The gentlest spirits cast the longest shadows. For Janet, three years on.

Photo copyright Aji, 2017; all rights reserved.

It's a day to deal with death. Perhaps not capital-D Death, the Reaper in full form, but with the fallout: the grief, the loss, the void . . . and the shadows cast.

I've written about one lost on this day already; one lost yesterday four years past. There was another one on this day, too, a dear friend who walked on three years ago. Some knew her by her online name elsewhere, bleeding heart, but I knew her, in the end, as Janet. She was one of those ethereally beautiful woman, one who, if I had to choose a single descriptor, I would have said was the very embodiment of gentleness. I have no doubt that she could be fierce when required, but it was not her essence.

Three years ago, I learned that she was gravely ill on the very same day that her spirit transcended her bonds here. I had written then, briefly, of my wish for her, and I chose an image I had captured that same day, one of the winter willows above the pond, their upper branches spangled with ice in the fading light.

For this day, I thought I knew the image I would choose: those same winter willows, but the lower branches this time, glowing gold in the fading light, arced downward to weep over the ice that is all that remains of the pond now.

Ice. The name of my horse, now also gone, for whom she offered her own prayers when it looked as though we might lose him near four years ago. That horse is inextricably intertwined in my memories with certain people, and Janet is one; at the time, I saw her free in body and spirit alike, no longer in any pain, riding the light on the back of a white horse named Ice. 

We lost him on August 6th of this year, a belated casualty of the abuse and neglect he had suffered before he found us. And on that summer's evening, as twilight fell, I saw in my mind's eye Janet, wearing her beautifully flowing clothes, walking softly in the fading light beneath the aspens, stopping to look at a leaf here, a shadow there . . . and then looking up to see a white horse named Ice waiting for her at the edge of the trees. I saw her walk up to him, hand out, recognition in both their eyes, and I saw him put his muzzle into her hand — a feat for a horse abused in life by a bit and terrified of such contact. And I saw them walk together, before the image turned to smoke.

Did they find each other? I will never know, at least on this side of things, how such things work. I only know how vividly I saw it, unsummoned and unbidden, in my mind.

And when I looked at the photos I took this evening, the weeping boughs were beautiful in the light . . . but the panoramic shot was the one that spoke her name. It was the trees, and the light, and the silvery winter sky . . . but it was also the long, strong shadows cast upon the ground. And I realized that there was a reason, because Janet's legacy is not the tears, but the shadows, not the loss, but the great marks made by her life lived so gently upon the earth, the sheltering shadows cast by her beautiful spirit.

What she left to Wings and me were long and influential shadows indeed: another friend in her husband, a renewed belief in the human spirit, and a vision of her with my beloved horse, both well and happy now in their own plane of existence. The last seems to hold out hope for a future beyond the one we see.

And perhaps another lesson, too? The essential truth that the gentlest spirits cast the longest, most influential shadows? In that, she reminds me a bit of my oldest sister, now gone nearly a quarter of a century.

All I know, three years on, is that I owe her a debt of gratitude for her presence in my life, and for the love that her spirit still sends across the world like a shadow lengthening in the waning light.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2017; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner. 

Water, Light, and Love. Lin, One Year On.

Photo copyright Aji, 2017; all rights reserved.

A year ago today, the water met the light.

I said goodbye, from a distance, to one of the dearest friends I've ever known. Her sister Laura, who was far closer to her even than I, lost her North Star.

And now, one year on, not a day goes by that Lin does not live on in my mind.

It's been, in so very many ways, a terrible year. She lived long enough to glimpse some of what this year would bring to the world, and perhaps her spirit decided that her body should be spared the task of navigating it.

Still, she should have lived so much longer, had so much more, and it's obscene that what passes for "healthcare" in this country is such an abomination that the system and its cogs felt perfectly comfortable dismissing her, her words, her self, her life. Lin deserved the best the world has to offer, and she sure as hell deserved better than it gave her.

But a year ago, on this day at December's end, Linda McClure slipped free of the shackles of pain, free of the fear that accompanies it, free of the bonds that tethered her spirit to this earth. And for a woman who was to me the water, and to Laura the light, I nonetheless caught an image, just the briefest glimpse, of her flying: flying like the hawk who appeared to me that December morning as (unbeknownst to me then) her escort, her spirit soaring from southern California east- and northward, soaring and circling and then wheeling tight for a downward dive to tumble into her favorite place on earth, Bash-Bish Falls. I saw her lie back in its silky waters to float, then laugh, then splash the waters skyward so the drops could join the stars.

And there is not a day that I don't think, "I need to tell Lin . . . ." And then I remember again that there will be no telling Lin anything, ever again, and then the tears flow like the falls all over again. The tears were my companion daily for the first six months; I don't think a day went by that I did not shed at least a few. It got easier, in the sense that the weeping eased, after that point, but the tears still rise up to blind and blindside me out of nowhere when I least expect it. She was one of those rare spirits who became a lodestone for those she loved, a point on the compass, a guide . . . as Laura put it, the North Star, and losing her destroyed our sense of direction. Heaven knows that in the months since her departure, the world has needed guidance. In my darker moments, I wonder how much the world has lost without her here to help steer.

Linda was not the sort of person who, as far as I could tell, ever aspired to be in charge, particularly. She wasn't about ego, didn't live her life in search of subjects or followers. She did what she did as she could, and she did what she thought was right within the constraints life presents us all, and she always tried to find ways to do a little better than that, too. She was the kind of person who did not so much learn the lessons of childhood as become them: Lin was sharing; she was acceptance; she was open-heartedness; she was a friend. There really aren't many of those in this world. Finding her was a great gift; losing her, an unspeakable grief.

Daily Kos was her online home, a place where, as Patriot Daily News Clearinghouse or PDNC, she built community daily, bringing people together in common cause. She never knew, I think, how many, many people she touched, even across the great unbreachable void of cyberspace. I don't think she had any idea just how many people sought her counsel and valued her opinion, how many relied on the sense of community and stability and, frankly, fun that she brought to everything she said and did. It's a spirit has been in tragically short supply.

I wonder, at times, whether she bothers checking in from whatever beautiful plane she occupies now. I know she checks on Laura; of that I have no doubt. About seven weeks ago, I had my own brush with death (and its fingers have not yet entirely let go). As I sat waiting the thirty to forty minutes it took the ambulance to arrive, unable to stand or move, watching the gray fading inward at the edges of my vision, praying desperately and able to voice only one word, "Please," I found myself thinking of Lin and what she would have done. Was this how it felt for her? I remember thinking, absurdly, "What would Lin tell me to do?" 

I suppose that was when I realized that no one has any answers, you just gotta go with the flow, regardless of whether you wind up in the lake or the river. I was spared the river, at least for that moment. But I had a newfound respect for what she had faced down, and I couldn't help feeling that she had won — she had defeated them all, doctors and hospitals and cancer and pain and death itself. Hers was a spirit too light, too much of the light, ever to lose, or to be lost.

And now, with my own battle ahead of me and a lot that remains unknown, I look out at what remains of the water here, and it is ice: hard, but brittle. A month ago, it was solid, deep, its frozen surface braided together like strands of sweetgrass, just enough shine to it to show the reflection of the willows weeping onto its surface.

And I thought of Lin.

Water, light, and love braided together — simultaneously eternal and ephemeral, changing form and transcending the bounds of this world.  

Like Lin.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2017; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner. 

Two years ago this morning, . . .

Grace
Photo copyright Wings, 2007, 2014; all rights reserved.

Wings's brother, Roy Wayne Bernal, Black Shouting Water, walked on.

Here's what I said on this day last year, when I was still able to post "This Week In American Indian News" at Daily Kos:

It was one year ago this morning that Roy Wayne Bernal (Black Shouting Water) went to Spirit. 

Roy was a warrior for his people, a leader, someone who successfully walked in both worlds his entire life and made a difference while doing so. He was also Wings's brother.

But while the latter part of his identity is what was most important to us, the impact of the former is what's felt by Indians around the country, even if they've never heard his name. The imprint of his life enfolds Indian Country like a blanket, and in ways large and small, he dedicated his life to protecting and preserving the people and traditions he loved so much.

With that in mind, I've chosen for today news stories that touch on causes and issues that would have had particular resonance for Roy: the environment, justice, sovereignty, respect for our ancestors, and preservation of cultural traditions and customs. None of them has anything to do with Taos Pueblo, but all concern topics that were important to him. 

Today's edition is dedicated to the memory of Roy Bernal.

Roy and Carter knew each other, once upon a time. I like to think they're together again, doing what they've always done, helping the people. And probably dancing.

We love you and miss you, Roy.