I don't feel like it

I don't feel like blogging. I don't feel like doing anything. I've been done in for too long.

Christy's family held her memorial at the Lovejoy's Tea Room, her favorite place. It had been so long since I'd shared tea with Christy there that the tea room was in a new location down the street. They had displayed lots of Christy's hats on the Victorian hat rack, and had lots of wonderful photos of Christy throughout her life playing on a video screen. It was great to see her at so many ages and in so many circumstances, loving life and brightening the lives of others. I had brought a tube of extra posters that she and I had printed for the book we did in case some of her loved ones wanted a copy. They seemed glad to have them.

When we were invited, I spoke about my relationship with Christy. I brought condolences from some of our other Goddard friends. (Some of us are planning a picnic on Ring Mountain later this month in memory of Christy.) Others had mentioned how she was always giving little gifts. I told of a Waterford crystal shot glass she gave me that I intended to fill with Jameson's when I got home and lift a toast to Christy.

After the ceremony, Richard shared with me some of the details of Christy's crossing. I don't want to share them here because I don't know if that might feel too revealing to her family, but I can tell you they moved me deeply. They underscored my feelings and knowledge of the dying process as well as what a special person Christy was.

Richard asked me to close the ceremony with this poem that Christy loved, written by a mutual friend of ours from the San Francisco Writers Workshop we used to attend at the library named Mary TallMountain. Mary, now also sadly gone, was an Athabascan from a remote village in Alaska.*

There Is No Word for Goodbye**

Mary TallMountain

Sokoya, I said, looking through

the net of wrinkles into

wise black pools

of her eyes.

What do you say in Athabaskan

when you leave each other?

What is the word

for goodbye?

A shade of feeling rippled

the wind-tanned skin.

Ah, nothing, she said,

watching the river flash.

She looked at me close.

We just say, Tlaa. That means,

See you.

We never leave each other.

When does your mouth

say goodbye to your heart?

She touched me light

as a bluebell,

You forget when you leave us;

you’re so small then.

We don’t use that word.

We always think you’re coming back,

but if you don’t,

we’ll see you some place else.

You understand.

There is no word for goodbye.

* Bill Moyers featured an interview with Mary on a show he did about Native American poets. He found her enchanting.

** Unfortunately, this blog will not accept the proper formatting (indents) even if I don't put the poem in quotes. Apologies to Mary and all poets.

Christy Kearney

My dear friend Christy Kearney (aka Chrys Rasmussen and Christy Werbel) passed away last Saturday after a long battle with breast cancer. Christy was a Goddard friend; we met when we both arrived at the Goddard Adult Degree Program at Asilomar, California, in 1977. At the time, Christy lived in Illinois and I in North Beach, San Francisco. She was determined to move to San Francisco, which she did shortly thereafter.

My daughter Deirdre turned one year old during the course of that two-week stay at Asilomar. Her dad, Rod, brought her down for a birthday celebration Christy was part of at the lodge. Christy was wonderful ‘auntie’ to my daughter Deirdre throughout her life. Deirdre wore some beautiful dresses that had been worn by Christy's daughters, Heidi, then Marcy. When Rod was dying back in 1988, Christy took Deirdre out for meals and other diversions to give her a break from the hospital vigil. Three years ago when I needed help for Deirdre, unsolicited, she sent a chunk of money.

One of the things not mentioned in this lovely obit linked above is that Christy was a fine poet. In 1981, she and I formed a publishing company, Continuing Saga Press, and published an anthology, co-edited by the two of us and another Goddard friend, Kitty Costello, called WomanBlood: Portraits of Women in Poetry and Prose, which contains some of Christy's work. Of course, in our enthusiastic naïveté we knew nothing of book marketing and had no budget for ads or much else in the way of promotion (although we did share a booth with IBPA and COSMEP* at the ABA convention), so we didn’t sell all our print run. Regardless, the book garnered favorably reviews and contained the works of well-known poets and writers as well as those of the relatively unknown. We proudly consider it a worthy work.

I'm sorry to say that Christy and I had less frequent contact over the past few years, mainly due to her being away caring for her ailing mother and our respective schedules, later exacerbated by her weakening condition. When I received an email from Marcy saying that Christy was dying, I planned to visit her right away but my car was in the shop for what was supposed to be one day. Unfortunately, that day turned into two days, by which time Christy had passed. I wanted to tell her how much she means to me and and how much I loved her. I deeply regret that I didn't get to do that, and I hope she died knowing that fact all the same. (Let this be a lesson to all to keep close contact with loved ones. They won't always be there.)

Christy was a Beltane baby, born May 1, 1947. Beltane babies are said to be able to see the fey; I’m sure she did.

In love may she return again.

Donations in Christy's memory to U'ilani Fund.

* COSMEP = Committee of Small Magazine Editors and Publishers