A Gathering for Digby



Digby Henry

This past Sunday, October 20, some fifty to seventy friends, family, and colleagues of Digby Henry met to celebrate his life. My blog of August 15 told of his sudden and unexpected death.

The setting for this confirmation of Digby’s journey through this existence was perfect. Connie, his widow, chose the home of a friend a few miles south of Albuquerque, a beautiful horse ranch at the edge of a river valley plain with broad vistas in a rural, rustic environment. The horses were therapy animals, so it was appropriate that a palomino, a pinto, and a roan drew close to the gathered crowd as if to vicariously participate as they munched grass at the fence line. Several of the people in the back yard of the gracious home reached through the wire to pet them.

The Good Lord graced us with a magnificent, cloudless, blue sky that stretched overhead to infinity. The day had started with a distinctly chilly morning, but by noon, the official time for the gathering, people were shedding coats and sweaters. The wind was still, only occasionally ruffling a scarf or a lock of hair.

In addition to Connie and their daughter, a niece and two of Digby’s brothers were present, looking so much like him it was both stressing and comfortable. As if “almost Digby” were present in the flesh (although neither had his distinctive brogue). But the one thing I am certain of is that Digby, himself, was present in the spirit and having a delightful time.

Connie chose an aboriginal ceremony to honor her late husband. The crowd, collected around in a large circle stood with her while she addressed the Six Directions—the Four Cardinals, Father Sky, and Mother Earth—taking the time to detail the significance of each.

Then a man spoke of the Seventh Direction, a concept familiar to me. It is a gift hidden in the heart, yet undiscovered by so many of us. It is the recognition of who we really are. A direction on no plane, yet on all planes. A gift of higher purpose…a sort of divinity for those who discover it.

A flute solo by one of Digby’s brothers followed. As the breathy, haunting echoes of the flute died, drum song flooded the meadow, accented by rattles and clappers.

After this, Connie displayed a “Talking Stick” beautifully beaded and fringed with rawhide. Whoever possessed this stick held the power to address the gathering. The Mistress of the Talking Stick moved among us, bestowing the cane on any who requested it. All the while, other women used feathers and eagle wing fans to waft sacred smoke from smudge pots over any who coveted its blessings.

Many of the crowd spoke, sharing memories of Digby, reciting poetry the reader had created in his honor and memory, reading some of Digby’s verses. I read the blog I’d written last August. Eleven of our writing class attended, and most read or spoke.

On the way home afterward, Don DeNoon (another class member) and I agreed the ceremony had been exactly the right one for Digby, a strong man with the gentle soul of a poet.

 

Blessings,

 

Don T

Next week: Maybe it’s time to return to something from The Zozobra Incident or The Bisti Business. Something about New Mexico.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

On the Loss of a Treasured and Gifted Friend: A Quick and Unexpected Post this Week

Digby Henry

We have all faced it before. And as we grow older, the more familiar and unwelcome the experience will be. The loss of a friend or relative or life partner. Please indulge me this week as I grieve the loss of a friend and pay homage to his memory.

Digby Henry was neither a companion of my childhood nor a long-time personal or professional acquaintance. I met him only four years ago when I joined the Bear Canyon Writing Class. My first reaction to him was…he’s a foreigner. My second was…he’s got his name roundabout. Shouldn’t he be Henry Digby? Yes to the first; no to the second. Digby still retained the charming Irish brogue he brought from the Mother Country years ago, although he was a proud naturalized citizen of the United States. But according to him, there was no mistake on his birth certificate. His family name was Henry.

Digby was clearly a poet. Not just because he wrote poetry, but because he had the soul of a poet (even though he wrote prose equally as well). His wit could be sharp and pointed or enigmatic and gentle. He wrote as he spoke, softly and in all shades of the rainbow, heavily laced with humor. Plainspoken at times, yet making you probe for his meaning at others. He loved to experiment with words, with grammar, with sentence structures. I know he was a poet because I had to struggle to understand his writing. I’m so pedestrian that if I comprehend a poem on the first reading, it must not be poetry.

Part of the shock of his loss was its sudden nature. Connie, his wife, said that he was in pain on Monday, but they could determine no cause (and they were both health care professionals). It continued to increase to the point where she took him to the emergency room at Presbyterian Hospital at eleven that night. The doctors diagnosed him with MRSA, the “flesh eating” bacteria (although the exact culprit has not yet been identified), and by one-thirty Tuesday, he had passed. Twenty-four hours…and he was gone.

Gone. Missed. Mourned. Honored. God bless, Digby Henry. I know the Good Lord will appreciate the endless hours of laughter you’ll give Him. That may be why He took you so quickly.

 
If I know Digby, at this point his eyes would twinkle and he would say, "Lighten up. Celebrate me, not mourn me." And so we shall. Even so, deepest sympathy to Connie and the rest of Digby's family.

Next week: I never know what it will be…until it happens.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.