It may seem that some people have such a strong and vibrant life force that the world can only sustain their blinding brightness for so long.
Consequently, when we suddenly find them gone, too young,
their absence is palpable
so deeply felt was their presence.
When Robin Williams died earlier this week, didn’t the world suddenly feel a little emptier, a little more hollow,
as the hole he left
Robin Williams was known for his comic genius, his unparalleled ability to improvise and his endless and unbounded wit and zaniness.
Yet, one of my favorite movies of all time featured him in a more serious role,
‘What Dreams May Come’. I have actually written about this movie in a previous post.
After news of Williams death, it was easy to imagine him,
wish him into a state of frolicking in a heaven of his own making, as that movie depicts –
completely, wildly, ecstatically and finally free.
Certainly, there is so much to be addressed about mental illness and thankfully this important conversation has been re-opened. My friend Lyndon, for example, has written very eloquently on the topic this week as have so many others.
The new revelation of Williams having been recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease is personally heart-wrenching too, as I watched my maternal grandfather struggle with this disease for all of my childhood.
Every time, though, that my thoughts take me back to Williams’ death, and I have pondered speaking to it,
it’s not so much the subject of mental illness that asks for my pen,
Robin Williams lived to make people laugh.
In death, I think, he would like nothing better than to be able to remind us to laugh…
Big, consuming, tears-streaming, right from the belly, pure and good, healing beautiful laughter –
wherever and whenever it can be found.
Many of us have read the quote, by French poet Antoine De Saint-Exupery, tweeted by Williams daughter, Zelda, right after his death.
“You – you alone will have the stars as no one else has them … In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night … You – only you – will have stars that can laugh.”
And then later she wrote,
‘To those he touched who are sending kind words, know that one of his favorite things in the world was to make you all laugh. As for those who are sending negativity, know that some small, giggling part of him is sending a flock of pigeons to your house to poop on your car. Right after you’ve had it washed. After all, he loved to laugh too.’
And so it is then, his death on one hand a booming call to take care of our hurting brothers and sisters, and to carefully tend to our own pain too,
and on another a reminder to play and laugh and abandon inhibitions.
Could we expect anything less from such a man who was able to take on the most serious of roles but then could effortlessly slip into the shoes of a genie or a nanny,
encompassing the wide spectrum of life~
One who seemed to bear the pain of the world,
but then could just as easily make the very stars laugh.
This beautiful humanity and heart-breaking vulnerability…
It’s in every single one of us.
Last night we said goodbye to a family that, for the past 5 weeks, has melded into ours.
For a little while, my kids were her kids and hers were mine.
Both our families have been in Waterton together for the last three summers and with each year the kids’ connection deepens as does our adult friendships.
For our combined brood, It has been the sort of play that can only happen within the freedom of summer.
Suppers of noodles or cereal at 10pm after one last bike ride. Hours of Rainbow Looming. Countless trips to the yogurt place and the gas station for penny candy. Racing to the frigid lake for a quick dunk.
This, to me, has always been why we chose Waterton.
After our friends drove away back to their ‘real’ lives and home, my two burst into tears,
feeling the immediate grief of their departure,
as well as the anxiety regarding the looming school year and the tightly packed schedule to come.
Next year we will meet again, of course, but we all will be one year older,
the same, but different too, as much will have changed.
It always does.
I suggested a walk to cheer my kids up and promised George frozen yogurt smothered with his choice of candy. On our way back to the cabin, they wanted to jump off the dock. They did this wildly and enthusiastically, recovering quickly from their sadness as kids tend to do. It is still summer and they are still free.
We will miss you, beautiful Howeth family.
Our Block Party
This year marks ten years of block parties on our street. This party has strengthened community bonds in our pretty little neighbourhood like nothing else could have.
Let this be my expression of deep gratitude for this collaborative venture that has proven to all of us here that there is such beauty in this world to be created and found.
This year we have decided to celebrate in a more quiet and intimate way,
and take a year to get to know new neighbours and quietly but surely rejuvenate.
3 thoughts on “On Robin Williams, a goodbye and our block party”
“It is still summer and they are still free.” Beautifully said. Mine have just a few more short days of this, but we will treasure them.
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Your words make me feel that too familiar end of summer sadness/September excitement. Thank you again, Karen.
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