At the temple there is a poem called “Loss” carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.
Arthur Golden, from “Memoirs of a Geisha”
I want to scream.
I want to be angry.
In a sense, I am screaming inside, which does nothing to alleviate the overwhelming grief.
And then I remember that this -thing- did not happen to -me-.
It happened far from me, to a man with his own family, loved ones who are now living in a world bereft of his smile, his laugh, his light.
I focus on the injustice – the imbalance that set this loss in motion, and of course, I am angry.
But I cannot imagine the extent of grief of those closest to him.
Or perhaps I can, yet I understand that it is not a grief I am privy to.
So I can only do as he would do.
He would make a lesson of his troubles, and put a positive light on it.
What that is, only time can tell.
A colleague said that what we can do to honor him is to be there for others. On that, I wholeheartedly agree. I’m not much of a cook–but if a friend needed me to make a meal, I’d do it. If someone needs an ear, I’m here. If it is within my power to help carry a burden, then I will – because this world needs more of the kind of person Dana was, and less of the harshness that can befall those who focus on justice or chaos.
It does nothing to allay the sadness, the cold and weary feeling that has settled on my heart. But in dark times, we must be light. We must be love. For ourselves, for others. For people who greeted us and treated us like family, and for people who don’t know us at all.
In this way we can be connected.
I think Dana would want that more than anything.
I am angry. And I am sad.
But I will love, not hate. And I am ever beyond grateful that I had him and his wonderful family in my life. If I could achieve even a modicum of the grace he brought into this world just by virtue of being him, I would be a lucky man.