I have sad news, my mother died early this morning.
Fortunately, I was back from away, and had a few nice days with her, talking about future opportunities and challenges and among other pressing matters, whether I was eating, what was in the fridge, and how to cook spinach. She was alert, comfortable and at peace when I left her last night.
Florence Bryson McMaster didn't wake up this morning, October 25th 2003, the nurse called me at 7:00am, letting me know she had passed away in her sleep.
Now back from the hospital, funeral home and church, where many papers had to be signed and arrangements made, it has been a long, emotional day, and I feel very tired and alone.
I’ve stopped to rest at the edge of Lac Raymond where I spent much of my youth. The daylight is dimming on the mountains as they reflect perfect symmetry in the still waters. The sky and the lake are the same shade of gray, floating the horizon in the timeless ether of space. Only the mist rising off the water defines the dividing plane, as the spirit of the lake cycles back to the atmosphere.
In a dance of yin and yang, a white goose and a black duck are swimming, one behind the other across my field of view, busily creating intersecting ripples on the surface, as we do on the surface of life, with little knowledge or consciousness of the depths below, and oblivious to the infinite heights above.
My mother loved these mountains, and through her eyes and with her heart and hands, painted this scene many times in many seasons. Now she has become one with her beloved panoramas and is alive in the mountains and in the mist.
I'm sad she’s gone, but happy she didn't suffer.
As in life, she went gracefully and with dignity in her transition to the next world, but in death, she left us behind, and in my case, already selfishly missing her support and unconditional, motherly love.
Philip