Our Honored Dead

The wheel's gone round another time, and some wonderful people set sail for the Western Isles.

Lloyd Alexander, author of children's books that sustained me.

Ingmar Bergman. Director of one of my all-time favorite movies, the Seventh Seal. Jag var Doden.

Father Drinan. A v. smart guy who enjoyed living in several worlds.

Molly Ivins. What can anyone say? Lady, you are missed. A wonderful writer from Texas who tried to warn the world about Shrub. I fucking hate fucking breast cancer.

Lady Bird Johnson. What lovely grace. Thank you for the wildflowers.

Madeline L'Engle. For me, this was the greatest loss of this turning of the wheel. L'Engle's fiction saved my life when I was a young child. When I was a young woman, she taught me how to write, how to take writing seriously, how to be a woman leading a spiritual life, how to integrate family and writing. Over and over throughout my life, I've come back to her work to ground myself, to remind myself of what's possible, to relive the person (Meg/Madeline/Mrs. Murray) that I wanted to be. I'll be placing her book on my circle's Samhein altar, toasting her as the mother of my writing self at our dumb supper, sending my energy to help her to find her way to the Summerlands where, I've no doubt, she'll hear them playing the Tallis Canon. Lady, thank you. I will remember you. The witches say, as I imagine you knew, that what is remembered does not die. I will remember you.