A Thousand Winds....

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there.

I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am a diamond glint on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the autumn rain.

When  you awake in the morning hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of birds circling in flight.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there.

I do not sleep.

- Mary Elizabeth Frye



Today I attended the memorial service for the wife of a dear friend, one of those friends whom you hold in high esteem and yet never quite seem to have or find the time to get as close to as you would like.  I knew his wife socially but can't recall more than a few brief conversations.  But I wasn't surprised to learn that she was an incredible, multi-faceted, deep and kind person today (or that she was a beloved colleague, friend, family member, mother and wife/soulmate).  Turns out that she was just as unusual and outstanding a person as her husband ... and perhaps even more so....

When I arrived, I chose to sit next to another friend (among many) whom I hold in high esteem and with whom I am not as close as I would like to be.  It turns out that he had been asked to share a tribute, about which he was nervous and clearly emotional.  I had no idea that he knew my other friends and - glibly, it turned out - assured him that he - and it, the experience of delivering the heartfelt tribute - would be fine.  It further turns out that he and my friend's wife had been colleagues and close collaborators and friends.  (This is one of the delicious ironies of life that I've come to appreciate much more in middle age: that just when you think that you know something or someone, it turns out that you've barely scratched the surface.)

When I arrived, he was clearly in a sad and morose mood, and as we began to talk - about subjects unrelated to the present situation - this improved immeasurably.  He thanked me for this and I was touched and honored to be able to support him in what was clearly a difficult moment.  Then he honored me in an even greater way by asking me to assist him by backing him up: in case he was overcome during his tribute, he asked me to step in and finish reading it.  I was touched and honored even more deeply.

In a word, his tribute was wonderful.  It was respectful, filled with admiration, at times funny and at others pained (and painful).  A clear, multi-faceted and impressive picture of my friend's wife sprang into view and, for many of us, helped us to draw closer to her in death in a way that we wished we had experienced in her lifetime.  And my friend the eulogizer made it through despite a few moments of emotion from which he had to retreat briefly.  As he exited the stage, I congratulated him on his fine remarks, hugged him to calm and heal him and he exited quickly via a side door.

After a couple of minutes when he didn't return, I went to find him ... and he had been overcome: his dear friend's death had indeed hit him hard and he was sobbing deeply.  I comforted him briefly and walked around the corner to stay available should he need me.  When he appeared a few minutes later he was better composed and appreciative of my presence.  And then it hit me....

I - and many of us, I suspect - live with regrets every day, many more than I would like.  Among the most affecting of these in recent years is the regret engendered by the death of friends to whom I was insufficiently close and whose passing wounded by reminding me of the missed opportunity during their lifetime.

But in this moment, I was experiencing life at its most transcendent and meaningful: I was 'there' for a friend, one to whom I hope to be closer in the future, but, more importantly, one for whom I was present when I needed to be at that very moment.  And I appreciated the opportunity.  In profound and ennobling clarity, I was indeed present and in the moment, fully alive, loving wastefully (or, at least, honestly and altruistically) and being all that I can be (which, in this situation, meant being an empathetic and compassionate friend).

So as I struggle with the regret of not being able to live fully, love wastefully and be all that I can be in every moment, it hit me: sometimes, life is fully lived by achieving moments/glimpses/flashes of this eternity in the midst of the temporal.  At that moment - and perhaps only for a shining moment - I was living as I hope to and I felt my humanity fully.  It was a moment, yes, but also a harbinger: the more that I dare to be present, the greater the possibility that I'll be able to reach my higher self ... at this point, it seems, in response to another's need but eventually, hopefully, on command/proactively in alignment with my vision for my life.

Which brings me back to the purpose of that day, to reflect on the life and legacy of a friend.  And as I reflected on the poem in her memorial program, Mary Elizabeth Frye's A Thousand Winds, I had another revelation: this is how I've come to see immortality.  I no longer believe in the cloud-filled heaven about which I was taught as a child but I do still believe in (a kind of) immortality.  And I believe that the Kingdom of God about which Jesus Christ spoke can be and is a present-world reality (too).  I believe that we experience the eternal, the timeless in the midst of life/in the time-bound, from time to time to time (or, perhaps if we're particularly evolved, regularly) ... as I did at the memorial service earlier today.

I believe that my parents and grandparents are immortal because they are always with me in my mind and heart ... and so they are with my wife and my children and stepchildren and my family and friends and all with whom I interact.  I've passed them and the myriad lessons that they taught me on in innumerable interactions and ways.  They are an important and meaningful part of me ... and so their influence and impact is an important and meaningful part of mine....

I believe that I'll be immortal in this way, too: in the influence that I've had on the lives that I've been privileged to touch during my earthly life.  And maybe that influence/presence attenuates over time, but it's there, just like I'm ever mindful of my parents and grandparents and all the others who've touched me so indelibly in my life and am passing on these gifts in my interactions every day.

So, indeed, even though I don't wish to be buried after my earthly life, no one should stand at my metaphorical grave and weep, because I won't be there, either.  I'll be alive in the hearts and memories of those I've touched, in those transcendent moments when they experience the eternal in the midst of the temporal in some way that I've influenced, in whatever they hold sacred that relates in whatever small way to me.  And I'm OK with this: it seems better than a cloudy heaven to me....

And now my dear friend's wife will live on in me more meaningfully, too:  In part because of who she was, especially as described by those who had the privilege to know her better than I.  In part because of whom she touched in her earthly life who've now touched me more meaningfully (and, in once case, indelibly).  And in part because of the experience of the eternal with which I was gifted while celebrating others' timeless experiences of her.

And that's the funny thing about the timeless in my experience: it can come in the most unexpected and sublime ways and at the most unexpected and sublime times.  Earlier today I went to pay my respects to the dead and to support the living and ended up living timelessly for a glorious moment.  I'm not clear as I'd like to be about how I can get closer to living that way more consistently, but I am clear that the serendipitous opportunities to do so that I've experienced happen more often when I engage fully with life rather than shrink from it, when I offer and share myself openly and honestly rather than retreat and protect myself and when I honor and engage the humanity of others and in so doing find my own....

Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.

- John Milton