The Biblio File November 2017 Essay: “The Center That Holds”
THE CENTER THAT HOLDS
I recently watched a documentary on prolific author Joan Didion, titled “The Center Will Not Hold”. I first imagined a piece of cheese toast, soft and falling apart in the middle. I wondered then, if the title referenced some physics principal applied to structures without enough support to keep them intact. When I finally Googled “The Center Will Not Hold”, I saw that Didion took it from “The Second Coming”–a dark, mysterious poem written by Yeats in 1919. I can’t claim to understand all Yeats wanted to convey, but I did know he meant that nothing is for certain and things fall apart.
Then I flashed on what happened to me after GG’s memorial service. “GG” stands for “Great Grandmother”, the name our daughter, Sigrid, gave to Kathleen, Ed’s mother, a great grandmother to her four biological great-grandchildren and a GREAT, GRAND mother to everyone related to her, by blood or marriage or simply fortunate proximity.
The service was glorious, on a warm, July day, the river’s rush a comforting background for family and friends honoring one of the finest women we knew. After Ed’s welcome and his sister Shirley’s scripture reading, the great-grandchildren sang “Jesus Loves Me”, their little voices sweet and high. I read my account of GG’s life story, one that flowed out of me with such ease when I wrote it, it felt like it wrote itself. We sang “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and then the grandchildren, grown with children of their own, carried GG’s ashes to the vinca-covered place near our deck, next to the ashes of Harry, her husband of sixty years, while Jesse Winchester sang “The Far Side Banks of Jordan,” assuring us GG and Harry were eternally united. We feasted then, on our potluck and memories of GG while we laughed and hugged and cried.
The next afternoon, tired but satisfied that we’d sent GG off in a way she would have loved, I took a walk on the trail that goes past our house. I paused to lean back and look up at the stately cedars, their tops fringed against wispy clouds and clear blue sky. Quiet except for a bird’s cheep. Inhaling the smell of leaves and dirt.
In that moment I experienced a knowing in the knowing place that surpasses words and ordinary thought. I knew, for absolute certain, that GG’s spirit was inside me, and that she’d live inside me forever. I knew too, that my spirit would live in my children and grandchildren, that they would carry me with them in the same way, and that they would leave their spirits with their children–and on and on and on. And in that moment, I was sure that the transfer of loving spirit was all there is and ever will be. I knew that’s what matters. I knew it was enough. That is what we live to do.
I think of that now, when the head of our country tells yet another blatant lie. When transgendered people and people of color are persecuted. When another mass murder shocks me. I think of my grandchildren standing at an altar in their church, the light through stained glass polishing their hair, as they light candles for GG and thank God for “having her as a role model in our lives.”
I remember, then, that when loving spirit is passed down to loved ones, the center does hold. Perhaps it’s the only center that does. But it does. It holds. And holds.
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