The Merlin: Dealing with Death

A number of the stories in the two Oz books reference the fact that I have lost three siblings and a son. No sympathy needed as I was blessed to have them in my life. It is important for me to talk about them. While it might bring a tear or two, sharing them keeps them alive for me. People always ask me when one can get past the grief following a death. The answer is never, but that is a positive. Grief is a double-edged sword—the sadness of loss but, more importantly, a way to see they still live on in us. To get past grief would be to genuinely lose them, a real tragedy.

-----

The Merlin

To deal with death, one has to connect with life.

Less than 24 hours had passed since Jackie and I had received the news that our son Andy had passed away. At age 27, he died unexpectedly in his sleep from cardiomyopathy, a congenital enlarged heart, his condition unbeknownst to even him. I had heard every tick of the clock that night as my brain played a nonstop collage of thoughts and memories, trying to reset to a normal that would no longer exist. Andy, in the best physical state of his life, was gone. I knew Jackie had not slept as quiet sobbing occasionally broke up her rhythmic breathing. Neither of us said much throughout the night; emotion had drained all productive talk.

Morning brought no relief. My stomach felt like a pro football game had been played in it throughout the night, and breakfast was not on my agenda. Jackie needed time to connect with old friends, but I needed to get outside and leave the world of death behind. There was no escaping reality, but the outdoors had become my therapist. I could always lose myself in the woods or sit on a point overlooking the river and feel the stress dissipate. Today, my body was screaming out for relief. I was tired of reciting my canned spiel about how Jackie and I would be fine and how we were so glad to have had him for 27 years … true, but not comforting initially. One has to say something and appear strong, but we feel momentarily hopeless and helpless, a nightmare from which we cannot awake. It was time for real emotion to settle in.

            Winter was beginning to stick its foot through the door on this chilly, late November morning. I found a stump to sit on in a forest clearing, cried for the first time, and then got mad at myself for the self-pity that was trying to settle in. However, the outdoor solitude was beginning to replace the storm inside me. It was slightly overcast that day, and I felt a wonderful chill settling in. The more I shivered, the more alive I felt. I had dealt with the death of my brother and sister in a car accident 20 years earlier, so I was in familiar territory. There comes that moment not long after a death when one suddenly feels remarkably alive. I felt a ray of hope that the nightmare would pass and I would be OK. That’s when it appeared.

            The bird shot out of the woods behind me, passed about 15 feet overhead, and quickly disappeared. It was a Merlin, an intermediate-sized falcon, larger than an American kestrel and noticeably smaller and more compact than a Peregrine falcon. Its pointed wings, banded tail, and rapid flight were unmistakable. I had never seen that elusive species on our property before. Likely after a smaller bird, it was oblivious to my presence. Time slowed, sensations were amplified, and the natural world moved in slow motion. I don’t remember how long I sat in that spot, but my thoughts started moving from death to life.

We often think the world revolves around us, making our problems seem paramount. However, our existence is remarkably insignificant in the natural world. Life goes on with or without us. Nothing outdoors cares about our problems or concerns. Self-pity is succumbing to death. The Merlin started me breathing in life.

The next day, I returned with my family, and we decided this spot would be the resting place for Andy’s ashes. It became our “sanctuary.” Andy’s ashes are now buried there, but we never regard it as a place of death. It is a living sanctuary watched over by a Merlin. Several years later, I saw another fly through the sanctuary late one afternoon. This was a coincidence; no need to elevate it beyond that. Someone told me that Andy’s spirit must live on in that Merlin … a sweet thought, but his spirit lives in me, as do those of my brother and sister. They walk with me every day.

            While working outdoors, I’ll often sit for a few moments. My senses come alive: the sound of a gentle breeze, the call of a Carolina chickadee suddenly reaching me from the woods, the smell of fallen leaves, the taste of cold, and the sight of a Great blue heron working the creek nearby. I become one with the outdoors and feel most alive in those moments. Houses disconnect us from life. We enjoy the comfort of a lovely home or the warmth of a wood stove on a cold winter day, but outdoor visits are nurturing, an ecological return to the womb. Taking a deep breath of fresh air infuses my body with life.

Watching the interaction of organisms puts my life in perspective. I relearn that my daily struggles are minor because I am but a minuscule piece of the web of life woven over three billion years. The drama of nature can play out on the smallest of stages: the ant struggling repeatedly to carry an object larger than itself or the beetle navigating the bark of a tree, not knowing that a Red-bellied Woodpecker is only several feet away. Witnessing life and death on even the smallest scale reminds me that while I am insignificant, I have the power to make my life worthwhile.

Some see the grandeur of life’s tapestry outdoors and feel connected to an almighty creator. I feel my proper place in the web of life. How we interpret what we see and feel does not matter; we simply must journey to where we can feel the connection. I am just as religious as the worshipper of that creator, but my cathedral has a forest canopy for a ceiling.

            When I visit the sanctuary, I sit and reflect. I recharge my batteries as I feel any stress evaporating. I never look for the Merlin; our paths will cross again when I least expect it. This is my home, where I find peace. The Merlin passed briefly on its search for food that day. There was no interaction, but we connected. While Andy may be gone, life continues. The grief I feel, rather than tearing me apart, envelops me like a comforting blanket, and I feel alive. I often shed a tear or two while there, and that always elicits a smile. It feels so divine to be alive.