Carrington
Today is a anniversary of sorts, but not a happy one, the date of my brother's death. It's hard to believe that he has been gone for over six years now. His name was Carrington and he was thirteen years older than me. At the time of his death he was only 39 years old, way to young to die. Cary was tall, model handsome, gracious, and extremely funny. Trust me, no one could beat his wit. He was I guess what you call a health nut who took great pains to be active. He was a vegetarian and though he enjoyed the occasional wine, never smoked. So it was a hugh shock to our parents and myself to say the least when he was diagnose with lung cancer. Within two years of learning of his illness, he was gone. He went to University of MN and his major was art. He was a tremendous artist. Often he tapped me to be a model for his sketches. I remember one in particular when I was about 6 or 7 and he had my mama put my long blonde hair in curlers for a sketch. Gee, just how every girl wants to be immortalized......... in those old fashion rollers with the pink pick. Not attractive. But ultimately he would turn his attention to other interests. He had a passion for business and excelled at that. The last six years of his life emotionally he probably was the happiest he'd ever been. He was in a committed relationship with his partner Stephen and they were living in his favorite city San Francisco. It goes without saying that I think that it wasn't fair that my brother didn't get to live longer, but the time he had he never seem to waste. He was always off somewhere trying something new, testing himself. He took up hang gliding and hot air ballooning, and loved rock climbing. He was for sure the best cook in our family and that's saying something as we all loved to try to outdo each other. He loved the arts, music, and books. During part of his twenties he lived in Manhattan where he made a point to go to a play every week. He spent the past dozen years up to his death in San Francisco, no hardship visiting him there. Although since his death, it's hard to visit my favorite city. Hard cause he isn't there. He isn't there to take me to a new resturant he discovered or an art gallery or to one our old haunts.
One of the last visits I had with my brother, he gave me the most amazing gift. First I think that giving is a form of dialogue and at its most refined of telepathy. The most memorable gifts seem to answer a question, settle a doubt, or anticipate a want the recipient perhaps hasn't yet thought of or been able to express. It's also a little mirror in which we see ourselves through the eyes of the giver. I say this because during the time of my brother's illness was to say the least a very melancholy time for me. I was alternately filled with hope that he would beat this illness and then I would give into despair. My brother who was a world traveler went to visit Bali the summer before his death. After his trip he had come to visit me. It was then that he gave me a beautifully wrapped package. Inside was the most amazing shawl, embroidered gold thread on gold silk. On the card he had simply written, "this looks like you, this feels like you." His perception was as touching and as precious as the shawl itself and every time I wear it, I recover my original emotion......the surprise grace of his recognition.
It was good that he was the oldest. He handle the expectations of my parents well. I remember when I was a little girl and I would ask the most dreaded question that a child could ask a parent, "Mama, which of us do you love more?" My mama handled that question very well. She told me that it wasn't a question of loving either one of us more, but rather differently. In regards to my brother Cary, she would tell me that she loved him the longest because he was her firstborn. It wasn't a question of more, just longer. I remember being satisfied by her wisdom. The loss of my brother and the acceptance of that has been a challenge for her. No mother is suppose to bury her child.
Loss....... at times I think that there can't possibly be a more frightening word. Yet if we are alive, we cannot escape it. It is a part of real life. Writing this, I'm reminded of a story that I once read. It is a story of a woman who lost her only child and was bereft, inconsolable, and alone. She went to the Buddha to ask his help in healing her wounded spirit. If he couldn't, she would follow her child to the grave and forgo her destiny. Karma be damned. She would not, could not continue to live this way. The Buddha agreed to help but told the mother she must first bring him back a poppy seed from a house that had never known sorrow. And so the woman set out to find one. Her search took her a long time. She went from house to house all over the world but there was not one that had never not known grief. However, because every house knew what her pain felt like, they wanted to give her a gift to help ease her anguish. It could not make it go away, but it might help. When the woman returned home she opened her heart and showed the Buddha what she had been given, acceptance, forbearance, understanding, gratitude, courage, compassion, hope, truth, empathy, remembrance, strength, tenderness, wisdom, and finally love. "These gifts were given to help me," she told the Buddha. "Ah, they were? And how do you feel now?" he asked the woman. "Different. Heavier. Each gift comforts me in its own way, there were so many I had to open my heart to carry them all and they make me feel sated. What is this strange feeling". The Buddha replied, "It is called sorrow. And now you know that you are no longer alone."
I miss you Cary. I will always miss you. But I've kept the promise I made to you.
One of the last visits I had with my brother, he gave me the most amazing gift. First I think that giving is a form of dialogue and at its most refined of telepathy. The most memorable gifts seem to answer a question, settle a doubt, or anticipate a want the recipient perhaps hasn't yet thought of or been able to express. It's also a little mirror in which we see ourselves through the eyes of the giver. I say this because during the time of my brother's illness was to say the least a very melancholy time for me. I was alternately filled with hope that he would beat this illness and then I would give into despair. My brother who was a world traveler went to visit Bali the summer before his death. After his trip he had come to visit me. It was then that he gave me a beautifully wrapped package. Inside was the most amazing shawl, embroidered gold thread on gold silk. On the card he had simply written, "this looks like you, this feels like you." His perception was as touching and as precious as the shawl itself and every time I wear it, I recover my original emotion......the surprise grace of his recognition.
It was good that he was the oldest. He handle the expectations of my parents well. I remember when I was a little girl and I would ask the most dreaded question that a child could ask a parent, "Mama, which of us do you love more?" My mama handled that question very well. She told me that it wasn't a question of loving either one of us more, but rather differently. In regards to my brother Cary, she would tell me that she loved him the longest because he was her firstborn. It wasn't a question of more, just longer. I remember being satisfied by her wisdom. The loss of my brother and the acceptance of that has been a challenge for her. No mother is suppose to bury her child.
Loss....... at times I think that there can't possibly be a more frightening word. Yet if we are alive, we cannot escape it. It is a part of real life. Writing this, I'm reminded of a story that I once read. It is a story of a woman who lost her only child and was bereft, inconsolable, and alone. She went to the Buddha to ask his help in healing her wounded spirit. If he couldn't, she would follow her child to the grave and forgo her destiny. Karma be damned. She would not, could not continue to live this way. The Buddha agreed to help but told the mother she must first bring him back a poppy seed from a house that had never known sorrow. And so the woman set out to find one. Her search took her a long time. She went from house to house all over the world but there was not one that had never not known grief. However, because every house knew what her pain felt like, they wanted to give her a gift to help ease her anguish. It could not make it go away, but it might help. When the woman returned home she opened her heart and showed the Buddha what she had been given, acceptance, forbearance, understanding, gratitude, courage, compassion, hope, truth, empathy, remembrance, strength, tenderness, wisdom, and finally love. "These gifts were given to help me," she told the Buddha. "Ah, they were? And how do you feel now?" he asked the woman. "Different. Heavier. Each gift comforts me in its own way, there were so many I had to open my heart to carry them all and they make me feel sated. What is this strange feeling". The Buddha replied, "It is called sorrow. And now you know that you are no longer alone."
I miss you Cary. I will always miss you. But I've kept the promise I made to you.