Parallels

While I was attending a memorial service today, my Mom, who is 85, was attending one for Russell W. Peterson, who recently died as an old man. He was a wonderful environmentalist, fought Big Oil, and served as Governor of Delaware, and my connection to him is that my Mom transcribed his papers, speeches, and books for the last twenty years or so. He was a good writer, but not that good with punctuation, and my Mom had to navigate his handwritten, chaotic yellow legal pads with arrows and crossouts and present him with an organized, neatly typed document worthy for putting into the Library of Congress, where his writing is headed.

She had an intimate relationship with his words and self-expression which no one will probably recognize, though he did. I loved hearing her talk about it and I hope when she is farther along in her own grief process, we will write something like an interview about this role she played. As she was talking I noticed a similarity to the role I play taking minutes for SM, and now a couple of OCF committees. I listen to discussions and try to present an organized, coherent summary of what people said that led to something more concrete, an action or an opinion or just some kind of movement forward in whatever the committee or Board is trying to accomplish by meeting. Nothing I type is going to the Library of Congress, but it does become a permanent record of some usefulness in limited ways, and I'm proud that I have some skill at it and can help in this way.

Everyone, at the memorial service I attended, wanted to help in some meaningful way. This is the major impulse I have recorded in my grieving process for Jack Harnsongkram. I am not super close to the family, though we certainly know each other and have worked together at the Market for at least 30 years. Our sons, Richard and John, are the same age, and we got together a few times when they were babies. We're not close, but we're solidly connected.

I mention Jack's name because I learned something important today from Colleen, one of my mentors and co-creators, which was that she learned from Compassionate Friends that one thing people tend to do around death is hesitate to speak about the departed loved one, for fear of causing additional grief. That has been my concern, that I will add to the burden of Saman and Sarah instead of doing the helping that I want to do. Thanks to Colleen I know now to be bolder about keeping Jack alive in the ways that we can, by speaking clearly about him and about the challenges of loving each other and keeping each other cared for.

Sarah asked that everyone try to keep his brother, Richard, in our hearts because he is here, and he lost more than we can imagine. I do know a few things about being 21, and about young men of that age, and I know about the struggles and joys I experience with my own son, so I will be looking for ways to open my heart to Richard when I can. It might just be looking into his face and saying Good Morning. It might come through more attention to what my own son wants and needs and using that understanding in a broader way. Whatever help I am able to give might not be a direct thing from me to Richard, but it might transfer to another young person, at another time, in another situation.

We just can't know all of the good we do. One kind look or word, one moment of listening, might mean everything to someone in the moment. Today on the way downtown I witnessed a young man climb a big incense cedar tree, and I do not know how on earth he accomplished it. When I saw him it was because a cry of triumph got my attention to him standing on a branch far too high to reach...maybe twelve or fifteen feet from the ground! I really don't know what he did, and how he got down, but for the short minute I was passing under the tree, I made a point to express my admiration and delight at his amazing accomplishment.

It might have meant nothing to him, that someone who resembled his grandmother was impressed, yet, you never know. His expectation might have been that any adult on the scene would have told him to get down immediately. He might think adults have no use for him whatsoever, like many of our young people grow to think when we have no jobs or time for them, or resources, or attention to ask them what they really enjoy doing or would like to try.
I won't know what he thought, and it doesn't matter to me, but all I was doing was expressing my own thoughts and wonder at what I was seeing in my walk down the street.

That's the point, that I expressed myself. That's what we have to do, all we have to do to start things rolling. When we feel something, we let somebody know.

What they think of us is not our problem. If they misinterpret, maybe we get to clear that up, but we learn to express ourselves clearly, so they'll get it, and hopefully we learn to express ourselves kindly and positively so that others can benefit, not suffer.

It's a skill, this self-expression, and we get a lifetime to work on it. Jack was really good at it, though his lifetime was a very short one, and it is sad that we don't get to hear what he would have learned to express. It might have been amazing, or just ordinary. My hope is that our loss of him will remind us to express ourselves now, and more, and more clearly, because we really can't know what the ripples from that will be.

Beth gave a most wonderful speech today, a benediction and affirmation. She is our treasure. She really sees into our souls and expresses our finest sides. I give her credit for helping the Market community coalesce into the strong, emotional, solid force of good that we now represent. As a group we transcend our individual natures that can sometimes be exhausted or eccentric or self-centered or selfish. We hear from her how we can be as our finest selves, as we express our hippie ways, our counter-culture that values giving, being honest, creating, and loving with all our hearts. We have freed ourselves from fear and created something together that keeps us safe throughout our lives, from birth to death. It's no small thing.

She said Market isn't our church, but it is for me. Our services are filled with food and flowers and song and laughter. We meet every week to joke around doing serious business. We don't compete, we embrace our differences and help each other. We have very little to fear from each other, and that safety translates to everyone who comes down to hang around with us.

I realized this week that the new space I will be in was held for years by the same person who held my Holiday Market space for those same many years, Maria Serrot, a regal sort of woman who made beautiful ceramics. Some people think it's one of the best spots, some don't, but it is for sure one of the sunniest spots in the Market, and everyone I talked to described how Maria dealt with the sun and gave me ideas for how I will. I have already been welcomed into the neighborhood and we don't even open for three weeks.

I'm going to dance in that sun. I'm going to sing in that space. I'm going to listen, especially to the young and old, and I'm going to be grateful for everything that is given. The love is there for me, and it is there for you. Take some. Give some.