Loss and Resurrection: Happy Easter, 2008.

Easter, 1952
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao

When Pop died in 1996 it was if the Universe conspired for a while to really drive home the point of Loss.

First, a burglar too not only all of our electronics, but also my jewelry box.
That box contained an assortment of little presents Pop had given me.
Mostly they were items I never ever wore because they were “all wrong:”
A pair of shiny redwood pins shaped into “PB.” (Would an 9 year old wear those?)
A silver, turquoise and coral inlaid Zuni Indian dancing with a black obsidian snake gripped between his teeth that I simply found grotesque.
A string on large agate beads, never formally strung. (Great for a matronly neck, but I was 15 at the time.)
An antique black opal ring from Italy – which I thought beautiful, but after I’d destroyed Grandma’s garnet ring (my one inheritance from her) in about a week’s time, I hesitated
to wear anything of real value.

Maybe it wasn’t so much a jewelry box as it was a haven for each somewhat “unfortunate” object, every one of which precious by the simple fact it came straight from Pop’s love.
I hardly ever wore them. But from time to time, I’d sit with them. I’d turn each one carefully, ponder each, and remember.

That was gone, now – forever.
No more holding. No more touching.

We moved on to planning Pop’s Memorial.
I wanted to use some of the Dixieland music that he loved.
He had had a large collection of records carefully transferred to reel-to-reel tape.
Poppy loved a party and he taught us all about good true jazz, and just how to rattle the bones, which he could do two handed.
He filled our house with Dixieland and celebration.
play Alphonse Picou and High Society.
This particular rendition was perfection, to me “a classic” that embodied both joy and heart break.

Well, Mom had warned me, but I hadn’t believed her.
I was welcome to have a look, but the tape recordings had disappeared years ago.
The records had been ruined more recently in a flood from the garage, though she still had a box or two.
My hopes crumbled along with one after another of the album covers.
I managed to salvage a couple records, but
I still ended up in tears, kneeling there amidst the hopeless decay.

No more listening. No more singing along.
No more High Society. No more Alphonse Picou.
But, this is an Easter message.
And my theme this past week has been something about redeeming what is lost, and the growing realization that we are all in this together.
So, voila! ...

Surprise, delight, and joy – I have found Alphonse Picou on YouTube.
Here’s a clip from around 1959 from the last years of his life.
Alphonse Picou plays his clarinet solo in High Society.
The tempo seems a bit slower than I recall.
The video is low resolution.
But, you still hear that potent mix of joy and pathos that slay me as a kid.

Viewed 10,754 times and counting in the last year.
Alphonse Picou and his music are not lost.

Here’s for you, Mom.
And for you, Pop.
For big sister Sandy and little brother Andy.
And for all of you “out there” … Happy Easter.

Uncle Eddie

Ed & Edie, 1964
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao

Uncle Eddie, my mom’s little brother, died just before Christmas this year.
I knew this would be hard on Mom the moment I saw her standing in the middle of her kitchen, in tears.
She had just received the call.
After years of Alzheimer’s,
Ed was dead in the middle of the night having gotten up to go to the bathroom.

Then, just like that, the kitchen filled with the rest of our family.
People poured in all dressed up for Mom’s Sunday brunch kicking off our Christmas.
The mini-reunion was filled with hugs and laughs
until I could not stand
the unacknowledged elephant a moment longer.
“Uncle Eddie died! Mom just found out.”

Every Christmas dinner I can recall, we had oysters and ambrosia
in honor of my Grandfather who was born of Christmas day. And Mom would tell the story of his birth and our tradition
until she started crying.
Her beloved father had died at 57, self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
Fourteen year-old Eddie had found him in the bathroom.
Mom never told that part of the story. But we all knew why she cried. And now Eddie entered once again into Mom's Christmas saddness.

After New Years my cousin, Kim, emailed to ask if I had any pictures of her dad.
She was making up a book for her mother.
I knew I had a few:
A cold Thanksgiving hiding in the hayloft of their barn in southern Illinois,
A sweltering summer reunion with both of Mom’s brothers,
the one and only time all eleven cousins were ever in the same place.
Because, I guess like many families,
anger can be held for years.

I looked through some 50 years of photos
trying to stay on my task, trying not to feel that much
to come up with the six I scanned and Photoshopped for Kim:
“The Men.” “The Wives.” “The Cousins.” “Grandma.”

Afterwards, I couldn’t get to sleep.

God, the pain and love with family. No wonder some of us have disappeared for years.
It’s here we are most deeply wounded
and yet
we cannot really run away.
Try as we may.
It is impossible
- like trying to escapes your very bowels.
Impossible. Because at bottom, there is love and self.

And I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend Life.
It’s a mystery.
How is it to possible be Here,
And then Not?

It is beyond all words.
Here and then Not…

Is this lack of comprehension just my way of intuiting the Eternal?
Having existed, always existing?

Kim, upon receipt of the pictures, simply replied,
“Camelot?”

And for all this I Give Thanks

Namaste
Originally uploaded by hostowe

Nietzsche was the one who did the job for me. At a certain moment in his life, the idea came to him of what he called “the love of your fate.” Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say, “This is what I need.” It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge. If you bring love to that moment—not discouragement—you will find the strength is there. Any disaster that you can survive is an improvement in your character, your stature, and your life. What a privilege! This is when the spontaneity of your own nature will have a chance to flow.

Then, when looking back at your life, you will see that the moments which seemed to be great failures followed by wreckage were the incidents that shaped the life you have now. You’ll see that this is really true. Nothing can happen to you that is not positive. Even though it looks and feels at the moment like a negative crisis, it is not. The crisis throws you back, and when you are required to exhibit strength, it comes.

Joseph Campbell

as posted by Joan Halifax Roshi

Andy

October, 1954
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao

Here are Mom, Andy, and Me in 1954.
I am in the middle, FYI.

I called Andy after my MRI to give him an update.
Told him the neurologist thinks it will be negative
since my neurological exam (a rather quick go-over, I thought)
where-in complaining of vision problems
(and memory)

(and cognition- stare at the car radio as long as you want,
the car does not back out of the driveway
until it occurs to you to use the gear shift)

I forgot to tell the doc that once I went blind from a concussion.
That seemed perhaps germaine to me
later,
but, Oh well.

I did mention memory.
And the leg that's atrophied from nerve damage
became self evident as I sat there in my gown.
I'd forgotten that too.

So, the neurologist doesn't expect to find anything
on the MRI.

I was updating Andy.
Saying the doctors don't even want to see me for at least six weeks.
Then it's just to check blood pressure.
The neurologist doesn't expect to do a thing more.

It must be chemical
no lesions.

And Andy,
still to me the little boy in this picture,
says,

"Don't worry, Pat. We'll figure it out."

I cannot tell you
how much
that blows my heart
wide open.