Eulogy for my grandfather

Eulogy for my grandfather



I want to tell you about something that happened a couple weeks ago. I meditated in a creek for a few hours, standing completely still. I reached the point where I felt like I was the creek—I was the piece of driftwood, the water, the fireflies, and the trees.

“I am you,” I sang.

“You are me,” we sang.

I spent time with one tree in particular that had a big trunk and many tree branches coming out of it. It was a pear tree. It bore no fruit at that time. It was old and familiar. I knew it had fed many, many creatures. One of its limbs, a large branch that was as big as the willow trees around it, arched over the water like a gate. I was fixated on every inch of it, and felt as though it was a part of me—an extension of my physical body. I let my love flow through me and hug the tree.

I wanted to climb the branch, but it was too far from my reach. I hoped to sit on it somehow, someday. I wondered if it wished to dip into the water, to feel the current against its bark, to join us in the stream. I wondered if it was scared of change—of growing, dying, and living in new ways.

Eventually, my friend yelled, “hey, we gotta go!” I turned away from the tree and said, “okay,” and the tree made a noise. We both jumped, and I stepped away from it. It made another sound, and in that moment, I felt a sadness pouring from the tree. I felt it asking me to stay. I stretched my arms wide and ran closer. I let love pour out of me. My friend let me hug it for a while, and eventually dragged me away. I promised the tree I would be back the next day.

I arrived after a day of planting vegetables, shirtless and sweaty, covered in dirt and smelling like herbs, skipping and singing, diving into the water, hugging the creek once again. I ran up to the tree—my dear friend, a part of me—and the tree branch had snapped! Its limb: heavy, submerged, released.

I go to that creek at least once a day and watch new life form. I tell the tree that I am proud of it and excited for its new journey. Now I can climb and sit on it. I sing to it and watch spiders design webs on its branches.

About a week ago I met someone at the creek who has been going there since the 80s. “I see you like your freedom,” he said. He told me something in my life must have needed to let go. This tree needed to let go and had been scared to do so. I think it needed some love, some recognition, some appreciation for its existence and all the love and life it put into this world. The parts of that tree that it had to let go haven’t gone anywhere—they will slowly merge with the water, decompose, and become nutrients for the tree to grow stronger.

Every act of love creates a ripple effect and gives way to more life. My grandfather’s love is still here and growing. All the love we can give ourselves and each other is also his. We do this through patience, acceptance, kindness, and non-judgement; by existing fully in the present moment.

I hung out with him in my dream a couple nights ago. My grandfather was sitting on a couch and looked a bit younger. He was wearing a darling outfit—a plaid shirt with blue pants and a head as bald as before. He was glowing, healthy, and energetic. We talked for a while. He likes my tattoos and wants some of his own. It was really nice to see him and to feel his freedom. He was happy to have his memory again.