Wow, what a day. I am almost delirious with exhaustion and exuberance. The opening of Karuna was everything and more than I hoped. There is much to say, but it's late so for now I will simply post the story I used to open the ceremonies and a link to the podcast on Radio Riel. Oh and thank you to all the wonderful people who made this sim, this dream, this event possible. Though not comprehensive, the list includes:
- Lori Bell (lorelei Junot): Who together with Carolina Keats wrote the grant and had the foresight to include a section on collecting and sharing stories.
- Carol Perry (Carolina Keats): I call her the little librarian who could, but she is so much more. I am deeply grateful to her for trusting me to make her dream a reality.
- Holly Miller (Verde Otaared): Could anyone ask for a better friend or colleague? Thank you for being my rock throughout the process.
- Glimmer Gears: My builder in crime. Once we got going the result was almost a foregone conclusion. Dang we do good work ;-)
- Ricken Flow: Wow....we did it.
- Barb Carson: Your generosity and support at the start were marvelous. Thank you again.
- Seductive Dreamscape: Thank you Sedi for being such a great friend and willing volunteer when we wanted to take over the Pie.
- Voodoo Shilton: Your musical ear and willingness to go that extra mile to make the musical events happen will always be appreciated.-
- Judi Newell: Crystals, music, fireworks and last minute question fielder, you did it all with good humor. Thank you.
- Lorin Tune: Musician extraordinaire
- Madcow Chaos: Okay it's great, but 400 prims?!
- Jay: Who saw me through the first stages of the build with unfailing support. Thank you.
- Samia Bechir: Oh the t-shirts are awesome!
- Cylindrian Rutabaga: I've said it once and I'll say it again, only more loudly this time, "DANG! This woman can sing!"
- Mulder Watts
- Artel Brando
- Dave Corbett
- Lowri: thanks for the kites!
- Lyday Latte: Talk about a trooper. Thank you for dropping everything and helping us at the last minute.
- Saxet Uralia: Always has my back
- Simon Kline: For scripting skills and a good laugh.
- Das Wade: Another fine scripter and good friend.
- Gabrielle Rielle: For all the sound ;-)
A Story to Live By
Barry Lopez, award winning author of Arctic Dreams, has this to say about stories: "If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive."
Once upon a time, in the last bright
days of summer, a leggy sunburnt child of eight – whose parents despaired of
ever getting her to wear shoes or eat anything but pizza – acquired a new
friend. The friend’s name was
Sarah. She was six, but with her
enormous head, gray-green eyes sunk deep in their sockets, and wispy blonde
hair, she looked ninety. In order
to walk, Sarah had to wear braces on her legs, and she moved with the jerky,
uneven steps of a badly controlled puppet.
Sarah, her mother explained, had a disease called Alexander Syndrome,
which meant that her brain was gradually becoming too large for her skull. When that happened, Sarah would
die.
But what Sarah lacked in physical
ability she made up for in exuberance and imagination. It wasn’t long before the two girls were
leaving cookies for faeries under the pepper tree and pretending to be ponies
prancing around the yard. And,
because the child was eight and still drenched in life, she refused to believe
in the possibility of Sarah’s death, filing it away at the back of her mind in a shadowy corner.
The two girls played almost every day
all the way through September. Then one afternoon, in the midst of making mud
cakes, Sarah’s face turned suddenly gray and her eyes refused to focus. “I have to go now,” she whispered. “My
head hurts.”
Sarah’s mother was called, an ambulance
summoned, and Sarah was whisked away to the hospital. Two days later the child learned her
friend had died and Sarah’s family was moving away.
It was 30 years before I encountered
another Sarah. By then I had grown
from that lanky child into a woman who not only wore shoes but willingly ate
almost everything BUT pizza. One
thing, however, had never changed – the memory of my young friend’s face as she
shifted her attention from life to death.
It happened in an instant, but was both unmistakable and
irrevocable.
Unlike Sarah, Ernie’s death was not imminent when I met him. A 5’8” ball
of mocha brown energy, he was clearly enjoying life. One of his favorite ways to
enter a room was by hugging everyone he met. Ernie made his living counseling drug
addicts and swam every day at the local Y.
Nevertheless, the look in Ernie’s intense brown eyes was uncomfortably
familiar. You could have his full
and undivided attention and still know that part of him – some element of his
being - was focused elsewhere. I
thought I knew where, but was afraid to ask.
Fortunately, Ernie wasn’t afraid and
wasted little time on what he called the “niceties” of friendships. “I ain’t got time to mess around girl,”
he announced during our second meeting.
“Either you want to get to know me you don’t, but let’s cut the social
chit chat.” Over alarmingly strong
coffee laced with honey he told me the story of how he contracted AIDS and
revealed he was recovering from a second bout of pneumonia. “They tell me I might live a couple more
years,” he said with a shrug.
“We’ll see. I ain’t dead
yet.”
It was from Ernie that I learned what
it means to live your dying.
Knowing his body was failing, he was unabashedly honest about all bodily
functions and had no qualms about asking you about yours. “So how’s that PMS thing working out for
you?” he once inquired while we were standing in line for the movies. In a similar fashion he would discuss
almost any topic with anyone – his favorites being reincarnation and abortion.
Ernie’s honesty could be brutal. He had absolutely no tolerance for drama
and would flat out tell you to “cut the crap” if he thought you were being an
idiot. He also developed a fondness
for Rumi, interjecting random and often disconcerting quotes into breaks in
conversations. “You know about
circumcision here. It’s full
castration there!” he once barked. As the whole room fell
silent and all eyes turned his way, he looked innocently around and said,
“What?! You don’t like Rumi?”
Near the end of his life Ernie got very
quiet, but he liked to hear poetry read aloud. I used to sit with him for hours,
picking and choosing poems from his favorite poets – Rich, Pastan, Dickinson, Oliver,
Frost, Keats, and yes Rumi. He would listen, eyes closed, a small tired smile on
his face as I read slowly, letting the words sink in. Here is one of his favorites, one that
sums up what I think Ernie would say about World AIDS Day and Karuna if he could be here. It’s a poem by Mary Oliver entitled “Long
Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond.”
As for
life,
I’m
humbled,
I’m without
words
sufficient to
say
how it has been hard as
flint,
and soft as a spring
pond,
both of
these
and over and
over,
and long pale afternoons
besides,
and so many
mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a
nest,
still
unhatched
though warm and watched
over
by something I have never seen
---
a tree angel,
perhaps,
or a ghost of
holiness.
Every day I walk out into the
world
to be dazzled, then to be
reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort
–
along with human
love,
dog love, water love, little serpent
love,
sunburst love, or love for that
smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet
flowers.
There is hardly time to think
about
stopping, and lying down at
last
to the long afterlife, to the
tenderness
yet to come,
when
time will brim over the singular pond,
and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into
the leaves.
As for
death,
I can’t wait to be the
hummingbird,
can you?
To hear the podcast of this event, please go to Radio Riel: http://www.archive.org/details/SecondLifeWorldAidsDay
