Inside His Ancient Heart

A year ago today you walked toward me for a mid-day hug in our office for the last time. I remember it well, because it was so unusual. At the time I was quietly startled as it seemed to me that the cells of your body felt so frenetic. If I had to describe it, I would say it felt like you wanted to crawl under the surface of my skin and hide, very uncharacteristic. In thinking back on this squeeze, I wondered if somewhere deep down, your spirit knew of the great journey on which you were about to embark.

They always say that the first year following the loss of a loved one is the hardest. And as we near that monumental marker, the shifts people keep telling me about are occurring here and there.

The doctors downstairs from our office have felt it’s time to bring a new therapist into your space. We have all sat in your office, at one time or another during the past twelve months, flooded with feelings of deep gratitude that it has remained just as you left it, that Thursday evening, a year ago today.

I was in there one evening a few weeks back, dusting the counters and vacuuming your baseboards. I noticed a change in the air, and I wondered to myself how long it would remain your lovely space. I could tell you were so close. In retrospect, it felt as though you were comforting me ahead of time, so when I learned of the change, my heart could bear it better.

So many people have told me that once we pass the year mark, I probably won’t feel you as close. I’ve wondered for myself if this will be the case.

I certainly have been in a very contemplative place, thinking over the last year...All the things you were facing prior to your sudden illness. The incredible experience, over such a short period, of watching you come to terms with it all firsthand. And the experience of witnessing you accomplish your passing through the veil with greater integrity than I knew anyone could.

I love you so deeply for the way you chose to pass. Like your life, it was a template for strength, trust and courage.

As I was cleaning some of your things, I shook out one of your throws and read with a chuckle the “ Fisherman’s Creed”:

“I pray that I may live to fish
Until my dying day
And when it comes to my last cast
I then most humbly pray
When in the Lord’s great landing net
And peacefully asleep
That in his mercy, I be judged
Big enough to keep”

I felt a smile grow across my face as I folded this lovely part of your mortality up.

I went home and decided to ride my bike up the canyon, with the thought of you fanning across my mind. New waves of grieving and gratitude washed over me, as I pedaled along the green shades of the Provo River, thinking of you in your hip-waders, fly fishing. The smells of the canyon are so sweet and lift my spirit like the sweet support I have experienced from you through the veil so often.

On my way biking up to my favorite willow tree, I notice someone had graffitied on a small building off the side of the path: “Life has no limits if you are not afraid to get in it”.

It reminded me of your approach to helping so many as a therapist. There were many days that I would walk into your office (when I had finished with my own client), and see that you had some saying like this written on your whiteboard, for the client you just finished a session with. Seeing this phrase on my ride gave me needed a boost of encouragement to accomplish my 14 mile journey.

Sweet tender mercies, such as this, have peppered my days and weeks since your passing. Yet still I was wading through the questions of: Will I not feel you so close anymore? What does “time” have to do with anything? From my experience, the veil dissolves when we transcend time and let ourselves experience the present, that’s when I feel you the most; those quiet times when you catch me off guard. Yet I felt myself asking fisherman Rex: Do you have somewhere else to go? Someplace to be? --When the veil that supposably separates us, is really is just the thin sheath of my own mortal view?

These questions continued flowing through the past few weeks, until one day recently, when I just couldn’t make it through my day. I bowed out of all my commitments and spent a quiet day to myself. I biked slowly up the canyon, sat under the willow for a bit, and made my way back home along the banks of the river. Once back home again, I prepared a simple dinner and began cleaning my kitchen in preparation for bed.

I felt impressed to light the candles in each room for the evening. As I cleaned the kitchen, I turned on the T.V. to find the re-run of a show where a popular singer was performing a rendition of Billy Joel’s “Lullaby”. I have always loved that song, and it was the perfect ambiance for my waining day. 

I remembered that this song was included in the last CD you sang on with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, so I popped my iPod on the dock and let it serenade my hands as they moved my cloth back and fourth across my counter tops.

It was not until the third time through, that my mind was enlightened to your presence, so I stopped my cleaning and (at your nudging) listened to the words.

Your spirit so compassionately again embraced me, in the same familiar and supportive way it has since your passing. I love that it was your voice singing a cappella, as one of the men in the choir that you loved so much. I love that you spoke to me from your fisherman’s heart, on a day my mind had been flooded with images of you as I biked along the water’s edge:

“Good night my angel time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say

I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Where ever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away

Good night my angel now it's time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay

And like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me

Goodnight my angel now it's time to dream
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Someday your child may cry and if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart there will always be a part of me

Someday we'll all be gone
But lullabies go on and on
They never die that's how you and I will be”

So so sincerely, sweet sweet Rex, I thank you again, my kind, beloved fisherman friend.