The calm following the storm. Or the cleanup after the party. And what a party it was. Dustin would have been proud. And happy. And happy.
It’s not unusual, certainly, for parents to feel a melancholy wash over them and tug at them when their adult children and grandchildren leave after a visit. Relief, too. Let’s not leave relief out. Back to the peaceful existence we have come to know and love. But this time it hits a bit lower and with more force like a solid punch just below the belt. We view the 17th of July from a great distance at the beginning of each year and it creeps up as the days and weeks pass. Then it comes and goes in a flash. Like lightning and it leaves a big noise. This 17th, the 10th one, had even more significance. I’m not sure why since the heartache is the same but perhaps because we tend to lump our commemorations into these form fit time categories. A decade gone by since we’ve seen him. Heard his voice. Or smiled with him as he laughed. What a great laugh. Now, his laugh brings a smile AND tears.
Think of it. Imagine it if you can. Someone you love so deeply. Someone so much a part of your life. A part of you. Soul-to-soul or flesh-to-flesh or both. There with you and so real and then gone without you and so unreal. It’s always been real and unreal since the 17th of July 2000. It has always seemed like an eternity and like one broken day. Like my life before THAT day was an illusion and my life since a nightmare (of sorts). Unable to shake the weight of his passing and unable to stop the forward march of time and our lives. We move on. Not without him because he inhabits my every breath just as all my children, grandchildren, family and friends do. Still, he is in a mysterious place. Real and unreal. Here and not here. Come and gone. And not gone like friends and neighbors who move and you never see them again. There is hope there. Or, at least possibility, that you might see them or hear from them again. They are not gone. Just away. Away today. Tomorrow…who knows. Dustin is gone. The reality of that is sometimes heartbreaking. It presents spiritual challenges. The memory of him is simultaneously heart-aching and heartwarming. The curse of it is the pain and loss. The gift of it (yes, there is a gift) is the unveiled nature of emotion and understanding. Life can be like a play of many acts. Each act has it’s cast of characters and plot line. Some characters and a shard of the plot bleed through to the next act and the act after that and the act after that and on-and-on. Real life does have a sliver of continuity. And whole planks of change. Locations, jobs, activities, looks, health, passions, personality, people seem to shift like shadows as the sun of our lives arcs across the sky of time (whoa, Bob, easy now don’t get too deep). For me, so much of the “play” of life (being acted out in so many acts and with a shifting cast of characters) is now revealed without the curtain to hide the raw nature of the production. The curtain is removed and all the props and cables and stagehands can be seen clearly. Some of the magic of the whole thing is gone. Some of the mystery. The fun. The wonder. There is still much hidden off stage but I don’t have high hopes for some majestic finish to “my” play. It will play out as it will. What mystery there is will reveal itself in due time. I’ve stopped trying to analyze it or see what’s coming, for the most part. Too many blind sides. Too many rugs pulled out from under me. Far too many trap doors. Some I’ve walked over myself. Some blame IS mine.
Let’s see. I’ve been pondering and writing now for about an hour and I don’t know what the hell I’m saying or trying to say. And yet, I know every word is true. For me at least. Just too hard to put into words what it feels like to have buried a child. What it felt like then or what it feels like now. We all suffer loss. Jobs, health, friends, money all come and go. Early in life mostly come. Later in life, like now, mostly go. All I know is I’m glad Dustin was born and it hurts in ways I can’t describe to those who have not experienced it that he died.
OK. I’ll stop now. It’s an exercise in futility anyway. Can’t describe the indescribable. I do want to say how much I enjoyed yesterday. Not in a “fun” way but in a much deeper spiritual way. Thank you all who conveyed well wishes and/or stopped over. To know so many still remember him and want to spend just a little time with us remembering him always warms me and takes some of the sting away. Thank you all. Music was a big part of our gathering and has always been a big part of our family life, then and now. Dave Matthews, of course. David Gray. I’ve been listening to music with some spiritual heft. Van Morrison. Pink Floyd. Dylan. U2. Bob Marley. The most deeply felt record is by Springsteen. I’m not a huge fan but I do like some of his work. When I’m confronted with the strain of Dustin’s passing I find myself returning to The Rising. Intense. Cinematic. Yet personal. Spiritual. Hopeful. And dark and real. If you think you can feel it, sometime, perhaps when you’re alone and vulnerable, pull it out turn it up and let it wash over you. Dave Matthews sang “one drink to remember one drink to forget”. I know what he means but the truth is you never forget. Nor would you want to.
Thanks to one and all. You will never know the full measure of what you mean to me and what it means to see each of you. If our paths never cross again know I love you in my way. May God bless your lives. By the way, 3 little birds told me…
Posted on July 18th, 2010 by BigBob
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