Changed

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.
~W.H. Auden

I've always been puzzled by the conundrum this poem presents. Is it foolish of us to die in our dread, or is there something heroic in human beings that we can hold on to our dreams and illusions in spite of the reality of the moment? I lean toward the first conclusion, but not without reservations.


Shortly after midnight the wind picked up, waking me from a new, light sleep. The chimes on the deck were ringing and in my subliminal state of mind I had the impression of alien space ships moving in, or some other cataclysmic occurrence taking place. I've seen one too many movies. It's funny how these things that spring from someone else's imagination can set a pattern for my own perception of reality. I spent the next ten minutes working to erase the preconception in order to hear and experience the actual windstorm outside my window. It was enough that I could feel the draft reaching its icy fingers under the crack of the french doors next to my bed. I watched the patterns of shadows shake with life on the window curtains. Eventually I fell back to sleep and didn't think about it again until standing outside the church where my grandma's funeral had been held. The small group of family stood outside the chapel door while the pall bearers escorted the casket to the hearse. The wind served as a second reminder to release expectations and see past old patterns to the actual experience at hand.


Here is what I saw at the viewing and funeral. Grandma was laid out in her casket, made up to look natural and less frail than she truly was. Her hands were folded across her abdomen. Her fingers, long and knobbed with arthritis, looked like slender chicken feet, and her skin was thin. And so I say she was frail, but also a tough old bird who did not go gently into that good night. Funerals can be glossy affairs, remembering the good times and perhaps exaggerating them. So much talk about being happier now and in a better place causes my brain to flatline with the irrelevance of such words. I'm not angry about it. I just accept the fact that death is the end as we know it. I find all this pretending that we know what happens after annoying. My grandma is dead. What lives on is in the DNA in my cells, my siblings' cells, my children's cells. And don't tell me personality isn't in DNA. Those traits--the reserve, nearly stoic, language patterns, a look, a way of looking. My uncle, whom I only see at funerals, is a quiet man. We know each other, recognize and somewhat distantly say hello and good-bye. My Aunt Mead says "bless their hearts" like Grandma did. She adopted my sister's cat today. And so it goes.


Don't let my stoicism fool you into thinking I didn't love Florence, but I don't want to remember only a rosy picture of her. She was a complex woman, capable of deep compassion for others, but also able to hurt others. I feel there is a legacy passed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter. I can love that more fiercely than a perfect illusion of a grandma that never really existed. My sister Kate gave a heartfelt and accurate eulogy, recalling her relationship with Grandma and highlighting all that was human and memorable about her. I had forgotten that Florence had a place in her heart for homeless people, and had cared in particular about one man, Pete. She always looked for him in the streets of Salt Lake. That she loved us is unquestioned. Was she annoyed by us? Selfish at times? Selfless at others? The wind blew again through the cemetery in Fountain Green, that reminder to take a look at what was actually happening in that moment.  Following the graveside ceremony, talk centered on the roses on the casket, to who was going to meet to clean out Grandma's house, who would get what treasures or knick-knacks. Housekeeping. Physical business. The need to take care of the present.


We drove from the cemetery to Santaquin to spend some time at Mom's, and as I usually do when entering my childhood hometown, I looked to the house where I lived from age 5 - 12. That landmark had been burned, just today. The entire house had crumbled into the foundation and was smoldering, parts still burning. I made Chris pull the car into that familiar driveway so I could get out and stare dumbly at a place that had set an early pattern in my psyche. The small front yard that once seemed vast was soaked, wet maple leaves from trees that used to seem larger glued themselves to the short sidewalk. The porch had collapsed and the cement foundation had been sledgehammered toward the center of the charred guts. If I dream about my childhood, it is often in the rooms of that now non-existent house. I found out later that my grandpa had sold the house to the city and the fire department had used it for a practice burn. It's a bit surreal to learn that a piece of my childhood has been cremated. 

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.  ~Anatole France

I really couldn't tell you if that quote is comforting or disconcerting to me at the moment. Is the life we are about to enter any better than the one we're dying to? Really, who knows? However, as sad as we may be to see a chapter end, a loved grandma die, a childhood home go up in smoke, what choice do we have but to grow up, be melancholy for awhile, then move ahead?  I'd love someone to chime in and prove me wrong or at least give a compelling enough rebuttal that I would have to reconsider this position. For now, I will enjoy this glass of merlot, shut off the computer, and see what I can make of the rest of this evening.