In Silence, Remember

A dear family friend passed away–the man who stood with me at my grandfather’s funeral.

Drama abounded–vulture-like relatives, hissing cats and pissing dogs.

It was so lovely. Really.

At the end of the funeral, after everyone, including my grandmother, had left, he stood beside me as we watched the casket go into the ground.  He tossed a tiny flag into the hole; I tied my Raidho necklace to the casket handle.

We didn’t speak, but then again, we didn’t have to.

It’s strange thinking about it now. I’ve been dragged into public speaking (not so bad, really, as it netted me a free trip to DC next month), and each month we have several presentations on different aspects of customer service. The first was responsiveness; for October, it will be communication.

My take on the whole communication thing is that you are your own message, just as Leonard Peltier said. And that  no matter who you’re with, what time it is, or what planet you’re on, you’re sending a message.  Be mindful of it and ensure that the message you’re conveying is actually the one you wish to send.

Waldo Emerson said it best, I think, when he said “Who you are speaks so loudly Ican’t hear what you’re saying.”

It’s something I come back to when I meet with cognitive dissonance, when people I so badly want to believe scream with every action that their words are meaningless.

I’ve come to realize, too, that silence is a message, another bit of wisdom from Mr. Peltier.  In times of anger,  it can be a weapon. In times of hurt, it can be a defense mechanism.  In some ways, I think I operate in defense mode a lot, and, because of it, am silent a good bit of the time.

For the wake, and the funeral, it was definitely a defense mechanism. I was so afraid of shaming my grandfather and the rest of my family, causing a scene, telling relatives exactly what I thought of them, exactly what horrible people they were that I kept my mouth shut, barely saying a word to anyone.

But after the funeral, as he stood with me and we said our final goodbyes, I realized that silence could be a bridge as well.  I never thought I’d see a magical moment at my grandfather’s funeral, but there it was.  Instead of being a wall of protection, or a gulf for loneliness to dwell, it was a space that felt so very much like home.

I didn’t know this man well.  He was a family friend in that friendly “How you doing?” sort of way until that day. I didn’t even know his last name until I saw his obituary.  In the South, we have a habit of addressing elders as “Mr. So-and-So” and “Miz. So-and-So.”  He was just Mr. Mark, dad’s friend, and then, after that magical moment, the Sharer of the Silence.

Ride Free, Mr. Mark.

I hope very much to be the kind of person you were, and to be remembered half as kindly.

This is his memorial, a portion of the memory he left, a tiny mark of his impact on the world:

For Whiskers.

You will be missed, Sir.

Today, as I don a Harley shirt, riding boots, and jeans for his memorial service, I’ll be silent, at least a little while.

Remembering.