Examples
ONE SMALL ROOM
How did I get here? I want to rest, but the hands are everywhere, some poking, some resting on my shoulder, on my leg, on my arm. So many hands. I just want to rest.
A face, right in front of me, eyes locked on mine, a voice calling my name from behind a mask. How does he speak so kindly, gently, yet still so urgently? I only hear his voice, but I am aware of the chaos around me.
Infection. Where is it? It has to be here. Kind. Gentle. Urgent.
I don’t know. I just want to rest.
How far do we go? Resuscitation? Intubation? DNR?
Memories of my grandmother, lying on a bed for years. Memories of my mother’s anguish, holding a grief that could not be lived. Memories of my grandfather, embracing a denial that destroyed his soul and took his life.
Thoughts of my children. Do not resuscitate. I want to rest.
It comes to me, the answer, the infection. I open my eyes, but his are not there. And they find it. A woman speaks. “Necrotizing fascia!” Triumph. Relief. Urgency.
The eyes, holding mine. “Why?”
I forgot, and then you weren’t there. So many people, yet I only saw him.
Phone calls. My son. I was unable to let him know where I was going. He figured it out. I knew he would. So grateful.
My sister. Which one? My favourite. Which one? A woman, blonde I think. Leaning and facilitating a conversation between the stranger in the centre of one small room and the strangers on the phone. Kind. Gentle. Urgent.
.“Why can’t I breathe?”
Ketoacidosis. My body is making carbon monoxide to kill the acid. Kind, gentle, urgent.
Another face. A surgeon. He needs to cut the infection. I want to rest. I say no. Another voice tells me he has to cut. Okay.
So many hands. So many voices. All in that one small room.
And in that room, in every hand, behind every voice, with every skilful action, was God. No church, no religion, no judgment. Kind. Gentle. Urgent.
This is only a portion of a wedding ceremony, written for a couple who met through music.
WEDDING SONG
And so, like a symphony, the notes of your love grow, change, and build new paths. Your relationship transforms, slows, and rushes through again. It builds with each passage; a tapestry of passion, loss, pain and joy. And it remains steadfast, returning to remind you what brought you together in this journey.
As you create your unique masterpiece, forgive the sour notes for they are an essential part of growth and learning. Develop your harmony and resolve your dissonance. When the music of others threatens to drown you in a cacophony of ill fitting notes, remember the theme of your song and sing it louder.
Remember that each note is fleeting and leading you to the next. Remember to soak up the silences, for they are as important to the rhythm of your song as the purest of melodies.
Sing together, in tune or out, softly or loudly, lightly or darkly. Just sing. Together.
THE LONGEST WALK
It’s a bright summer day, yet darkness looms large. After the sniffs of air and earth; after forays into the undergrowth; after the delights of a squirrel or a muskrat or a butterfly; after all the moments there is an end.
The unfettered youth of a misfit pup leads to a tentative adolescence and a bright adulthood, only to end in the longest walk.
She has seen west coast beaches, with driftwood and rocks. She has fearlessly chased a bear. She has settled happily in her final acre home, shed her Chicken Dog coat, chased a kite with blissful abandon, and dreamt of walks and cheese.
Today she embarks on her longest walk. She steps into a new forest, on a new path, free of pain and fear, into a place that surrounds her with everything good and safe and joyful. Today she walks with all the love she’s been given and all the love she’s returned. Today she walks freely, and never alone.
Walk on, Latte.
Of course, I guess wordsmith, is equal to being a high quality craftsman.
After all the skills of a craftsman, the next step is an artist who takes those skills and takes them to the next level.
Well, to me, that’s the level of The Longest Walk.
— Bill
Kathleen Plappert
Her accent was posh, and her spirit was fierce. There was nothing she couldn’t turn brighter; the bowl of fruit with strategically placed banana and oranges, the cheeky request for a piggy-back ride to the garden; the stash of sweets in defiance of doctor’s orders, and the impish peeks at the Canasta deck.
Although confusion intruded toward the end, there was never a question of who mattered to her. Pity the fool who mistook her ease to be a weakness, for they would soon learn what strength really is.
She gave everything she had to those she loved, and all that she gave is still with us now.
Today, a light went out in this world and on in another. Shine brighter, freer, stronger, and let the laughter lead you to peace.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
As you end your eighth decade and begin your ninth, do you want to dance? Do you want to twirl, twist and waltz? Do you want to plant your feet firmly in this new adventure?
Dance, dear lady, dance!
As you step into your eighties, do you want to sing? Do you want your voice, with all the joy, pain and sorrow, to echo through the lives around you?
Sing, dear lady, sing!
Do you want to love — in all those ways you’ve learned by doing it so many years? Do you want to hug, feed, create for those who love you back?
Love, dear lady, love!
Do you want to share your lessons, the easy and the hard, with all those who walk behind you, with you, ahead of you?
Share, dear lady, share!
Do you want to blow out your candles knowing the steps and stumbles that brought you to eighty have created a path for countless others? Do you have some wishes you want to send out on a breath still waiting for more?
Blow, dear lady, blow!
Do you want to know how much you mean to me? To me and many others?
Know, dear lady, know!
Happy Birthday, Mom!
