It simply is. Death is arrogant, sometimes swift, and often wildly unexpected.
When Death takes a fifty-eight year old man in the middle of the afternoon while walking down the street, Death is alarming. The man was a good man. He left a wife, Miriam, and a daughter, Megan, behind. His name was Michael Philippi. He was a deeply gifted lighting designer and a kind and decent man.
Death visited him on Dearborn Street Tuesday afternoon October 27 and took him away from us. The suddenness of his passing made all who knew him gasp. Nothing could have possibly prepared any one of us for this.
It’s hard to know what to think in the wake of an event like this. It seems there have been so many unexpected, too-soon deaths of friends and colleagues in the past several years. I run across their email addresses in my contact list and can’t bring myself to delete them, as if to do so would be a final erasure or a turning away of some sort.
Years ago I worked on a new musical that (to the best of my knowledge) never did get a full production, but it had some great pieces in it, and some deeply moving sentiments. One of the lyrics read, in part, “The dead get tired of waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for the living to live and do something! Do do do something.” Perhaps that’s what we need to recall when we are forced to face Death, that we must live while we can and not waste our precious time here on earth, here with our loved ones, our family, our friends.
Death is the one thing we all share, the one fate that awaits each and every one of us and yet it remains so… difficult for us to accept, for us to cope with. Even if a death is not a huge surprise or not completely unexpected, we are still shattered by the loss. And yet… We also, at some level, in some place, know that it’s an inescapable part of life. All that lives shall die. Cold comfort, that. Or, no comfort, I suppose.
What do we do? We carry on. We persist. We persevere. And, perhaps most importantly, we remember and we celebrate the lives the departed lived, and the lessons they taught us through their living and their grace. We cherish those memories and keep them alive through our stories. We lift them up, and in so doing, lift ourselves up in the process and recommit to living each day to the fullest and being grateful for our lives and try to keep the dead from waiting for us to live.
Namaste. Rest in peace, Michael.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Life Well Lived
Six years ago the doctors told her she would be lucky to live for another year. Four years ago, she sent an email to her friends and family with the subject line: “Don’t Cry For Me.” In that email she told us that the doctors had told her that she would be alive for a matter of a couple of months, or perhaps only a few weeks. She died last night. Five years later – at least – than the doctors repeatedly predicted.
Judy Jaycox Wilmoth Payton passed from this earth on September 1, 2009 at approximately 10:45 p.m. She turned sixty-five on August 3rd this year. Her dear friend and sister-in-law Lainey Morrison (another Aunt of mine) had a birthday the following day. Judy’s wedding anniversary with her beloved husband, Bert, was August 20. She told Lainey many times over the last several weeks that she wouldn’t die in August, because she didn’t want to ruin the month. She waited until September first.
Judy was a pistol, as my brother Scott referred to her during an early morning conversation today. And it’s a good descriptor. She was a fighter and a lover and a tireless advocate for causes in which she believed. She would send out emails excoriating thin-skinned Americans who took “offense” at the least controversial issue or idea. She was also a dyed-in-the-wool progressive, an FDR democrat. What some might today call “socialist.” And she wouldn’t give a damn if you did call her that!
She thought that a just society should care for those less fortunate than us. She thought that equality should be equality and that it should be real – gay, straight, male, female, black, white, brown, yellow, red, abled, disabled – ALL should be afforded the same basic human rights. I couldn’t agree with her more.
On May 19, 2005, I received an email from Judy. It was late at night. The tone of the email was somewhat frantic. She was desperately trying to find the Brian Russell that was the son of Robert Jaycox, her brother who had died the night before. She found me. I called her that night and we talked for at least an hour. We spoke more the following day. She was the person who told me my natural father had died. She was the one who made sure that my brother Scott and I knew that our father had died.
I only met Judy once in person. It was in 1979 or 1980, in Maryland where my natural father Bob Jaycox then lived. She was lovely. She was vibrant. She was opinionated and, yes, sometimes loud. I loved her then, I loved her when she and I talked in 2005. And I love her now as she is settling into her rest.
Namaste
Judy Jaycox Wilmoth Payton passed from this earth on September 1, 2009 at approximately 10:45 p.m. She turned sixty-five on August 3rd this year. Her dear friend and sister-in-law Lainey Morrison (another Aunt of mine) had a birthday the following day. Judy’s wedding anniversary with her beloved husband, Bert, was August 20. She told Lainey many times over the last several weeks that she wouldn’t die in August, because she didn’t want to ruin the month. She waited until September first.
Judy was a pistol, as my brother Scott referred to her during an early morning conversation today. And it’s a good descriptor. She was a fighter and a lover and a tireless advocate for causes in which she believed. She would send out emails excoriating thin-skinned Americans who took “offense” at the least controversial issue or idea. She was also a dyed-in-the-wool progressive, an FDR democrat. What some might today call “socialist.” And she wouldn’t give a damn if you did call her that!
She thought that a just society should care for those less fortunate than us. She thought that equality should be equality and that it should be real – gay, straight, male, female, black, white, brown, yellow, red, abled, disabled – ALL should be afforded the same basic human rights. I couldn’t agree with her more.
On May 19, 2005, I received an email from Judy. It was late at night. The tone of the email was somewhat frantic. She was desperately trying to find the Brian Russell that was the son of Robert Jaycox, her brother who had died the night before. She found me. I called her that night and we talked for at least an hour. We spoke more the following day. She was the person who told me my natural father had died. She was the one who made sure that my brother Scott and I knew that our father had died.
I only met Judy once in person. It was in 1979 or 1980, in Maryland where my natural father Bob Jaycox then lived. She was lovely. She was vibrant. She was opinionated and, yes, sometimes loud. I loved her then, I loved her when she and I talked in 2005. And I love her now as she is settling into her rest.
Namaste
Thursday, March 26, 2009
When Families Split
My heart has been heavy today upon learning that twenty-three members of the American Theater Company (ATC) Ensemble have decided to break away from the theater and restart American Blues Theater, which is what ATC was first named when founded in 1985. Nearly one-half (eleven, to be precise) of the departing ensemble members were invited to join the ensemble during my tenure as that theater’s artistic director, between 1997 and 2002.
Let me be very clear: I wish each and every one of those artists (and they are all artists, and highly accomplished artists at that!) nothing but the best. I hope that American Blues Theater rises like the proverbial phoenix from what seems to be a very splintered, very sick ATC. For many years, these people were my family, my “chosen family,” as several of us liked to term it. We spent countless Thanksgivings and New Year’s Days together. We labored to produce plays and to find a way to squeeze two dollars worth of value out of every one dollar we spent together. We lifted many a beer and many a cocktail together. When one of us was sick or mourning, we comforted one another. When one of us suffered a loss – like the death of a family member – we were there for one other. We attended funerals, weddings, and baptisms.
I left my position as artistic director of ATC in October of 2002 because I felt certain that the theater could not only survive, but thrive, without me. And it did. I have had no formal relationship with the theater in these past nearly seven years, but I have continued to support it. I remain close friends with several ensemble members – both past and present, or, present until today – and I have always only wanted the theater to succeed. Today is a death of sorts. And a rebirth, I suppose. But death is always to be mourned. Or at least noted. Respected. As Arthur Miller said, “Attention must be paid.”
My old family is going through a difficult time. I send them my love and support and my very best wishes for happier times ahead. I am so very grateful to have been privileged to lead this extraordinary group of artists for six years, and yet also deeply saddened that the ensemble has been ripped asunder. I hope for healing, both for ATC and for the newly reconstituted American Blues Theater. Or, perhaps they will return to the original spelling, theatre. Either way, I wish them well.
Namaste.
Let me be very clear: I wish each and every one of those artists (and they are all artists, and highly accomplished artists at that!) nothing but the best. I hope that American Blues Theater rises like the proverbial phoenix from what seems to be a very splintered, very sick ATC. For many years, these people were my family, my “chosen family,” as several of us liked to term it. We spent countless Thanksgivings and New Year’s Days together. We labored to produce plays and to find a way to squeeze two dollars worth of value out of every one dollar we spent together. We lifted many a beer and many a cocktail together. When one of us was sick or mourning, we comforted one another. When one of us suffered a loss – like the death of a family member – we were there for one other. We attended funerals, weddings, and baptisms.
I left my position as artistic director of ATC in October of 2002 because I felt certain that the theater could not only survive, but thrive, without me. And it did. I have had no formal relationship with the theater in these past nearly seven years, but I have continued to support it. I remain close friends with several ensemble members – both past and present, or, present until today – and I have always only wanted the theater to succeed. Today is a death of sorts. And a rebirth, I suppose. But death is always to be mourned. Or at least noted. Respected. As Arthur Miller said, “Attention must be paid.”
My old family is going through a difficult time. I send them my love and support and my very best wishes for happier times ahead. I am so very grateful to have been privileged to lead this extraordinary group of artists for six years, and yet also deeply saddened that the ensemble has been ripped asunder. I hope for healing, both for ATC and for the newly reconstituted American Blues Theater. Or, perhaps they will return to the original spelling, theatre. Either way, I wish them well.
Namaste.
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