Sunday, March 26, 2006

A Poem For Craig

CRAIG
By: Richard A. Hopkins
03/01/06


His was a spirit that was free----------------------
At least, as far as the world thought it’s rope and harness
Really ought to stretch.
It wanted him to be

Hitched to a load that it could see
A profit in,
That could be bought
And marketed,
And could be got
And offered for a standard fee.

But HE knew best.
Right cheerfully Craig broke away from the herded lot
And shrugged aside the un-natural knot.
The rope is gone. He is fully free.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Memorial on Orcas Island

There will be a potluck and music jam session at Craig and Pat's house on Orcas this Wednesday at 6pm. Out of town guests needing accomodations please bring sleeping bag and pad.
Hope to see you there.
Pat

Friday, March 17, 2006

More From Nancy



From Nancy



Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Link to Melaque Dot Com

Monday, March 13, 2006

A Note from the Webmistress

Please, I enjoyed the stories so much that were told at the memorial. If you could write yours down and send it please. If you didn't get a chance to tells yours or weren't there, we still need your stories.

Thanks
Pat

The Memorial Morning After



The stories and the remembrance continue, bloody mary's and leftover pastel de tres leches.

The Woodmaster's Work


How fitting that the place of his memorial was fashioned by his own two hands.

Friday, March 10, 2006

From Ellie

I am sitting in my cabin on the MV Explorer, gazing out at a mirror-smooth sea somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean, off the southern tip of India. I'm told that the depth is 12,000 feet. Hard to fathom, so to speak. This is the first sea of glass on the entire voyage of rough, tumbling, and gut-wrenching seas, and I feel some peace, even as my heart still rages against the loss of Craig on this Earth. I can see the Southern Cross at night from my pillow, and today I watch, mesmerized, as the flying fish skim the polished surface of the water as they skitter magically above the sea, their fins turning miraculously to wings. I find their brief, instinctive transcendence a wondrous thing and am comforted by their feat. My hungry desire to feel Craig's presence opens the way so that I can do so. His astute, clear blue eyes light up, crinkled at the edges, in delight. He loved Edges of the Sea and Life with a passion. I am uncertain whether he is seeing the fish dance across the water from some liminal vista point, or whether he joins them in their dance. I do know he could and would be one of them, if it occurred to him at all. Either that, or he'd pull out his fiddle, gifting them with music to enlighten and enliven their own dance.
Yesterday Craig's Life-dust was returned to the earth he so loved and tended. Greta, his beloved daughter, wondered if he would mind a gravesite. I think not. As in Life, Alsea, and her river, farm, family and community, is Craig's Home, in the deepest sense of the word. I don't mean to suggest that he had a single home. All who knew and loved Craig understand that Home traveled with and within him, but Alsea, Orcas Island, and the village I cannot name in Mexico were sacred and complete homes, particularly in combination with one another. Of this braided home he often spoke, egged on by my envious queries about discovering and cherishing one's Place in the world. In Life I marveled that he seemed able to be everywhere he needed and wanted to be. Perhaps that was my illusion drawn from the fact that he was totally present in every moment wherever he was, whatever he was doing, and whomever he was with. Such a rare and precious gift! In this regard, Craig was mygreatest teacher and I will spend the rest of my days striving to come close to this standard of True Presence.
We shared a delight in and appreciation of a guiding principle: "You know what to do and when to do it!" We laughed often at this simple antidote to Life's choices, questions, and conundrums. I am finding peace inside these words now. I can only trust that it was Time to Cross for him. Craig was fearless, a laughing warrior, body and spirit. He packed for long journeys in moments. He pulled feasts from sea, land, and mid-air. I never knew him to say "no" to a circle of music and light, or a friend in need. And what a storyteller! I so wish he was here to tell the tale of the Crossing. Maybe he'll confide in his beloved doves and we will hear from them, if we listen. It seems he slipped away in the midst of his ritual morning. Was he listening to Pacabelï's Canon perhaps, or to the birdsong, or to the last music of his own heart? I imagine his Spirit exploding into absolute freedom at the release of the body. With no geographic limitations holding him down, wecan only guess at what antics lie ahead! I'm sure he is just fine, and on his merry way, hanging out in the Great Studio, weaving strands of goodness and beauty into incomparable forms. It is up to those of us left behind--wanting, expecting, assuming --more time with him, to minister to one another's broken hearts, with our memory tales of adventure, tenderness, magic, delight, hard work, generosity, playfulness and love. Oh yeah, and stubbornness too� He will leave a hole in the lives of all who treasured his spirit, and we will be better people as we live into filling that space in ways that challenge our own perceived limits. Craig lived on the edge with a rare courage and clarity and a hugeness of heart. May his ways inspire us, each in our own style, to live Life more exuberantly, with less fear, less unnecessary holding on, more generosity and forgiveness and laughter and music and connectedness to what is important: more "Bright Moments".
Craig was not one to fuss over the irritants or disappointments in Life which make some of us whine. And so, in my brightest and most hopeful and faithful moments, I say to you, my Beloved Friend, Craig Zaffaroni

See You Around
See you around the river bend,
See you around the willow patch,
See you around the tomato fields,
The pickle jars and the jack-o-lanterns.
See you around the open seas,
And the cedar trees.
See you around the dark pool-eyes of burros,
And children asking big questions.
See you around the rebel camps
And the Grandmothers' kitchens.
See you around the edges of the Waters of Life,
See you around the Middle of Music!
See you around basket rims
And fishin' holes,
See you around wooden boats.
And gypsy fires.
See you around fields of fearlessness,
And simple tables heaped with generosity.
See you around tender seedlings,
And freshly hewn planks of scented timber.
See you around steamer clams and homemade sausage.
See you around doves on the wing who may stop by.
See you around home-grown tortillas,
Pallets of color, and candlelight saints.
See you around well-sharpened knives,
And hand-painted scarves of silk.
See you around bouquets of garlic, fresh eggs,
Bundles of lavender, and cups of red wine.
See you around and around and around and around and around
The circles of Life, Love, Artistry, Generosity and Joy
See you around Bright Moments-- Everywhere and Always.
Vaya con Diosa, Mi Querido Amigo.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Dazy and Craig

With Timothy on Orcas