Oh, we never know where life will take us
We know it's just a ride on the wheel
And we never know when death will shake us
And we wonder how it will feel
And we wonder how it will feel
So goodbye my friend
I know I'll never see you again
But the time together through all the years
Will take away these tears
It's okay now
Goodbye my friend
Karla Bonoff
There's nothing more sobering than learning of the sudden death of an acquaintance. As Karla Bonoff said in her bittersweet song Goodbye My Friend, "..we never know when death will shake us," but shake us it does. An individual nine years younger than me, the picture of health, a young family and a promising career, stopped by an unexpected, massive heart attack.
I learned a long time ago not to ask why. "We're here for a moment, and then we're set free," I sang in a song called "If Fall Is Well," based on a child's malapropism. Asking why somebody died, or why someone had to die, or why all of us have to die only leads to facts and speculation, not answers.
"I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my hear
That I can't sing, but I can't help listening..."
Jackson Browne
I wrote a chapter for a book that became a poem that became a song, called "Castles of Sand." It's about the temporal nature of life, the need to create even in the face of changing tides and winds. "But the tide's rushing in, the ocean will win" can be cause for despair...or a different understanding of life. Tibetan Monks create elaborate sand paintings that they consider "gifts to the wind."
Castles of sand are my gift to the sea
Although it expects very little of me
Footprints were never intended to last
Forever is mostly a thing of the past
I'm building my castles with sand.
Van Morrison, a long time ago, sang, "It ain't why, why, why; it just is." Accepting that is the first part of accepting the death of a loved one, a friend, an acquaintance. Footprints were never intended to last. We're here for a moment, and then we're set free.
I learned of John's death early Friday morning. For most of the day, I was alternatively shocked and numb. We weren't close friends, just long-term associates and colleagues. We took classes together. We worked on committees together. We watched as each others' families grew. I assumed these patterns would continue into old age.
That's not how it turned out for John.
All weekend, I hurt -- mostly for John's wife and three children, not for John. As the Eagles sing, "He's gone far beyond the grade; but we who must remain go on living just the same." I probably hurt a little for myself as well. I could ask why it wasn't me instead, but it ain't why, why, why. It just is. Listening to the Karla Bonoff song above brought fresh tears to my eyes, as did Jackson Browne's song, which I asked my college roommate to sing at my mother's funeral. If you've ever hear Rosie Greer sing "It's all right to cry, 'cause crying gets the sad out of you" On Marlo Thomas' "Free To Be You And Me," you know there are restorative powers in sad songs. They say so much, according to Elton John.
But so do happy songs. My sister has the pleasure of living in New Orleans, and town that's taken far too many beatings, yet it's heart keeps beating. Jazz funerals in New Orleans are nothing if not celebrations in music, dance, color, and spirit. This tradition was apparently transported from Africa. Dirges and hymns transport the deceased, family, and associates to the cemetery, but the music changes to more lively, spirited songs after the deceased is laid to rest. The "second line" is made up of people who simply enjoy the music and the dancing. The memorial of my sister's partner ended in a second line, where we symbolically "cut the body loose." Knowing her, she's dancing among the stars. In this spirit, I offer this rendition of "Brother John" by David Lindley. Goodbye, John; we hardly knew you.
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