Dog tags

You were named after a fish.
Flashing silver in the ocean,
Slipping up rivers to
Sun dappled mountain streams.

Your birthday, just shy of twenty.
A teenager.
A boy.

Your blood type, which we
Pumped into your broken body for an hour.
Praying for a helicopter
That never came.

Your religion.
One tag said "Buddhist",
The other, "Surfer".

I imagine you as you were- white teeth
In a young, tan face. A seashell necklace.
Two good legs.
A dog. A girlfriend. A fire on the beach.

I wonder what your parents thought,
The ones who named you for a fish,
When you came to them,

Sun bleached hair shaved off,
And told them what you'd done.
That you were coming here, to this dry land.
A land without fish or surfboards.

Jeff Bickart

Jeff taught geology, ecology, ornitholigy, botany, fiber arts, organic crop production and traditional outdoor living skills. He taught us how to make fire with two sticks (harder than you think), to make rope with reeds, and to tan hides. Jeff's intense curiosity and his wide and deep knowledge, as well as his sense of humor, made the subjects he taught come alive to his students. An avid reader, he was also a published poet and essayist. He made clothing from local plant and animal materials, spinning and dyeing his own yarns and weaving, knitting and felting fabrics, as well as tanning hides. He built his own wood and canvas canoe, as well as paddles, snow-shoes, bows, arrows and atlatls (he tried to teach me to throw the atlatl, but it was not meant to be). With his family, he created a homestead farm, with extensive vegetable gardens and a large orchard. He had a particularly strong interest in the preservaton of heirloom varieties of vegetables and fruits and was for 10 years an active member of Seed Savers Exchange. A competitive long distance runner in high school, college, and later, Jeff continued to enjoy running until his illness prevented it. Jeff left behind his sweet and beautiful wife of 14 years, Jenn (Brown); and their two beloved children, Alex-ander (age 9) and Laura (age 7).

Chuck

Fuck. I'm tired of writing these kind of blogs. Chuck, my friend, I miss you already.

George Gardner

"You're so great". When you first hear someone say that to you in the middle of a normal conversation, you don't really know how to react. You give a little laugh, you look away, maybe change the subject. As a catchphrase, it seems silly at first. It's hard to take such words seriously. But, as time goes on, you start to believe it a little bit. You start to use those three little words in your own interactions with people, and you start to mean them a little bit. Maybe he's right, you think to yourself, maybe I am great. Maybe everyone really is great.

George, with his huge smile and his belief that we are all great changed everyone at Sterling College, a small school in northern Vermont. You couldn't talk to him for 2 minutes without making him just glow with pleasure and assure you that you are, indeed, great. We'd tell eachother that we were great, and we'd mean it, but the words would also bring George's presence into the conversation and with it would come his peace, his joy, his appreciation for life.

I spent many nights camping with George in a small 2-person tent. We seldom slept- we talked about religion, about love, about the mountains. He taught me to ice climb and he improved my rock climbing with his insightful instruction. But more importantly, he taught me to appreciate the people who I meet every day. When you're open to people showing you their greatness, it's not hard to find.

George died in the Teton mountains this week. It's easy to say that, "well, at least he died doing what he loved", and that is certainly true. But, the world is a sadder place without him. My thoughts of peace go to his dear wife and two children (with whom I shared memorable a Thansgkiving dinner, many years ago) at this difficult time.

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.

One more week in Anchorage. It's bitter cold (-8F) and beautiful with crisp, clear days and just enough snow to make everything bright in the early afternoon sun. I am fortunate to work close enough to where I live that I can walk my commute. It's about 40 minutes each way (longer if there's lots of fresh snow). I walk through a park, around a lake. I see beaver and moose on my way in at times. A long walk twice a day is a great way to center my mind, to relax and focus.

My Nan died yesterday after 5 days in a coma. She, like many others of her generation, was a fighter. She fought to keep her home and family running. When the last of six children were finally out of the house and settled, she battled with Granddad's Alzheimer's disease. After he passed on, she has struggled for the last decade with cancer. Up until the end, she did not know how to let go, how to stop fighting. I hope that she finally knew peace and that, if there is an afterlife, she is with my mom, and her family and loved ones. I will always remember her in the kitchen (how trite), flour up to her elbows, kneading bread; or lying on the couch, covered with dogs and cats, reading a book; her love of the winter and learning to ski at a time in life when most women were settling down. A strong woman and a good one, I hope that I take after her.




Before She Died

by Karen Chase

When I look at the sky now, I look at it for you.
As if with enough attention, I could take it in for you.

With all the leaves gone almost from
the trees, I did not walk briskly through the field.

Late today with my dog Wool, I lay down in the upper field,
he panting and aged, me looking at the blue. Leaning

on him, I wondered how finite these lustered days seem
to you, A stand of hemlock across the lake catches

my eye. It will take a long time to know how it is
for you. Like a dog's lifetime -- long -- multiplied by sevens.