August 20 - August 26, 2000

August 20 - August 26, 2000

Sunday, August 20 Today was the day I had set aside for Don's memorial. It seemed strange, after cancelling it twice, to be doing it for real now. Rémy had spent the previous two nights getting displays ready. Using her handicraft skills, she papered the oval box we put Don's ashes in (we decided the black plastic "shoebox" we'd bought through the mortuary just wasn't expressive enough). She used Don's glue sticks and every one of his metal paper clips. He would have been proud - and vidicated. I'd rolled my eyes when he'd bought yet another box of those clips, and here we were, using every one of them. I guess nearly everyone was properly notified, though in truth I didn't do any follow-ups. Rachel was unable to attend as there was a scheduled event out at Commonweal that weekend. Marty, who was enrolled in the event, did manage to make it down, though he arrived late. Ken from the Chorus asked if there was anything he or the Chorus could do for the service. I said yes. I wanted them to sing "Beautiful Dreamer," just as they had done at the wedding, and the "Ave Maria" we had just recorded on CD. He got about six guys to commit to being there, and they arrived at our house about an hour before the service so they could rehearse. Jerry arrived. Mitch and his boyfriend came down from the Sierras. Rémy went over early to set up the sound system and VCR so we could show the videotape of the ashram talent show. We had the hall from 3:00 to 5:00 PM. At 2:45, the chorus members left the house and drove to the park, while Jerry and I, Mitch and his partner, and several of Don's friends walked to the park. Jerry held and carried Don's ashes. When we entered the hall, it was beautifully set up. Sara and Katherine had helped Rémy set up the tables for the displays and refreshments, and the chairs had been arranged in concentric semi-circles facing the windows that looked out over the park. I think Rémy took the ashes from Jerry. I vaguely wanted some sort of ceremonial recognition that Don had arrived in the hall, but there was none and I didn't think to say anything aloud. Jerry kind of melted into the background after entering the hall. He and I got separated. I went to greet a few people, and Annie came up to me to ask how she should pronounce a word in a poem she was going to read, and I spoke to Buddy about the songs the Chorus was going to sing. I was having a hard time staying focused, a hard time sorting what I should be doing to make the ceremony run well from what I felt my heart wanting to do. My heart just wanted to let go and trust that everything would go well. I was perhaps in a mild state of shock. I was surprised to see so many people in the hall. There must have been about a hundred: my friends from work, the Chorus, and the El Camino Reelers club; Don's friends from work, Commonweal, and his yogi connections; some members of Don's bike club, and some people who knew him only through his poetry. It was an amazing demonstration just how multi-talented, much loved, and busy my husband had been. I got an image of a multi-faced, multi-armed Hindu diety who was a representation of all the things Don had been and done, all the Dons that ever were and were now present in the room. The brief brochure Rémy and I had written up didn't catch a tenth of it. I felt I ought to start the ceremony, but then pretty much leave it free-form for people to do whatever they wanted. So, at about 3:15, I stood in front of the tables and faced the people and welcomed them. I told them we would start with a little music, a song in Hawaiian. "You probably won't understand most of it, but you'll recognize 'aloha.' And that is why we are here today: to say good-bye, to say I love you, and to greet." I sat down in the front row with Rémy on one side of me and Mitch's boyfriend on the other. We held hands as the Happa song played. This was the hardest part for me. I cried and shook through most of the song. There was also something I didn't do at this point that I should have done. Jerry had melted away into the crowd, standing at the back of the room, the outsider once again. I should have made sure he was up front with me, I should have made it clear he was part of the family. But as the song ended, I turned my focus towards what I had to do next, and I never really thought of Jerry again. I got up and dried my eyes and addressed the crowd again. I thought I ought to tell them about Don's last days, since it is so often a question people have on their minds but are too embarrassed to ask. "We fequently asked Don if he was uncomfortable or in pain. He always indicated he was not, even when he could no longer speak. Just about the last thing he said was when the nurse asked if he wanted morphine. He gave her an emphatic 'No.' Just three days before he died, I had the nurse remove the catheter. It was the only artificial thing he was connected to. As she removed it, I explained to him what was going on. 'I think this will make you more comfortable,' I said, 'I know you want this to be as natural a process as possible.' And he said, 'Yeah.' And then he fell asleep. And he never really woke up again, save to that Great Awakening we all hope for." The Chorus then sang "Beautiful Dreamer." They had sounded pretty good rehearsing at home, but either the ceremony or the merely intermitant accompaniment Buddy gave them threw them off at the key change. But it was beautiful enough and I was grateful they were there to do it, a kind of closing parenthesis to the wedding ceremony. I then invited people to come up and say whatever they wished. I said I was going to go first. "I had an eloquent speech planned for this part," I said, "but the heck with it. I'm not going to say anything. Instead, Don's going to speak." I opened his collected poems, The White Crack, and read two poems. "The Encounter" is about a tryst he had in a gay bathhouse. It brought chuckles from many, but showed, in its closing lines, how well Don integrated his sexuality and his spirituality. Watching the stranger he had just made love to walk away into the shining streetlights of the night, he writes, I think of the innocence in the way the hopeful worship, and of heartbreaking practice of the world. "Rewrite 108 (Juice)" talks about how writing and rewriting is like trying to live forever, and how his own mortality might actually be a gift, a way of getting people's attention so he can tell them, "look no further, / you already are the peace you seek." Then I sat down and let others speak. Annie went first. She read a poem that was on a card Don had sent her once. She tripped over the word she had asked me to pronounce. I wasn't much help; I hadn't known how to pronounce it either. Waz spoke, talking about the first time he and Don (Vivekan to him) had met, the first time they had kissed, and the first time they made love (in the middle of a country road, apparently). He also talked about scolding Don once about taking himself too seriously, which angered Don. Then Waz turned to me and bowed and thanked me for being who I am and doing what I had done for Don. I nodded back. Though several friends days later said they were appalled and amazed at Waz's eulogy, I was happy to hear it. As he was bowing to me and thanking me for taking care of his Vivekan, I was bowing back and thanking him. Thank you, Waz, I was saying. Thank you for being yourself and proving to my friends that I am not crazy and I have not been exaggerating. These people really are as self-absorbed as I have been telling them. Jnani spoke, or rather, read. She read the passage from The Tibetan Book of the Dead for the sixth day following a death. Apparently, there are seven texts, one for each day of the week following a death, and you do them seven times for a total of forty-nine readings or prayers. She had done this once before when a friend's husband had committed suicide. Unfortunately, she was not a good reader, or perhaps the sight of a hundred people all watching her spooked her. It didn't help much that the text was neither narative nor lyrical, something our Western ears are more prepared to hear at times like this. Instead, it was one of those endless Tibetan Buddhist catalogues of deities, powers, directions, gates, and details that is meant, in its contemplation or recitation, to induce a kind of trance, much like (but far more elaborate than) the Roman Catholic Rosary. She fumbled through it, skipping around (which didn't help things), and finally ended. Some of the images stuck with me, though, especially the image of the rainbow gate and the exhortation of the beloved dead one to realize that all the grace and beneficence he perceives as coming from the dieties and powers and guardian spirits is in fact coming from himself, that the light leading him on is shining from within. My boss, Mark, spoke. He said that he had come to know and admire Don. "He was always so busy, doing so many things, which I could tell just looking at our server logs." (Don sent out his CancerWatch e-mails through Glyphic's server.) "And yet he was always so peaceful, so calm. That is what he taught me, that is something I hope I can do as well." Someone from the bike club spoke, expressing surprise about Don's poetry. "I had no idea he was a poet," he said. Raddha spoke, mentioning how she had come up to chant with Don, but that "he obviously wasn't into it." She then led the group in the same chant she had sung then, explaining again that it was "The Lord's Great Triumph over Death." I was surprised by how many there knew it and how good they all sounded as they chanted. It ended with the Om Shantis I remembered from before. Time was slipping by, so I got up again as Raddha took her seat. "I don't know if you noticed at the time, but when you got to the Om Shantis, Don joined right in." She nodded. I then told the folks we only had the hall until 5:00 and asked if there were any more speakers. There were a few, and as they got up to speak, I siddled over to the Chorus and expressed my thanks and my regrets that there wouldn't be time for the Ave Maria. After the last speaker, I introduced the videotape of the ashram talent show (or "Gong Show" as was the fashion then) and Rémy started the tape. It was a big hit, the folks watching laughing just as loudly as the people on the tape had fifteen years ago. We joined hands afterwards and I guess I said some words of parting and thanks, but I don't really remember them, then people broke for cake and softdrinks and folks started taking down the tables, chairs, and displays. It wasn't until I was just standing around in a daze that I realized Jerry hadn't spoken, and then I realized how quickly I had forgotten him and the role he could have played and I felt ashamed and sorry. People were lingering beyond the time we had for renting the hall, so Stephen announced loudly that everyone had to leave, and that those who wanted to could come to my house for refreshments afterwards. N. and Bashkar came up to me as we were headed out the door. She said she remembered something Don had told her. "We asked him how he was doing. It was obvious that things weren't going so well. But you know what he told us? He said, 'Life is great. Cancer sucks.'" "We often remember that," Bashkar said. "It kind of summarizes his whole philosophy." I was delighted to hear this anecdote. I was hoping to hear more when I got back to the house. In the meantime, I had decided to walk home alone, carrying Don's ashes. It was a beautiful day in the park, a sunny late afternoon. It was hot, and once I left the shelter of the park, I worked up quite a sweat just walking. I had walked this route before, when Remy and Sara and I had checked out the hall last Wednesday. As before, the long stretch along the ugly apartment block on Crisanto was dispiriting, but you cross the Hetch Hetchy aqueduct as you turn the corner onto Escuella. I spoke to Don about it as we crossed, though I don't remember what I said. I felt lonely and wondered if I was just repeating an old pattern of retreating into solitude when what I would most like is comfort and support. I turned onto Villa and walked the short block up to the house. I noticed there was a small basket with plants and a card on the front porch, apparently delivered while we were at the service. I brought them in through the front door. I guess I expected people to be in the livingroom, but there was no one there when I got in. I put the card and the basket by the telephone. I could hear people coming into the kitchen and then going out the back door. I guess they decided to have everything out on the new deck. That would be a nice place for a party, I suppose, but I was more interested in having a wake. I wanted to sit in a circle around Don's ashes and hear stories about him from his friends. But his friends were all out on the patio, talking to each other. I put the box with the ashes on the diningroom table - which was now back in the dining room where it belonged - and sat down on the couch for a few minutes. Then I changed out of my sweaty clothes and into shorts and the rainbow pride tee-shirt I had gotten at the San Jose Pride festival years ago. I realized I was hungry. I got a smidge of cake at the reception, but nothing to drink. I was hungry and thirsty. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a slice of pizza and something to drink and went out to the deck. Folks were talking in groups, seated on the patio furniture benches or on folding chairs they had brought from the living room. Someone noticed the brightly colored tee-shirt almost at once. "Of course!" she said (I don't remember whom), "Just like the rainbow gate in the Book of the Dead!" No one else seemed to have much to say to me. Davis and Jnani were talking to each other. I went over and joined them. Jnani was opening a little metal container as I came up. "I brought some sand from the sacred cave of" some Hindu saint or mystic, she said. It was the same stuff she had brought with her the day Don died, the grit she had sprinkled over him. She put a little into Davis's palm. Then she grabbed my hand and tried to pour some into it, but she dropped the container and most of it spilled onto the deck. She made a half-hearted effort to retrieve some, but quickly gave up. It stayed sprayed out on the decking throughout the party and never did get cleaned up. I noticed that Davis took his sand and tossed it into his hair. I took mine and poured it down the front of my pants. Stephen and Davis were the only ones who really made some effort to talk to me, though perhaps that was because I sat down between them while Stephen explained rock climbing to Davis. People left pretty much all at once. Jnani asked for permission to use the phone before she went and I said, "Sure." Jerry and I talked in the back yard for a while, then went inside. Jerry was going to stay overnight with us, using the meditation room as a guest bedroom. Pretty soon, he and Remy and I were the only ones left. I told him about being the beneficiary of Don's IRA and gave him the phone number he would have to call to start that process. I also went over Don's will with him. Then we said good-night and he went to bed. Remy and I sat in the kitchen again, like so many times before. She would be leaving tomorrow morning, getting a flight back to Wisconsin, where her coffee business needed her immediate attention. "I could not have done this without you," I said. "It was my great honor to be here, and to get to know Don a little," she said. "He was somthing, wasn't he?" I said. "Yes, he was something." "And his friends were something else." She chuckled, then got an exasperated look on her face. "You know what I found Jnani doing when I came into the livingroom?" "I'm afraid to ask. Annointing the walls with oil?" "She was reading that card that came with the flowers. I wondered who had sent them, too, but I saw the envolope was sealed and thought you should be the one who opened it, not me. But that didn't stop her. She had it opened and was sitting there, the phone in one hand, reading it." "Well, it was addressed to The Family of Don Flint and His Friends. I guess she figured that included her." "She sure acted guilty enough when I entered the room. She knew she shouldn't have opened that letter. She knew it wasn't addressed to her." I shrugged. "Well, watcha gonna do? It's in her nature. Besides, it doesn't matter any more. Most of those people I'm never going to see again." But there are going to be at least two more memorials. Commonweal is going to have its own commemoration sometime soon, and sometime in October, I'm going to take some of Don's ashes to the ashram in Virginia. But all that's in the future. There's no need to rehearse it now.
Monday, August 21
Tuesday, August 22
Wednesday, August 23
Thursday, August 24
Friday, August 25
Saturday, August 26

© 2000 Louis Flint Ceci / ceci@best.com