Ammi Midstokke: A desert of grief
The desert is a barren and desolate place, strewn with the bones of cacti, the dried out carcasses of optimistic flora, and awash with a chromatic palette as parched as a grieving soul.
It seems fitting that we’ve come here to collectively mourn the loss of a loved one.
The summer-scorched setting and its population of rickety double-wide trailers is redeemed by the sunrises and sunsets. At night, the coyotes sing the wordless hymns of our silent sorrows. The moon rises to cast a dim and soothing light, milky enough to wash out the confusion and pain on our faces. In the daylight, we laugh more. At night, our quiet leads to a different kind of troubled contemplation.
My dad spends most of our desert walks wondering why we gather to mourn our people. In a vast cosmos of potentially infinite size and a timeline upon which all of humanity is not more than a blip, why do we offer such significance to an individual’s coming or going? And why do we come together for it?
Even as he cannot answer this question for himself, he is here, has invited his children and grandchildren. He shares stories of his departed brother and shows us photographs of them as boys. Even as he chides the hullabaloo, waste and effort around something as silly as a service at a civic center, he requests a particular song be played at his own funeral – if we feel compelled to make a ridiculous fuss when he dies.
I have to believe that these ceremonies and rituals are less about the person passed and more about who we are because of them. It is a stark and blatant reminder of how our interconnectedness is what makes us important, that none of us is an island. And yet, there is a shift toward this kind of isolation in our society, as if we were not all depending on the same limited resources on this globe. As if we’re unaffected by the tragedies of another.
The chain-link-surrounded compound of my late uncle is decorated with dollar-store race car themed flags. (Has he reached the final finish line? I wonder.) There is a giant bouncy castle in the front yard, along with motorcycles in every size and a parade of side-by-sides. His favorite snacks (vanilla Oreos) are bought in bulk. Garth Brooks is wailing on the radio. The margarita machine is churning cocktails. If I had to write a fiction scene of a dystopian funeral, this would be it.
Between family gatherings of various symbolic importance, I wander the desert in search of meaning. I forget why I’m here and become enchanted by the way the wind makes tiny waves in the sand. I come across an unusually large lizard and we have a staring contest until he tires of the attention and scurries off through a shrub and over the rocks. Despite my best efforts at avoiding the cliché, Edward Abbey echoes in my head: Nature is indifferent to our love, but never unfaithful.
I was hoping my dad had some answers, but it seems as we age, we’re less apt to know a thing and more inclined to wonder, which may be the definition of wisdom. This explains why my adolescents are so visibly disturbed by how much I’ve forgotten already. Thankfully, I have teenagers around to function as walking encyclopedias of knowledge, memes and Pink Floyd lyrics.
During the service, we perched on diner chairs under the fluorescent lights of a low ceiling. I suspected each bout of clapping after a speech left us covered in a fine dust of asbestos. A microphone was passed about and grown men who spend most of their days bragging about their golf game stood up to cry for a good bit before wrenching a few cohesive words from their broken hearts. And we cried with them.
Walking home from the service and subsequent taco truck meal in the dark with my dad, I decide the wondering is more important than the answering. I wondered how much time we have left together and if we’d use it wisely. I wondered if those in my world knew how they contribute to the marvel and joy of my life. I wondered if my uncle knew how loved he was and why.
I think it is fair to say that none of our witchy ceremonies or religious rituals sums up the importance a singular life can have on so many others, or what its universal relevance is. I don’t know that it matters. What I do know is that there is something powerful in love and loss, and that both are better when shared.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com