Essay

I’ve had much to reflect on this past week; first, I went to Melbourne to attend a special service for the father of my friend Martha who passed away recently. In the Armenian Church, there is a service forty days after death to mark the significance of passing. The Armenians were one of the first established Christian communities many centuries ago so the ritual of their worship is ancient and grounded (and notably abundant in incense). Though the entire service was in a language I did not comprehend, there is so much experiential material in ritual and song that the narrative itself wasn’t so important. We attended the passing of time and life in a way that takes, perhaps, so many centuries to form and express. I think there is something to be said for the old ways that are sometimes more able to hold these moments.

My parent’s house was recently robbed. I’m unsure how passive to make that sentence; should I instead say that my father was robbed? That he and I were? I think it’s most appropriate to say that the house itself was robbed—that the casualty is ultimately a sense of home and safety. Dad is, understandably, rattled and having to go through all the process of protecting his identity (they stole a load of paperwork). Unfortunately, they also stole my mother’s jewellery, grandfather’s watch, and other sentimental items.

There is a challenging pivot point between observations made as an ‘insider’ and those from an ‘objective’ outsider. Often the person on the inside is too close to the subject to speak comprehensively about a given matter; however, the outsider risks generalisations and fills gaps with assumptions based on limited knowledge. (I think this is where good journalism marries the two; a competent journalist can give voice to the insider who would otherwise not be heard.)

This has been a year of firsts which, inevitably after someone’s death, follows a year of lasts. This is the first mother’s day without my mother. The picture above is, I think, the last picture we had together. It was on a walk a few days before I returned to Australia in late April last year. By this time today in May, Mom was back in hospital with a recurrent infection. We had several walks like this in the time we had last April. On this one or another, we sat on a bench and she said that she was okay if she had to go—that she had lived a good life and was content with whatever was to come. I’m content too; I dearly miss her, but in some ways one can’t argue the point of contentment with a dying person. We bring who we are to this life and, if given that opportunity in our passing, we have first opinion in the matter as we go. I can try to rationalise a peace right now by considering how mom was going and the likelihood that, had she lived till now, she would probably be very ill, that her quality of life would be poor, etc. But, that’s almost beside the point. She wasn’t expressing contentment about dying just as an escape from pain; she was content because I think she genuinely felt she had a good life and was fulfilled in it. She said, of course, she wished she had more time but that would be the wish of anyone living a contented life. I’m just thankful she had the time and opportunity to express this as we transitioned through our lasts and firsts.

My mother passed away last week; I spoke at her funeral on Monday. When I began to write the words I would say, it was my intention to make a eulogy. However, I need someone to write to so rather than speak of her, I wrote to her in a letter. I placed a copy of this in her casket and read it at the funeral service.

I’m reading through old journals again; I wrote this in 1996 after holding a rare manuscript book from 1280. How did ancient scholars carry these words that were written and handed down so carefully over time?

He calls,
The Mystic to his Bride.
Her subtle voice returns,
Fixed into his eyes
As he in her remains.
He lifts her;
A gentle touch
Upon the ribs along her spine.
Her skin–still taught,
Though years of holding
Have formed wrinkles in her folds.
His time all spent
Beside her now.
His hands brush across her face.
He sees no age,
Yet, he stoops closer.
His eyes–grey.
In visions, he carries her,
As she does him.
His life upon her words.
And from their joining,
Two made one,
Come volumes yet unborn.

My mother is in hospital at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore; she had, last Friday, major surgery to remove a rare cancerous tumour from deep within her liver. It was a very long and complex procedure that requires a surgeon of great skill and care surrounded by a hospital that can support the whole endeavour. The surgery itself went well and she is recovering now although she’s having some (expected) complications and challenges. I’ll write more about her journey through this in the coming weeks.

I’m still sorting through a lot of old files and letters; I wrote this from New York in 1999.
It is Sunday morning, the last day of October. Somewhere in the city beyond (and beyond the city) one Person is awake and thinking; he wants to build a shelf for the closet—his Wife has too many hats. One Woman has forgotten where she put her slippers; her dog remembers, though he tears one slightly at a seam. One Man is lifting up a potted plant for the Lady across the counter; His Father was a florist in Brussels. One Minister is Praying over his sermon; some of the youth will not appreciate it, some of the deacons disapprove, some of the elders speak thoughtlessly over coffee—one Woman and two Men will change the direction of their lives. One Boy is waiting in the hamper to frighten his Sister when she walks into the room; their Parents work late and sleep still. One Father Kisses his Wife and Daughter good morning; he has to work today at his newsstand. One Man is cold on the sidewalk with a group of Friends, their breath steams with the life of speaking. Outside their windows this river flowing by becomes quickly an ocean—carrying leaves from the front of my window. All my faceless leaves and these People who are formless from this room, yet speak and pray or remain silent—these fragments form a whole of unknown parts. Someone rings a bell in the distance. All those people are happening at this one moment; their actions and decisions behind those actions move them along to the next moment…the next, the next, yet they are all here in this one space of time. My fingers tap out words for them and the next moment comes.

I just found out that my audio recorder is, alas, dead (and will cost most of the price of a replacement to fix). Unfortunately, as with seemingly everything electronic, this means that I’ll not have it repaired but get something new.
Oh, HHB MDP-500 Portadisc recorder,
You travelled with me around the world and back.
So many hours of interviews and lectures
You dutifully recorded.
You took in various dodgy electrical voltages
And ran without complaint in heat or ice.
You rode in the back seat on washed out roads
And were with me that time in the Cessna
In the DRC
When the pilot told us about the pistol
In the compartment
In case the plane went down.
Those were the days; I knew you had no fear.
Remember when that careless customs official
Broke your original leatherette carrier?
I bought you a sturdy Porta-Brace case
Made in Vermont
So you would be safe.
You used a funky storage format that is now
Nearly forgotten
And you’ve been surpassed by your solid state brethren.
You did so much good in your short life,
Recording all that material for various Not-for-Profit organisations.
I hope,
In whatever existence you have in the Beyond,
You are justly rewarded.
I shall remember you fondly.
Yet still I must ask…
How my equipment built thirty years ago still plugs along
And everything from the past ten
Is a bit iffy?
But, of course, the field recorder from thirty years ago
Weighs as much as a small motorcycle
And cannot also play my .mp3 files.

First: Yes, still sore (will look into therapy this week after getting more of the insurance sorted).
Several people have asked how I’m doing psychologically; I think I’m okay considering everything that’s happened. I’m getting a little weary of talking about it (however, at least I can talk about it; that’s supposedly a good sign). It was a little difficult the other night here in my parent’s annual neighbourhood block party. I felt obliged to relate the story over and again; it’s just difficult to discuss what happened casually over a beer and roast pork. Also, people don’t quite know how to respond. The usual route is to relate either their own or another accident story. This is an attempt at empathy, which I appreciate; however, it doesn’t really do much to relieve the stress or trauma of my own situation. I mentioned this difficulty to a friend and she said, “You can always say you’d rather not talk about it.” This is a power I think I’ll need to invoke in the incoming weeks.