Death, be not proud

My sister Gael's beloved died April 24, 2025, nearly exactly to the day, two years ago, that Rob took his tragic fall. I am mourning the death of yet another good man. 

Larry was a husband, father, grandfather, brother and friend.

He was also a teacher, a dreamer, an inventor, a storyteller and know-it-all.
To put it simply, this world is left less interesting without him. And for those lucky to have loved him, his passing is incomprehensible.
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Larry was born March 5, 1953, in Calgary, and grew up in small town Alberta. He spent his early days torturing his sisters, making friends with animals and figuring out the man he wanted to be. He left home to learn and adventure in forests and mountains. He eventually made his way to Ontario where he'd stay for over 30 years. Here, Larry found a community and with luck on his side, into his world came a wife, and her two young girls.
Larry's life was full. He spent these years becoming a champion for safety and supporting local
politics. He always made time to lend support to local causes and make the many people in his
life feel important. He nurtured his interest in games and stories and learned to cook and DIY.
He never stopped loving nature and travel and dreaming of his next adventure.
In time, he was gifted with two granddaughters and two grandsons and his role as grandpa may
have been his most cherished.
That Larry's story ends with an inexplicable illness, is not what anyone would have chosen. But
he left as he lived, surrounded by so much love.

My friend Wenda sent me this poem last week and it describes so much of what I've felt since Rob's death but the last stanza, I don't recognize as my tears still flow. I am thinking of my sister whose grief is raw. 

For Grief | John O’Donohue

When you lose someone you love, 
Your life becomes strange, 
The ground beneath you gets fragile, 
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure; 
And some dead echo drags your voice down 
Where words have no confidence. 

Your heart has grown heavy with loss; 
And though this loss has wounded others too, 
No one knows what has been taken from you 
When the silence of absence deepens. 

Flickers of guilt kindle regret 
For all that was left unsaid or undone. 

There are days when you wake up happy; 
Again inside the fullness of life, 
Until the moment breaks 
And you are thrown back 
Onto the black tide of loss. 

Days when you have your heart back, 
You are able to function well 
Until in the middle of work or encounter, 
Suddenly with no warning, 
You are ambushed by grief. 

It becomes hard to trust yourself. 
All you can depend on now is that 
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself. 
More than you, it knows its way 
And will find the right time 
To pull and pull the rope of grief 
Until that coiled hill of tears 
Has reduced to its last drop. 

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance 
With the invisible form of your departed; 
And, when the work of grief is done, 
The wound of loss will heal 
And you will have learned 
To wean your eyes 
From that gap in the air 
And be able to enter the hearth 
In your soul where your loved one 
Has awaited your return 
All the time.

I hope that Rob and Larry are enjoying margaritas together. I hope that they are in some magical place - the place that my grandson Seb described - having a good time.

"My life is a dot lost among thousands of other dots".

From snow monkeys to two little boy monkeys, my Japan adventure has been full to the brim with noise, much movement, culinary delights, sacred temples, a spring festival in Kanazawa and so much more.

My strongest images are of cherry blossoms, wasabi fields, and Japanese architecture. 

I have had two weeks travelling as a group and now everyone has flown home and I am alone. I am alone. No one to lead me to the sights. No Jane and Brendan to lead me to restaurants and interpret menus. What do I want from this trip to Japan? I don't know. 

My first solo adventure took me to Yokohama, a port town, great for people-watching and shopping but it didn't excite me. I returned to Tokyo and again met my friend at his showroom and placed an order for fall for LJ . (Yes, I did think its days were numbered but no more.)

I next caught a train to Matsumoto, the home of Yayoi Kusama, an artist who has stolen a little piece of my heart. (I, Kusama, am the modern Alice in Wonderland.) Yes. There is a craziness, a loveliness and so much  fun and colour in her work. Big bright tulips enhance the exterior entrance to the Matsumoto museum. Inside, there is a circular route to her exhibit. I walk through a room with mirrors, a room with a lit ladder to heaven that magically appears to have no ceiling, a light surrounded heart installation. In its centre is a mirror. I see myself. I am love? Next is a special room where each person or couple are guided and the door is shut for twenty seconds. Bright globes of various colours surround me - flashing, pulsating. They feel as if they will touch me but I'm not allowed to touch. The next room holds Kusma's famous large pumpkin, with black polka dots, in a room painted yellow with more polka dots. After walking through the exhibit, I want more so I walk through it a second time. 

Yayoi once designed a suit for George Cluny, art embracing film. Cluny is almost lost in polka dots.

"Kusama has been open about her mental health and has resided since the 1970s in a mental health facility. She says that art has become her way to express her mental problems... I fight pain, anxiety, and fear every day, and the only method I have found that relieved my illness is to keep creating art". 

Last night I met up with Justin, Susan's eldest son and we wandered the streets looking for somewhere to eat. We finally found an Indian restaurant - not what either of us would have chosen but it was Wednesday and most restaurants were closed. We talked about relationships, his work (he has been teaching English in a university for over thirty years). He is happy enough yet doesn't know if he will stay in Japan when his youngest child leaves home. I am happy that we have had time to talk - a little shyly but still I got to know him a little more. 

In the morning, I took an early train back to Tokyo and am now in one of the smallest hotel rooms that I've seen but it's clean and I need to explore a little. I work again tomorrow and then head to the seaside. 

The Flower of the Cherry Tree

 The flower of the cherry tree has great power. Its prettiness is a mask. With its spirit, its exuberance, it is all ruthless appetite and lust for life, the urge to try or die trying.

But in the end it does die... In the end we all die... so we might as well let life improvise the music we play.

Here I am in a modern art museum in Kanazawa. Light, large spaces, and a room with light bulbs on the ceiling that flash on and off in time with one's heart. I liked this visual display. In another room, a white rabbit lay - apparently an illegal Korean immigrant is inside the costume.

 

I lay down and kept him company. 

Today, we are in Hakuba, up in the mountains. The sun is shining. Seb and Brendan built a snowman. My family and friends have gone further up the mountain to cavort in the snow. I'm taking a breather, time to slow down and think.

I am reading A Single Rose again. The beauty of the writing appeals to me. I read the following couple of sentences and a light bulb came on in my brain:

The hardest thing, it turns out, is not trying to be happy without the person you loved... it's changing, no longer being who you were with that person.