365 days without you

On my college graduation day ten years ago, my dad was there to cheer me on as I received my diploma. And I'll never forget how touched he was by the words of our convocation speaker, Maya Angelou.

At his funeral, I read a poem by Maya Angelou that not only captured what I was feeling in losing my dad, but also one I know he would have loved.

Yesterday marked 365 days without you, Daddy, and I hold on to every whisper of you. I look forward to when peace blooms.

When Great Trees Fall



by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,


rocks on distant hills shudder,


lions hunker down


in tall grasses,


and even elephants


lumber after safety.



When great trees fall


in forests,


small things recoil into silence,


their senses


eroded beyond fear.



When great souls die,


the air around us becomes


light, rare, sterile.


We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,


see with


a hurtful clarity.


Our memory, suddenly sharpened,


examines,


gnaws on kind words


unsaid,


promised walks


never taken.


Great souls die and


our reality, bound to


them, takes leave of us.


Our souls,


dependent upon their


nurture,


now shrink, wizened.


Our minds, formed


and informed by their


radiance,
fall away.


We are not so much maddened


as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of

dark, cold


caves.



And when great souls die,


after a period peace blooms,


slowly and always


irregularly. Spaces fill


with a kind of


soothing electric vibration.


Our senses, restored, never


to be the same, whisper to us.


They existed. They existed.


We can be. Be and be


better. For they existed.

I can't even imagine the forest colours when I am not seeing them.

-Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck

to my Asia

Dear Asia,

You left us at 5 am Arizona time, 4 am California time, and 10 pm Australia time on Friday February 24th, 2012. Mom said you were snuggled next to her and Wheezer, in your favorite bed. You lived a long and beautiful life of 15 years, and I am so happy that you are now free from any pain you may have felt in your old age. You were my best friend, and slept on my bed every night from age 10 to the end of high school, and every other time I was home after that. Whenever I could come home, where ever home was, you were there, ready to jump into my arms and lick my face. Even when you started to loose your sight and your hearing, you could smell me, and your ears would perk up when you sensed I was there. You were my baseline. Even when everything else had changed, you were there.

Thank you, Asia, for what you gave me, Mom, and Allie. You are the original fourth musketeer, and you always will be. It may seem strange for some, but you kept us going through some of the toughest times. You kept me going, even when I felt alone in the world. I still can't grasp that you are gone.

I remember how you developed a taste for lettuce, because were jealous of the iguana. I remember how if we got down at eye level and yelled, 'Scoochie!' you would throw your ears back and pull your belly along the carpet, scooting along with delight. I remember how we made you a unicorn costume for the San Diego Pug Rescue fair and you would get so excited every time we took it out that you would try to put it on yourself. I remember how when I got a loft bed, you would let me carry you up the ladder, and then jump into my arms to get down in the morning with complete trust of my abilities to catch you. I remember how your fur smelled, and what it was like to fall asleep in the afternoon with you on my lap, and wake up to find you still there. And I remember when the fence blew over in a wind storm, and we thought you were lost. But a week later, you came home.

Since you left us, I have been sleeping on the couch, with the door open, waiting for you to scratch at the door and announce that you've come back. Feet worn and weary, you'd lick my face with glee, your eyes telling the story of where you had been and what you had discovered. That you had your adventure, but you came back for us.

I know it is my turn to let you go. Someday, the four of us will walk the desert together again, and we will finally let you run free, with our blessing, in the Arizona foothills you so loved. But for now, I hope you will let me hold onto you a bit longer, until that time comes.

I will always love you, Asia bear.

You tell Arnold the Iguana to share his lettuce up there.

-M

Dear Daddy

As I grew up, you fostered in me the idea that I could do anything I made up my mind to accomplish. Your encouragement has always been a constant in my life. And your appreciation for the arts has become my mainstay, upon which my very identify depends.

Last Saturday, I went to dance class, like every Saturday. And just like every Saturday, my 91 year old dance teacher gave me what for. After an hour and a half of screaming, "legs higher!", "you have to feel it!" and "you're doing it wrong!", that very same dance teacher smiled broadly and asked us, her pupils, to morning tea. That day was special for another reason as well; on that day, we had the pleasure of being accompanied by our distinguished pianist Eli, whose 60-year career is far from over.

As we sat around the table at a nearby cafe, munching on scones and sipping flat whites, Eli informed us that he would be going to school in London for the summer. That is when he looked me square in the face, slapped the table and said, "Never stop learning. If you do, you'll go straight to the grave!". After which my dance teacher leaned over and took a bite of the banana my friend had been eating. "When you're old", she said with a wink, "you can do anything you want". I don't think she meant that you can get away with anything. She meant that in her ripe old age, more than ever before, anything is possible.

I am inspired by the wisdom of these friends who have lived long and full lives. But they have not stopped living those lives, either.

And I will continue to be inspired by you, Daddy. Thank you for finding the dignity in growing older, and setting an example for your daughters. And for never letting go of the passions you have always had. I hope I can follow in your footsteps.