I do think about my funeral sometimes. Not my death, mind you. I don't think about that much, and when I do, all I think about it is that it will probably be in some stupidly hilarious fashion that those who are mourning over me will be slow to speak of it, because then both the teller and the listener will have to choke back the giggles. And if I'm correct in this prediction, I give you all leave right now to go ahead and laugh. If I get pulled halfway through my paper shredder, or manage to hang myself upside down while trying put up a new shower curtain, it's ok. Laugh. You have both my permission and my blessing.
But anyway. I don't think it's ever to early to think about your own funeral. I've already buried two of my dearest friends, so I know. And because nobody, not them, not their families, expected to have to throw a them a funeral, the ceremony held as little of their personality as the body being buried.
I don't think that thinking about it is morbid either, because it involves thinking about my life more than anything else. What my life is about, what it means, and how I'd like it to be remembered.
And what I think about is a place I've loved to hike to ever since I was a teenager. A short, leisurely ramble out from the old Sweetwater bridge in Jamul is a place
I've written about before. Someone started to build a rock footbridge over the river, and I know I'm not the only one who tends and rebuilds it after rains. I've never seen my fellow workers, but we see each other's work. And it makes me think about life, about how what we do could be part of something bigger, putting our rock in the bridge that brings worlds together, never knowing who it will inspire or affect, and that no bridge is so perfect or permanent that it doesn't need to be tended to survive.
And so when I rule out having my ashes put in fireworks and lit off as being too expensive, or having my ashes mixed with glitter and scattered from a hot air balloon as un-eco-friendly, I think I'd like my ashes scattered there.
Just carry my ashes out there, in that round brightly colored tin in my kitchen (you'll know it when you see it), down the path where the wild grass grows, green for just a few weeks in the spring, then turns gold and waves lightly in the hot dry air. Odds are it will be a sunny day. It's pretty hard to be sad while walking, especially in the sun. So don't fight it. Don't feel like you have to be completely sad. Take some deep breaths. Then when you get to the bridge, put a rock in it yourself. Let your eyes adjust to the shade and look for crawdads. Stand on the bridge and pour my ashes out into the creek.
Leave me there with the crawdads and hummingbirds and herons, and go out for breakfast and talk smack about me. I'm not a saint, and I don't expect to be spoken about as one when I'm dead. Laugh, cry, neither, both, both at once, whatever you want. No rules, no guilt.
Because that's how I try to live.
Labels: autobio, happiness is, wonder wander walkabouts
And best of all, Luca in clothes.
Horrible? Perhaps.
And best of all, Luca in clothes.
Horrible? Perhaps.
