically Midwestern in that they all consider themselves Christian (Methodist or non-denominational, mostly), regardless of how many years it’s been since the last time they attended church or read the Bible.  I’m the black sheep in that regard; my beliefs have changed drastically since the days of youth groups, thrice-weekly church services and at-home Bible lessons. So although I know the minister’s words were meant to comfort my aunt and the rest of the family, I found myself seething after a few minutes and ended up reciting song lyrics to myself to tune him out. So much emphasis on “defeating” death and how unnatural it is; so many assurances that belief in God supposedly robs it of its power and sting. So many promises of eternal and perfect life in a heavenly mansion.

It is one of the great tragedies of Western civilization that we demonize death to such an extent. We’re taught from an early age to fear death — which is necessary for self-preservation, yes — but there’s also the insinuation that it’s some sort of nebulous, evil force in the world that needs to be overcome, banished, defeated.  As soon as someone dies, they’re whisked away and hidden from view, sterilized and either burned or made into some waxen effigy of the person we knew. We’re awkward and uncomfortable around those who have just experienced such a personal loss; we allow them a certain brief period of private grieving, and then expect the mourners to get on with their lives according to some arbitrary self-determined timeline.  We avert our eyes from death, we speak of it in somber and hushed tones and make it into something wicked and fearful.

Worst of all, though, are the Bible passages that are inevitably recited in a vague attempt at offering comfort. To tell a woman who has just lost her husband of 53 years that Jesus has “defeated” death, that death has no sting, because her husband is now dining at the right hand of God instead of sitting beside her …  how dismissive that is, how it diminishes of the importance of her grief and pain and turns the focus away from the loss and to vague promises.

I would much rather we faced death head-on. One of my co-workers told me a little of her grandmother’s funeral in Jamaica, how everyone went out and bought new clothes in a specific color, based on your generation in relation to the deceased; how they sang and celebrated her grandmother’s life for the traditional nine nights and then on the final day, led a colorful procession to the burial site. There are traditions to uphold, and often food and drink offerings to the deceased, and stories and songs and commiserating amongst family and friends for at least 10 days following the death. There is sorrow, to be sure, but it’s balanced by companionship and celebration.

And I can’t help but feel a little jealous at that.

Pup #3 of MF’s own personal pack has entered the world. He’s a feisty one, if the nickname is any indication. And that’s a good thing — not only does he have some catching up to do, but he’s going to need that orneriness to keep up with the rest of the clan. Especially the dog.

Welcome, Big Kick. And thank you for reminding us that the world carries on.

My uncle, James Radics, joined the honored dead this morning at 5:30 AM.

It has been a very long week, full of deadlines and projects and an insane amount of last-minute problems. A friend moved out of state, and I had to bow out of one of my favorite games. Again. I can’t remember ever missing so many in so short a timespan.

And then, I was supposed to have a small break from the terrible last night. Mom called early yesterday evening — just as friends had begun to arrive — and left a message telling me the doctor had said it was unlikely that my uncle would last until midnight. Her voice wavered when she said she didn’t know whom I prayed to, but that my aunt and uncle needed prayers.

I cried a little, but I couldn’t pray right then. Even though we’d known for a couple of weeks, now, that this day was fast approaching, I couldn’t find the words.

It’s strange, how your mind tries to rationalize things upon receiving such news. I told Will that I couldn’t stay but that he should go on with our plans, since one friend had already arrived; he instantly recognized that I was in no state to drive over to say my goodbyes by myself, and insisted on driving me. Somehow he managed to convince me of this, and quietly made apologies, in-person and on the phone, to our friends for the cancellation.

It was a difficult visit. When we arrived, Mom and middle brother were there along with several members of Uncle Jim’s family. There had already been drama, with one of the brothers storming off earlier in the day. My aunt was talking on the phone with their son, who had been allowed to call twice, once on his own dime, and once for free when the chaplain made the arrangements.

The interior bedroom was small and cramped and hot, and their two small, anxious dogs refused to leave his side. I went in and out a few times, staying as long as I could before the conditions became overwhelming. I badly wanted to stay with my aunt until he passed — after all, where else should a child of the crossroads be? — but in the end, I had to admit I couldn’t stay. Making myself sick wasn’t going to make anything easier for either my aunt or my uncle.

It wasn’t until the ride home, after I had seen how miserable my uncle was, and how my quiet aunt held his hand so gently and with such love, that I finally found the words for my prayer.

Goodbye, Uncle Jim. I hope you’ve found peace and comfort at last.

It’s all worth it for the last panel. (Click to embiggen.)

(Bitches!)