Aviation of Business

posted by Andrew Hartley - Business Consultant & Entrepreneur on Apr 12

This past weekend, my grandmother, Mimi, passed away.  She was 86.  We buried her yesterday, April 11th, 2007.  It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and I was kind of surprised by it.

I was surprised not because it is ever easy when someone passes away, but because I firmly believe in reincarnation and the idea that family and good friends tend to “cluster” in groups no matter what life they are living (read Many Lives, Many Masters, by Brian Weiss - buy it here [aff]).  In this way, I know that my father is still with us.  I know that my grandfather is still with us.  I know that my other grandfather (though he passed before I was born) is still somehow in my life.  I know that Mimi will never be gone completely; that she will always be with us in our memories and in our children and grandchildren and friends and cousins and everyone we meet and know and love.

I know all of this, but I also know that I cried when I had to say goodbye for the last time.  After the service, I placed a handkerchief in Mimi’s pocket.  She had saved it for about twenty-five years.  It was the same handkerchief that I had cried into as a baby once.  As Mimi told the story, I cried and cried and wiped my eyes on the handkerchief until it was soaked with my tears… she gave it to me when her husband, Gran, died.  I thought she would want it back - she saved it for so long it obviously meant a lot to her.  Once I placed it in the casket, I cried.  It was the first time since I found out she had passed away that I cried.  And I hated it.  And I loved it.  And it felt right.

But the universe works in mysterious ways - my friend whom I have never met, Verna Wilder, wrote in her blog - Out of the Cube - that there are so many things we don’t know.  And that it is okay - perhaps even good. And that life is, maybe, a lesson to teach us how to accept not knowing, and that death, possibly, is knowing (after all those years of ignorance).  And Verna posted a beautiful poem, which reminded me of the poem that Mimi loved because it was so reminiscent of HER family (Mimi was the only sister of seven siblings):

We are Seven by William Wordsworth 

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster’d round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
–Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they, I pray you tell?”
She answered, “Seven are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.”

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother,
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet you are seven; I pray you tell
Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.”

“My stockings there I often knit,
My ‘kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit–
I sit and sing to them.”

“And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.”

“The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.”

“So in the church-yard she was laid,
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.”

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you then,” said I,
“If they two are in Heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
‘Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

You are seven, Mimi.  You and all of your siblings.  And those of us left here in this life still count you among us, and we are many.  And we miss you already.  And we’ll all see you soon.  We love you.

Fair Winds,
Andrew