Whenever I find myself rummaging through Shea's art supply drawers and the kitchen's junk drawers for a glue stick, I know I'm in for a spiritually taxing couple of days. It means that I have my "book of ceremonies" open on my desk and I have just printed a new set of pages that contains the words I will speak in the coming days. I draw my paper cutter out of the bottom desk drawer, trim the pages to fit the size of my black, leather bound book, and proceed to methodically glue the trimmed, printed pages of the ceremony into the book.
I don't know when this process became more than the sum actions themselves, but they have. I find myself in a subdued, trance-like state now as I slide the razor cutter over the pages to trim them down. I outline the blank back page with long, careful strokes with the glue stick, and then I place the ceremony, page by page into my "ledger."
Today's entry is unusual for me in a way. Normally if I am asked to perform a ceremony, it is a wedding. Tomorrow is not. It is a funeral. The funeral for my wife's uncle Bill, a good man who was taken from us too soon. Beyond all the obvious differences between weddings and funerals, there are a few subtleties for the officiant that others may not realize. In many ways, the writing moves are the same. You want to properly express the gravitas of the event, you need to make sure to lighten the mood at the appropriate moments via storytelling, and, above all, you need to feel what you say, even if you have written the words in advance and have rehearsed them many times. This spontaneity is critical. The officiant, or speaker, must allow themselves to live in the moment in a way that makes them vulnerable.
I often find myself sneaking away after performing a wedding in order to protect myself from the comments, both positive and negative, expressed by those in attendance. It is in moments like this that I wished I still smoked and could retreat to a smoky, antisocial corner with legitimate excuse. Instead, I find that I am often drawn back into the festivities before I am fully prepared as I have no legitimate excuse to be prowling the edges of the property on my own.
I am always so honored to be asked to participate in these types of events, to be asked to speak, to find the appropriate words to dignify the occasion, but they come at a cost, and the key that unlocks this whole process is that glue stick. That simple office supply now operates as metaphor for my spiritual anxiety.
I've written the words, rehearsed them, read them to my wife, but now that they are glued in my "book of ceremonies" they are real beyond their earlier manifestations. They seem small now, insignificant, and not up to the task of capturing the life of a man like Bill. I hope others disagree, but odds are I'll never know.
I'm trying to lift your spirit to the light, Bill. I hope I've lived up to the task. I'm putting the glue stick down, and trusting myself to what I've written. Until tomorrow...
