The house seems very, very quiet today. Kate and Pat headed to Michigan this morning, and Thomas and Elliot are off on an elevator adventure. After the events of this past week, today seems almost eerily calm.
We held Michael's memorial service at the house yesterday, and it was a truly beautiful day. The weather was perfect, the ceremony was lovely, and we were in good company. I actually missed the entire service while tending children inside, since Elliot wouldn't stop talking (typical) and Imogen wouldn't stop fussing (not typical, but she's teething and has her brother's cold). Here we are before the service began, hanging out in the backyard.
Pat set up a very nice altar for Michael's ashes, as you can see here.
Pat led a Native American pipe ceremony, and everyone had a chance to say goodbye. We chose a poem by Joy Harjo, one of my very favorite poets and a Native American herself, for the program. The poem could have been in Michael's own words.
Fury of Rain
Thunder beings dance the flooding streets
of this city, stripped naked to their electric skeletons.
I stand inside their wild and sacred ritual
on these streets of greasy rainbows
and see my own furious longing
erupt from the broken mask of change
to stone, to bear, to lightning.
Gut memory shakes this earth like a rattle,
knocking my teeth with heroic thunder.
I could have lied
and not seen my own death
dancing in the streets, the main shady
character forcing me to live.
What can I do but celebrate after
guarding the wreck for thirty-five years, in
this ceremony larger than a damp, suspicious city?
We are all in the belly of a laughing god
swimming the heavens, in this whirling circle.
What we haven't imagined will one day
spit us out
magnificent and simple.
Joy Harjo, from In Mad Love and War
Wesleyan University Press, 1990
I also want to include here a poem I wrote for Michael many years ago.
Fox Pieces, Orcas Island
It is the island rummage sale, in the rain.
Here, everyone has what is necessary,
and little that is not. The tables are lined
with bones, chicken feet, skins,
a headdress dangling small vertebrae
and soft, striped feathers. We stand before
a box labeled fox pieces, talk ourselves
into lifting the cardboard lid. Scraps of fur,
red hairs bristling on squares of skin.
You say your adopted brother would like
to be here, gathering bones and teeth.
Where is he this time, drinking, brown skin
bruising into blue? His hands bent
the dream catchers over our bed, tied the antler
bead to my wrist. You never know how
to touch him, what will bring him home.
With my eyes, I talk to the box of skins,
will the fox to assemble and walk into the rain.
Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2002. All rights reserved.
It's fitting that our last time with Michael was spent on Orcas Island. It's also fitting that this morning the rains came, after a gorgeous day of sun, breeze, and sky for the memorial. As Kate remarked last night as we were dropping off the leftover food from the service at a homeless shelter (Michael spent much of his life homeless, so we knew he would appreciate the gesture), now Michael is free from a life of not knowing where his next meal would come from, or having to endure any humiliation. She also reflected yesterday that not many people who lead the kind of life that he did have the support and love of so many friends and family members.
Michael, now that your storm is over, may you walk through the rain to the other side, whole. May you finally come to rest. We will always love you and miss you.
We held Michael's memorial service at the house yesterday, and it was a truly beautiful day. The weather was perfect, the ceremony was lovely, and we were in good company. I actually missed the entire service while tending children inside, since Elliot wouldn't stop talking (typical) and Imogen wouldn't stop fussing (not typical, but she's teething and has her brother's cold). Here we are before the service began, hanging out in the backyard.
Pat set up a very nice altar for Michael's ashes, as you can see here.
Pat led a Native American pipe ceremony, and everyone had a chance to say goodbye. We chose a poem by Joy Harjo, one of my very favorite poets and a Native American herself, for the program. The poem could have been in Michael's own words.
Fury of Rain
Thunder beings dance the flooding streets
of this city, stripped naked to their electric skeletons.
I stand inside their wild and sacred ritual
on these streets of greasy rainbows
and see my own furious longing
erupt from the broken mask of change
to stone, to bear, to lightning.
Gut memory shakes this earth like a rattle,
knocking my teeth with heroic thunder.
I could have lied
and not seen my own death
dancing in the streets, the main shady
character forcing me to live.
What can I do but celebrate after
guarding the wreck for thirty-five years, in
this ceremony larger than a damp, suspicious city?
We are all in the belly of a laughing god
swimming the heavens, in this whirling circle.
What we haven't imagined will one day
spit us out
magnificent and simple.
Joy Harjo, from In Mad Love and War
Wesleyan University Press, 1990
I also want to include here a poem I wrote for Michael many years ago.
Fox Pieces, Orcas Island
It is the island rummage sale, in the rain.
Here, everyone has what is necessary,
and little that is not. The tables are lined
with bones, chicken feet, skins,
a headdress dangling small vertebrae
and soft, striped feathers. We stand before
a box labeled fox pieces, talk ourselves
into lifting the cardboard lid. Scraps of fur,
red hairs bristling on squares of skin.
You say your adopted brother would like
to be here, gathering bones and teeth.
Where is he this time, drinking, brown skin
bruising into blue? His hands bent
the dream catchers over our bed, tied the antler
bead to my wrist. You never know how
to touch him, what will bring him home.
With my eyes, I talk to the box of skins,
will the fox to assemble and walk into the rain.
Brittney Corrigan, copyright 2002. All rights reserved.
It's fitting that our last time with Michael was spent on Orcas Island. It's also fitting that this morning the rains came, after a gorgeous day of sun, breeze, and sky for the memorial. As Kate remarked last night as we were dropping off the leftover food from the service at a homeless shelter (Michael spent much of his life homeless, so we knew he would appreciate the gesture), now Michael is free from a life of not knowing where his next meal would come from, or having to endure any humiliation. She also reflected yesterday that not many people who lead the kind of life that he did have the support and love of so many friends and family members.
Michael, now that your storm is over, may you walk through the rain to the other side, whole. May you finally come to rest. We will always love you and miss you.
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