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| in loving memory ~ G-Man George Willits |
These days, death has been visiting closer to home. In January, my husband's younger brother died, followed two weeks later by a longtime family friend. An aunt and cousin both succumbed to illness last November, and a few months before that a friend's husband died from a prescription pill overdose.
As with the climber, most of these passings were sudden and unexpected. Even with the ones that were imminent, we hadn't met them with a real readiness to say so long. Now, with another friend living with terminal cancer, we've been given the opportunity to say fare-thee-well and to do it openly. To do it differently.
Our friend George got the idea for a passages meeting when another friend had read him some excerpts from a book by Jungian psychologist Robert Johnson. He liked the idea of a gathering of his friends sharing inspirational passages on the topic of death and the afterlife. His one requirement was that the evening not turn into a living memorial for him. He wanted to look ahead, not back.
To honor his request, sixteen of us met with him in the home of one of our group. Some chose not to read but simply to share about their own near death encounter and what they experienced momentarily on the other side of this physical life; some shared a funny anecdote of adventures they'd had with George and (violating the no living memorial rule) what he has meant to them.
Of those who did read, several read from Jung's protegees, a couple from the works of Emmanuel. A writer friend shared a poem he'd written specially for the occasion [which he chose instead of the guitar he'd brought to perform Amazing Grace]. Another had memorized a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson, our host read On Death from The Prophet and I, I read The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. My thought was that being able to look back with peace on a life well lived is equally as important as looking toward what awaits.
As a multiple cancer survivor over many years, our friend is the embodiment of someone who has taken a road less travelled. Left without a normal voice as the result of an earlier throat cancer, he's been able to produce gurgled-sounding speech by applying finger pressure over a bandage-covered hole in his throat where his larynx once was. As I listened to our friends recount their adventures with George, I felt affirmed in my choice of the Frost poem. Two memories in particular stood out.
The first occurred when many of us were taking up kayaking. Not to be left out, George decided he was going to kayak right along with the rest of us. Although some thought he was insane for taking such a risk (not uncommon to flip over and end up under water), he bought a kayak and outfitted it with pontoons for greater stability. With his modified vessel, he spent many hours with friends out on the water, enjoying an activity that he deeply loved.
The second was a camping trip George and some of the guys had taken years before. Several of them were contemplating a swim, but the chill of the morning hadn't quite worn off yet and the water was uninvitingly cold. While they hesitated, George put his hand over his throat, ran past them and dove into the frigid water. When he popped up, the rest looked on sheepishly with mouths agape.
To know that we're living fully in the moment, where fear and risk are present, but kept in their proper perspective with faith is a wondrous gift. Perhaps this is all we need at the hour of our last farewell--to know that we lived as fully as we could in any given moment, in spite of fear, in spite of risk. I see this in the full, unimpeded life our friend has lived.
And I hope this was so for the young climber who gave his life in pursuit of his passion. His mother's comment to news cameras that she understood why her son loved it up there, why he chose to climb mountains, struck me.
For just that moment it wasn't about her loss, but about her son's life, about living.
touching
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