In Memoriam

We first met Michael and Cynthia Harper at a fund-raising dinner. We were new to Sitka and didn't know anyone, so we sat at a large round table next to them simply because there were empty chairs there. Cynthia was wonderful. Smart as a whip, funny and strong and generous. I liked her immediately- it was impossible not to. But Michael. Michael, who I was sitting next to that night. MIchael was my soul friend. We talked all night, and it was like we were in the room alone together. I wish I could say I remember every word he said that night, but I can't (we shared a bottle of wine). I remember his laugh and the sparkle in his dark eyes. When we left the dinner- biking home in the crisp, cold night- I told Dennis that I think I met my new best friend. "I know", he agreed, smiling.



We didn't spend enough time with Michael and Cynthia. They travelled a lot, and neither of us were party-goers. We did see them regularly at various fund raisers and occassionally at the grocery store or coffee shop. Michael changed my life. Every moment with him made me a better person. He was so peaceful, so wise. He had acheived that wisdom and peace not just through books and theory, but through war and illness and long dark nights on the deck of a sailboat. I was so in awe of him and so amazingly honored that he seemed to enjoy my presence.



The last time I saw Michael, he looked tired. Thinner even than usual and weak. He disappeared in his wooly cap and his warm coat like a child. Cynthia looked tired and worn. We drank champagne and we talked. Michael told me he was ready. But he had always been ready. Like my mom, he fought his disease not because he was in denial or because he feared death, but because he loved life. He fought his disease because he was strong and brave and wanted to be open for something wonderful to happen tomorrow, even if that wonderful thing was just to be touched on the face by his wife, or feel rain in his hair.




Japanese Death Poems:

Kozan Ichikyo, died February 12, 1360, at 77

Empty-handed I entered the world
Barefoot I leave it.
My coming, my going --
Two simple happenings
That got entangled.

Sunao, died in 1926 at 39

Spitting blood
clears up reality
and dream alike.


Senryu, died September 23, 1790, at 73

Bitter winds of winter --
but later, river willow,
open up your buds.

Shoro, died April 1894, at age 80

Pampas grass, now dry,
once bent this way
and that.


Shinsui, died September 9, 1769, at 49
O

During his last moment, Shisui's followers requested that he write a death poem. He grasped his brush, painted a circle, cast the brush aside, and died.

The circle is one of the most important symbols of Zen Buddhism. It indicates void -- the essence of all things -- and enlightenment.