In Loving Memory of Charles Wesley Dunn Jr. (July ll, 1931 - May 23, 2009)

(Mom and Dad last fall)

June 5, 2009

Thank you to all who attended today's service and to all who have given their love and support to my father and our family through this long, difficult time. Your letters, phone calls, visits, flowers, cookies, etc. have been a constant reminder of the boundless capacity of the human spirit and the incredible value of friendship and community. 

Below I've posted the poem I read this morning along with my introductory words. I obviously have a lot more to say on the subject. If you are interested in reading more CLICK HERE to visit "Hole 18" in the Writing section.

Thanks again from our entire family.

Late on the night before my father died when he would normally fall asleep, he became very nervous and restless. I dared not to think it then, but in hindsight I knew that was the last time I was going to see him alive. He had been very, very sick for many weeks, but he just seemed different that night. I can only describe his state as being “in between worlds.”

He was drifting in and out of “consciousness,” but at one point he held my hand tightly, looked me very seriously in the eyes and asked me if I knew where he was going and how he was supposed to get there. He also asked me if he could borrow some money for the journey; which just goes to show that even at the very end you haven’t seen it all. Our roles had finally, completely reversed.

But I felt helpless because I couldn’t give him an answer. Sitting there beside his hospital bed with his hand in mine was as far as I was able to go with him. I could only adjust his pillows a little and tell him to try to get some sleep.

I chose this poem, from a collection that was given to me by mother many years ago, because it really captures how I often felt in the final months and days of my father’s life. And also how I imagine he might have felt when he became a father and didn’t have all the answers for two inquisitive young sons. It speaks to me of the limits of how far we can walk together before each of us must continue the journey alone, in this world and the next.

It also speaks of the distance we travel together and the things we have in common. I feel blessed that my father lived as long as he did after he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer because we ended up spending so much time together over the past two years and I realize now more than ever how much we truly do have common.

Directions

by Billy Collins

 

You know the brick path in back of the house,

the one you see from the kitchen window,

the one that bends around the far end of the garden

where all the yellow primroses are?

And you know how if you leave the path

and walk up into the woods you come

to a heap of rocks, probably pushed

down during the horrors of the Ice Age,

and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now

against the light brown fallen leaves?

And farther on, you know

the small footbridge with the broken railing

and if you go beyond that you arrive

at the bottom of that sheep’s head hill?

Well if you start climbing, and you

might have to grab hold of a sapling

when the going gets steep,

you will eventually come to a long stone

ridge with a border of pine trees

which is as high as you can go

and a good enough place to stop.

 

The best time is late afternoon

when the sun strobes through

the columns of trees as you are hiking up,

and when you find an agreeable rock

to sit on, you will be able to see

the light puring down into the woods

and breaking into the shapes and tones

of things and you will hear nothing

but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy

falling of a cone or nut through the trees,

and if this is your day you might even

spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese

driving overhead toward some destination.

 

But it is hard to speak of these things

how the voices of light enter the body

and begin to recite their stories

how the earth holds us painfully against

its breast made of humus and brambles

how we who will soon be gone regard

the entities that continue to return

greener than ever, spring water flowing

through a meadow and the shadows of clouds

passing over the hills and the ground

where we stand in the tremble of thought

taking the vast outside into ourselves.

 

Still let me know before you set out.

Come knock on my door

and I will walk with you as far as the garden

with one hand on your shoulder.

I will even watch after you and not turn back

to the house until you disappear

into the crowd of maple and ash,

heading up toward the hill,

piercing the ground with your stick.