Two 9 year old boys headed talking and laughing down the shortcut on their way to the movies. Gallup, New Mexico, is an old mining town and the part of town I lived in was a little barrio built on Gallup's hill country where a number of old mines still exist like catacombs underneath the landscape. Alleys were popular shortcuts. And those adventurous shortcuts, we would use, even if encroaching on other people's property. Neighbors never really cared in those days. We were just neighborhood kids. Everyone knew everyone. No one locked their doors that remember. Nothing to steal.
My friend and I were both named Tommy, and we would always try to circumvent the old barn house where they used to say Rollie Mortuary would keep caskets in storage. I remember distinctly that as a child, I didn't really know what a casket was, but I had heard the word "coffin." Coffin, to a child, sounds unexplainably more creepy. Coffins were a part of the genre of the Dracula and Frankenstein movies my brother, friends and I would frequent at the Chief Theatre at 25 cents a "pop." So this old barn was always just around the corner near our house, and no matter what, we always tried to either by pass it or run real fast hoping to escape any lure it might have on us. The old barn always was a landmark that represented the "unknown" to the kids in the Chihuahuita barrio. It was made of wooden planks that had never been treated and so they were cracked planks of darkened wood making it even more creepy and dark inside.
There was something mystical and scary about that old beat up barn. Of course there were no coffins in it I would find out much later; and I had never really seen a coffin except in the movies. I conjured images of six sided boxes of pine wood with satin pillowed material serving as the final resting place of a dead person. Scary stuff for a kid. I had not been near a real coffin until my friend dared me to do something really incredible. I was the perfect kid to dare to do something in the extreme cause invariably, I'd do it. God knows, I can't believe I once shoplifted on a dare, and I recall the thrill of thinking I got away with it, only to feel ashamed when they caught my hand in the cookie jar so to speak. I was the perfect bag man, the ideal "patsy". Well, it was this penchant to take dares that forced my first encounter with "the dead," "death," "finality," "real fear." So on the way to the theatre, my friend dares me: "I triple dare you to walk into Rollie Mortuary and see if there are any dead people on display," he voices.
Thoughts. Through my head. Sense of chill. I can't show I'm a baby. And by God, I'm no sissy. I always had this interesting loathing of ever being considered weak by anyone, a sissy, a wimp, etc. So I would forever be the one to overcompensate my inner sense of low self esteem with a bit of bravado born from that same profound insecurity. Unfortunately, throughout life, it has been the kind of overcompensation that has been a real challenge to overcome.
"Ok." I told my buddy. "When we get to the main doors of the mortuary, I'll peak in first. If there is something going on, I'll go in."
"I'll go in with you, if you go in," my friend reassured me like a Cheshire cat.
At the point of opening the door of the mortuary, I sensed this foreboding and regret. Why didn't I just laugh off the dare? Now I have to go through with it or look like a sissy. My nine year old hands grasped the brass door handle, and pulled the door just enough to see that the room looked like a church. In this church were a lot of people. And their was this line of people walking single file moving up the main aisle. Before you know it, I was in. I was standing in line. The room was dark, There were some ladies crying. Of course, they would be. Somebody died. But up until I realized I was by myself with no friend beside me, I stood there in front of the "unknown." I had never ever seen a dead person in a box before. But there I was for the first time standing there in front of, not one coffin, but two. I felt myself turning pale, a chill, a sense of wanting to run out of there as fast as I could. The two coffins had two little girls made up like cu pie dolls. There was this unusual odor of bad perfume in the place. Too sweet. Frilly dresses, eyes closed as if pasted shut, rosy cheeks, both blond little girls, a little younger than me. I wanted to cry knowing these two little girls were alive probably playing with their dolls last week. All kinds of thoughts went through my head about how did they die, that this place was dark and dreary, creepy, and that I never ever wanted to be anywhere near death ever again. This was scarier than the Dracula movies I'd see because I asked myself, what if one of them actually woke up? What if? What if their ghosts would come after me because I intruded in their private service that I crashed on a dare from my friend who left me in the dust, only to be found laughing his head off outside, as I came out like an ice cube ready to run home?
What I have come to understand in my adult life is that the death of another, is one of many passing moments. Those who mourn, mourn for a time. The languishing for most of us is momentary. There are recollections as time goes by, of the feelings, but somehow, the finality of death becomes more and more disconnected from our own future reckoning. And for even the famous person, as time passes, they will be remembered less and less and less with each tick of the clock. But like the little kid I was once, each time I face the rituals of bereavement, wakes, funerals and burials, I still stand at the precipice of mystery.Of course, it is much less scary. At that promontory above the unknown ocean, each person honored for their life really is no longer a "person". And yet, we afford "what used to be them" the procession of events that take their physical remains to a final "resting place."
The rituals have helped with what psychologists call closure, or the letting go for thousands of years. Of course in a Christian setting, all the language of the rituals is geared toward a more hopeful sense that our souls move to an eternal realm. We say the standard phrases, "he or she went through so much suffering and now they're in a better place." Of course, we don't "know" that. Nevertheless, we hope because we ourselves will someday be looked upon as "remains" and the question will be, "where are they?" People will comfort themselves with hugs and consolation always picking out the best parts of who we were, and the good things we did, easily forgetting perhaps, our failures, our transgressions, our huge personal mistakes that were at the expense of others. I can think of so many of my own that I am certain I will have an enemy saying perhaps, "I knew him and there is no way he is in a better place." It reminds me of my old friend Jimmy who has since died, but I can remember eulogizing him remembering a discussion he and his wife had about cremation. She asked him, "Jimmy, you wanna be cremated?" Jimmy answers: "Are you kidding? I'm just shy of being able to make purgatory; you think I wanna be burned twice?"
People far more knowledgeable and deeper than myself have written about death. Poems expound upon it. Death is personified and made into a spectre. And in a sense, it is a spectre. It is a horizon, a crest; a pinnacle a promontory. There is something around the bend; or on the other side of the hill. Unfortunately, those who cross it, cannot comeback and tell us clearly what it is that is there. Even those who have supposedly died and been revived, talk hazily about a tunnel, a bright light, an overwhelming sense of peace. Well, I hate to tell folks, but there is an overwhelming sense of peace in any holding pattern or lobby, as we await to catch the next elevator which goes either up or down. This reminds me of a dream I had once in which I saw a line of people, myself included, walking single file toward a great light. Those walking toward the light seemed calm and even happy. Conversations went back and forth among them about who they were, what they used to do for a living, and also reassuring each of themselves that they were indeed -- dead as a door nail, but nevertheless, happy to be headed into the light. However, on the other side of this hall-like tunnel was another single file line of people walking in the opposite direction away from the light. They had been to where I was headed, but for some reason, were turned away. I could not see their faces, but only a vague shape as their hoods covered them, and they walked as if dazed, visibly traumatized, and thinking, "I can't believe I didn't get in."
Death is no small thing. It is final. It is our finest or our worst hour. It is the pinnacle and what lies over the horizon is highly dependent upon the "now". The moment we have is fragile but nonetheless a gift. What we do with that gift of moment will undoubtedly be the difference of our experience beyond life's horizon. The gift of moment reverberates like a stone making ripples in the still pond of eternity. The gift of moment is that gift of potential mercy that we do not
"grasp for," but rather, let it envelope us in our surrender to recognize our weaknesses, and ask our author that He forgive them and remember us in spite of ourselves. God only has amnesia for those who have a willful amnesia of His goodness and mercy. The gift of moment is the "chance" we have to willfully remember who we are, who He is, and who we are in relation to Him and our neighbor, be he enemy or friend.
I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of my moments of willful amnesia of the author who is still writing me. I am and will be to my horizon, a work in progress. For contemplation, I offer a few more poetic words upon reflection of this gift of moment; the gift of hope.
My friend and I were both named Tommy, and we would always try to circumvent the old barn house where they used to say Rollie Mortuary would keep caskets in storage. I remember distinctly that as a child, I didn't really know what a casket was, but I had heard the word "coffin." Coffin, to a child, sounds unexplainably more creepy. Coffins were a part of the genre of the Dracula and Frankenstein movies my brother, friends and I would frequent at the Chief Theatre at 25 cents a "pop." So this old barn was always just around the corner near our house, and no matter what, we always tried to either by pass it or run real fast hoping to escape any lure it might have on us. The old barn always was a landmark that represented the "unknown" to the kids in the Chihuahuita barrio. It was made of wooden planks that had never been treated and so they were cracked planks of darkened wood making it even more creepy and dark inside.
There was something mystical and scary about that old beat up barn. Of course there were no coffins in it I would find out much later; and I had never really seen a coffin except in the movies. I conjured images of six sided boxes of pine wood with satin pillowed material serving as the final resting place of a dead person. Scary stuff for a kid. I had not been near a real coffin until my friend dared me to do something really incredible. I was the perfect kid to dare to do something in the extreme cause invariably, I'd do it. God knows, I can't believe I once shoplifted on a dare, and I recall the thrill of thinking I got away with it, only to feel ashamed when they caught my hand in the cookie jar so to speak. I was the perfect bag man, the ideal "patsy". Well, it was this penchant to take dares that forced my first encounter with "the dead," "death," "finality," "real fear." So on the way to the theatre, my friend dares me: "I triple dare you to walk into Rollie Mortuary and see if there are any dead people on display," he voices.
Thoughts. Through my head. Sense of chill. I can't show I'm a baby. And by God, I'm no sissy. I always had this interesting loathing of ever being considered weak by anyone, a sissy, a wimp, etc. So I would forever be the one to overcompensate my inner sense of low self esteem with a bit of bravado born from that same profound insecurity. Unfortunately, throughout life, it has been the kind of overcompensation that has been a real challenge to overcome.
"Ok." I told my buddy. "When we get to the main doors of the mortuary, I'll peak in first. If there is something going on, I'll go in."
"I'll go in with you, if you go in," my friend reassured me like a Cheshire cat.
At the point of opening the door of the mortuary, I sensed this foreboding and regret. Why didn't I just laugh off the dare? Now I have to go through with it or look like a sissy. My nine year old hands grasped the brass door handle, and pulled the door just enough to see that the room looked like a church. In this church were a lot of people. And their was this line of people walking single file moving up the main aisle. Before you know it, I was in. I was standing in line. The room was dark, There were some ladies crying. Of course, they would be. Somebody died. But up until I realized I was by myself with no friend beside me, I stood there in front of the "unknown." I had never ever seen a dead person in a box before. But there I was for the first time standing there in front of, not one coffin, but two. I felt myself turning pale, a chill, a sense of wanting to run out of there as fast as I could. The two coffins had two little girls made up like cu pie dolls. There was this unusual odor of bad perfume in the place. Too sweet. Frilly dresses, eyes closed as if pasted shut, rosy cheeks, both blond little girls, a little younger than me. I wanted to cry knowing these two little girls were alive probably playing with their dolls last week. All kinds of thoughts went through my head about how did they die, that this place was dark and dreary, creepy, and that I never ever wanted to be anywhere near death ever again. This was scarier than the Dracula movies I'd see because I asked myself, what if one of them actually woke up? What if? What if their ghosts would come after me because I intruded in their private service that I crashed on a dare from my friend who left me in the dust, only to be found laughing his head off outside, as I came out like an ice cube ready to run home?
What I have come to understand in my adult life is that the death of another, is one of many passing moments. Those who mourn, mourn for a time. The languishing for most of us is momentary. There are recollections as time goes by, of the feelings, but somehow, the finality of death becomes more and more disconnected from our own future reckoning. And for even the famous person, as time passes, they will be remembered less and less and less with each tick of the clock. But like the little kid I was once, each time I face the rituals of bereavement, wakes, funerals and burials, I still stand at the precipice of mystery.Of course, it is much less scary. At that promontory above the unknown ocean, each person honored for their life really is no longer a "person". And yet, we afford "what used to be them" the procession of events that take their physical remains to a final "resting place."
The rituals have helped with what psychologists call closure, or the letting go for thousands of years. Of course in a Christian setting, all the language of the rituals is geared toward a more hopeful sense that our souls move to an eternal realm. We say the standard phrases, "he or she went through so much suffering and now they're in a better place." Of course, we don't "know" that. Nevertheless, we hope because we ourselves will someday be looked upon as "remains" and the question will be, "where are they?" People will comfort themselves with hugs and consolation always picking out the best parts of who we were, and the good things we did, easily forgetting perhaps, our failures, our transgressions, our huge personal mistakes that were at the expense of others. I can think of so many of my own that I am certain I will have an enemy saying perhaps, "I knew him and there is no way he is in a better place." It reminds me of my old friend Jimmy who has since died, but I can remember eulogizing him remembering a discussion he and his wife had about cremation. She asked him, "Jimmy, you wanna be cremated?" Jimmy answers: "Are you kidding? I'm just shy of being able to make purgatory; you think I wanna be burned twice?"
People far more knowledgeable and deeper than myself have written about death. Poems expound upon it. Death is personified and made into a spectre. And in a sense, it is a spectre. It is a horizon, a crest; a pinnacle a promontory. There is something around the bend; or on the other side of the hill. Unfortunately, those who cross it, cannot comeback and tell us clearly what it is that is there. Even those who have supposedly died and been revived, talk hazily about a tunnel, a bright light, an overwhelming sense of peace. Well, I hate to tell folks, but there is an overwhelming sense of peace in any holding pattern or lobby, as we await to catch the next elevator which goes either up or down. This reminds me of a dream I had once in which I saw a line of people, myself included, walking single file toward a great light. Those walking toward the light seemed calm and even happy. Conversations went back and forth among them about who they were, what they used to do for a living, and also reassuring each of themselves that they were indeed -- dead as a door nail, but nevertheless, happy to be headed into the light. However, on the other side of this hall-like tunnel was another single file line of people walking in the opposite direction away from the light. They had been to where I was headed, but for some reason, were turned away. I could not see their faces, but only a vague shape as their hoods covered them, and they walked as if dazed, visibly traumatized, and thinking, "I can't believe I didn't get in."
Death is no small thing. It is final. It is our finest or our worst hour. It is the pinnacle and what lies over the horizon is highly dependent upon the "now". The moment we have is fragile but nonetheless a gift. What we do with that gift of moment will undoubtedly be the difference of our experience beyond life's horizon. The gift of moment reverberates like a stone making ripples in the still pond of eternity. The gift of moment is that gift of potential mercy that we do not
"grasp for," but rather, let it envelope us in our surrender to recognize our weaknesses, and ask our author that He forgive them and remember us in spite of ourselves. God only has amnesia for those who have a willful amnesia of His goodness and mercy. The gift of moment is the "chance" we have to willfully remember who we are, who He is, and who we are in relation to Him and our neighbor, be he enemy or friend.
I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of my moments of willful amnesia of the author who is still writing me. I am and will be to my horizon, a work in progress. For contemplation, I offer a few more poetic words upon reflection of this gift of moment; the gift of hope.
Last spring I watched a sparrow
spin her wooden yarn,
Her mate atop the parapet above the splintered barn. She weaves the threads and bends the twigs and hay to hide the tomb-like eggs she'll place there any day now. From whence chicks break in resurrection wetness; dampened splendor twixt these branches fresh with dew’ ness. Ah, life and vigor, chanting, breathing: we were born that way. And as we grew amidst the yoke of sight and sound, this thing called life, with jealous fury holds us bound, inside another shell from which we finally rise to break the veiled vaulted membraned skin, unbridled rising to forsake familiar senses, sun and moon, and things we know and take for granted. Seas of certainty, trusting touch and sight and disregarding dreams that dwell beyond blue canopies of light. Sparrows eggs in nests that represent all those who die, these tiny sepulchers await the challenge and the cry from Jesus to "come forth" arisen from the sleep of night. Two sparrows in the spring preparing nests for future tombs to lay; while Lazarus, asleep, inside the pregnant cave, tense with glory, ray of Mercy's morning sunshine comes to roll the heavy stone away. --Tom Baca, Spring,2003 |
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