(no subject)

For days now, I've been muted by the sorrow I feel at the losses that several people I care for deeply are in the midst of enduring. I have sat down to write something so many times, hoping that if I thought about it hard enough the right words would come. The right words---the ones that will unroll gently as rice paper to offer a magical balance of soothing strength and understanding, the words that will honor what I can only watch from a distance. I've wanted to do something, to send something, to call---to do something, anything to give some ease to people I love. Nothing seemed appropriate, nothing seemed enough. Everything I could think of to offer comfort seemed so small, so insignificant. I told myself that I would wait. I would wait until I knew the right thing to do, the thing that would have meaning beyond the borders of my own words. And today, I know the right thing. I know the right thing because of the words you both shared this morning, about a daughter singing her mother to heaven. Tonight I will lay my favorite blanket out under the stars in my circle of trees and I will sing. I will sing the songs my grandmothers taught me, defiant and joyful songs born in Appalachia long ago to people who traveled oceans and mountains. I will sing the spirituals that weave us southern folk together in all sorts of complicated ways. I will sing the old cowboy songs that my great uncle taught me to conjure visions of open plains and cool rivers. I will sing the songs that have meaning to me, the songs of my tribe. I will join in singing your mother to heaven, Lisa; and I will sing for Leo's mother, and Velma's mother. I will sing for my grandmothers. I will sing and hope that my small voice will grow large and find its place in the sky, in the sky that we all share, to mark the journeys of your beloved.