I’ve been thinking of you and it seemed a good moment to check in. I don’t go to OS very often these days, but I am friends with Zanelle on Facebook. She posted a photo of some guy and I was curious to see the story. I was greeted on the front page with the loss of James Emmerling. I’m flummoxed, sad, and reaching for a way to integrate this into my being.
All of the deaths saddening me in this last week have been deaths of people I don’t even know - David Bowie, Alan Rickman and now James. James is the only one of these who even had an inkling that I existed.
David Bowie’s death brought some kind of reconciliation for me about my rock and roll past. I had friends in love with him. Perfectly masculine men experimenting with eyeliner. And sexuality. The people I knew, knew of him intimately. As I explore his music now, I find myself more in resonance with my past.
Alan Rickman. The dark hero. Who brought to life one of the most incredible stories percolating in our collective consciousness.
And now James, who would have totally gotten that last sentence. Who was wise; experience and suffering being his teachers. Books, family and friends kept him connected and tethered to this world.
James died in the Maya week of Ik: “The Spirit of Life,” Wind, Voice, Truth, Communication. He died on the day of the Road. He veered off the road, his path became untethered to our world. He came to the fork in the road and left us behind.
We can make of it whatever we will. And we all will, somehow or another, put some kind of perspective to our losses. This I believe, maybe…. When someone dies, their energy goes out into the world, their spirit into the “Darkstar,” as David Bowie has titled it. We have some mighty intensely wonderful, path-finding individuals who rained down their creative energy onto us recently as they departed. Leaving us with their works to ponder and come to terms with. We create our own myths to explain the wonder of their existence. Their spirits, now in the Darkstar, the Greatest Mystery, prepare to be reborn into a world of magic their lives helped to bring about. Their paths, the way they lived in this world will usher us into a better existence. Let it be so.
The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.