Death to me has been a scarcity and a factor of spontaneity
in my life thus far. Or maybe it has been for all of us. What I’m trying to
say is, with the exception of my stunning great grandmother who reminded us
that she was ready and lived a gorgeous amount of years, every person I have
lost came as a shock. When dealing with shock and a lifelong hesitation about
religion, you must find serenity in another form.
In this realm, nature has never failed me. When we lost
Lauren in her adolescence and I didn’t understand, I walked and walked until I
felt her in the sunshine. When Mallory made a decision that took her from this
Earth I took in the reflections of the water until I decided to keep living for
her. Today as I collapsed beside my car, Fall leaves started falling at a rapid
pace and circling and cycloning me until I looked up and saw the perfect
opening in the clouds above Chautauqua mountain. Today I lost my grandfather.
My first grandparent to lose and I know that he will continue to exist in the
beauty of this world.
I always thought that the lucky ones were aware when the end
is near, when it’s time to say goodbye. But are we not all given this gift?
From the moment we enter this Earth, should we live as if we are bidding
farewell? My Grandpa Paul (or Pa Paul as Ethan coined and my Grandpa shined his
smirk of approval) was hands down the smartest man I have ever known. He was
medically, musically and intellectually sound and as a child I remember
debating whether to find this terrifying or incredibly fascinating. From my
earliest memory, I remember my Grandpa Paul speaking to me as if I were an
intellect myself. I used to choose my phrases wisely to try to impress this man
and luckily for me I was always encouraged by his awe in my own abilities.
Despite any darkness that ever surrounded his life, I remember my Grandpa as a
piano playing, towering comic that could converse for hours and loved to show
me secrets from his past lives. I’m so glad to have known these insights.
I was never able to speak to my Grandpa about my current
career choice, but I would have loved to hear his thoughts on yoga’s
representation of starting over. We begin every class as a child and we end
every class in death, an ending, a re-birth. We thank the individuals in the
room for being our teachers. We leave our mats and we come back again. How do
we explain then, when a journey actually comes to an end? How do we find peace
with final, final savasana? The answer is already there. We seek the teacher in
our loss. My Grandpa will live through the lessons that he taught my mother and
my aunts and uncle. He will live through the lessons that were passed down to
me. He will live through the lessons that I continue to share.
This entry is not about seeking sympathy or begging hungry
readers to speak love more often. This entry is celebration of a life and
lesson learned. It’s remembering to live on the way my Grandpa lived. Embrace
music and create impactful sounds. Laugh loudly at the Lake. Ask questions and
never lose your intellect. Share what you have. Find a way to show your oldest
daughter that you care, even during your last few breaths.
Rest in the grandest of peace, Pa Paul. 11.13.13
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