Tree of Life in Redondowriter's Patio Garden
Those of you who have read here for a few years know that I’ve closely followed the tragic, but unfortunately all-too-common murder of a 15 year old runaway in Orange County in 2004. The murdered child was Hanna Montessori, but it was months later that her parents, in Maine and Georgia, actually discovered by a fluke that their daughter was laying as a Jane Doe in a California morgue. In December, having been alerted by a few friends and family members who stay in touch with me because they synchronistically tripped across my entries here about Hanna, suspect Jonathan Tran was arrested. If I understand correctly from this article written by Jenifer B. McKim in last Sunday’s Orange County Register, the case will soon enter preliminary hearings. (I just received word that a postponement was granted until April 25.)
You know how much I talk about synchronicity at Sacred Ordinary, and that is exactly what happened when I began to follow this case. The mug photo of Hanna in the Los Angeles Times, then a Jane Doe, looked so much like my own granddaughter, who was living with me at the time. I could only imagine a set of parents somewhere agonizing over what had become of their beloved child.
I try to honor my ancestors and my deceased friends both on Dios de los Muertos and in my patio garden with what I call my perpetual "Tree of Life," note, not tree of death. It's a manzanita branch with many cobalt blue miniature glass bulbs on it. In permanent marker, I write the name of the deceased as I am grateful for the time our paths crossed. Lately I’ve begun adding the names of living people I am grateful for or praying for. Praying is not easy for me, but these kinds of outward symbols really help me to stay focused. I never knew Hanna, but instead of mourning her loss on what would have been her 18th birthday today, I invite anyone who is interested to celebrate her life, whether you knew her or not. Needless to say, her name is written on one of my little blue bulbs in the patio garden. She symbolically represents to me the tragic deaths of all our children who left this life too early from senseless violence.
As my gift today to all the people who loved Hanna, I offer my favorite Mary Oliver poem which I always include with sympathy cards:
Snow Geese
By Mary Oliver
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
