Rocky River
A rocky river shoreline
In clear and sun-warmed air I stood on the shore and stared at crystal water rolling over a rock in the bed of the Deschutes River in central Oregon last Sunday morning. The shape of the water rushing over and around the rock was constantly changing. Imperceptibly, the constant current was changing the shape of the rock, as well. What I was watching was neither noun nor verb, adjective nor adverb. No word in English could capture it, regardless of its part of speech. The roar of the river, cascading down from the mountains to the west, drowned out my certitude and wore away my definitions.
My mother, Barbara Burklo, died the morning before. A few days ago, she talked about death in a way she'd never done before. "I am going to show you how it's done," she said to me on the phone. I asked her to say more, but she changed the subject. At the age of 88, with short-term memory loss due to Alzheimer's Disease and some other health problems, her mind-body suddenly knew that death was imminent. I did not make it from Los Angeles in time for that sacred moment. It was a blessing that my youngest sister Donna was there when her life slipped over, around, and away from her with the same grace and peace I sensed in the water passing over that rock in the river.
We four siblings, with our 18-year-old nephew, gathered in Bend, Oregon, in memory of Mom and in support of our 87-year-old Dad. He lives in the retirement center located next to the Deschutes River where they had moved a year before. Our grief brought tears, laughter, numbness, moments of silence, and many hours of physical activity as we sorted out and moved our parents' furniture and belongings. The day Mom died, she was scheduled to move into the retirement center's nursing unit after a stint in a rehab facility for physical therapy, and Dad was scheduled to move to a studio apartment in the same center.
When I got home, I realized that in my haste to go to Oregon, I'd forgotten to unplug my new toy: a rock tumbler. Over a week before, I'd loaded it with a big handful of agates, petrified wood, and obsidian "Apache tears". Our nine-year-old granddaughter, Rumi, was at the house when I remembered that I needed to empty the tumbler. "Come with me!" I said, and down to the basement we went. She was thrilled to see that the sharp, angular rocks that began the process came out smooth and slightly shiny from the gooey grey mud of the tumbling slurry, ten days later. We're both hooked on this hobby now!
My mom was a journalist, a tumbler of words who got me hooked on the craft of writing. She was also accomplished at watercolor painting. A bright and beautiful floral piece of hers graces my office wall. As we distributed her paintings among us siblings this past weekend, I chose one I've always loved, depicting the Merced River tumbling through Yosemite. Mom, you are neither noun nor verb, adjective nor adverb: I will always be at a loss for words to describe you, and what you mean to me as I let your life flow around and under and beyond me, forever.
The Rev. Jim Burklo serves as associate dean of religious life at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. He blogs at Musings on Progressive Christianity.org, from which this essay is reprinted with permission.