...I accepted the fact that Christmas is over and I took down the tree.
I always hate taking down the tree. Oh, I know that next Christmas will be here before I know it (in fact, I will admit this: when I went to put the tree up this year, the stand was actually still in the living room. It was shoved under an armchair in the corner, but at some point during the summer when I saw it I thought "I'm gonna need that in four months and it's been up here for eight, why bother putting it away now?") but I'm way too sentimental about things. I think the Buddhist philosophy of impermanence appeals to me because I realize how much suffering I put myself through wanting to keep everything the way it is...but merely understanding that all is transitory doesn't make me shrug off loss, even of a dead tree.
(And speaking of dead trees, they will still drip sap. You can use olive oil to get pine sap off a laminate floor, but if you do use olive oil to remove sap, when you get up, keep in mind: you have just oiled the floor. )
Loss is actually on my mind about more than my tree, actually, because I had to go to a memorial service this morning. The deceased was the husband of a woman with whom I work.
I mentioned Walt Starling's passing the other day. I had an e-mail today from a friend of his...the guy had been Googling and found my blog entry. He shared some personal reflections, which I quite appreciate, and told me that the funeral was standing room only.
I've been to a few very small funerals and to some pretty large ones. There seems to be comfort when the funeral director needs to bring in extra chairs. And I have no doubt that, had I not gone today, my co-worker would not have looked around saying "Where's Nic?" But my sister and I were talking about this...it's just how we were raised. You go.
And after I go, I admit it...I end up wondering who's going to show up at my funeral. Which is a shorthand for "examining my life and values and how I live and how I'll be remembered," and I can only admit that I'm self-centered enough to leave someone else's funeral thinking about mine because the nice gentleman who wrote to me about Walt Starling told me that he was doing the same thing.
Posted by Nic at January 8, 2005 06:17 PM