Wake.

How is it that one word can have so many meanings? A celebration of one’s life now departed that involves festive remembrance. The stream of water that follows a boat or ship. To arise.

Many people may not realize how collaborative an art writing becomes. Oh sure, us wordsmiths flint the spark putting ink to paper, or #2 pencil perhaps. After the initial draft there are a host of editors, layout artists, proofreaders and to the bane of some and the boon of others, people with lined pockets who pay the printers to bring it to life.

Such was the process for my piece that was to appear here this week. A carefully crafted, reviewed, rewritten, revised and finalized piece containing 800 words about supporting families, prompted by Robin Williams’ death, was ready for the public.

The only non-cooperative member of the collaborative team is daily life. And at 4:48 p.m. on Friday, Aug. 29, 2014, my heart ripped open and tears flowed, and the distant, well contained, refined piece seemed glaringly inappropriate. Even as the shock flowed through my body and spontaneous tears flowed down like some river over spilling the banks of my heart, I agreed it had to be pulled.

Then, I volunteered to write a replacement. You see, since I was 23, I have walked alongside and now work in the homes of families both typical and with special needs, helping them find their way in parenting and loving and building memories. In the course of that walk, when I landed here on Vashon almost 25 years ago, I continued the work, which had become a labor of love. In that journey I met a group of women who adore their lot in life. Vivacious, caring women and their partners who are devoted to serving life the best they can.

Delight filled my heart as I watched them desire pregnancy, give birth or adopt, struggle like zombies with sleeplessness and an endearing over correction to every situation that only new parents can bring. Childhood followed and then adolescence and my fondness continued to grow.

Hearing, after a very long week of waiting and concern, that one of them was lost, terminally lost, engendered a knee-jerk desire to speak comfort into unspeakable sorrow. In the midst of my own sorrow, from the position of a lifetime of unexpected tragedy, I just wanted to say, “This is so sad, so unspeakably sad.” For she was, is, always will be, the brightest of shiny pennies in the change purse of the human race.

Wake.

A celebration of life that is no more. Friday night the text went out to those of us close to the situation. “My house. 9:30  Gathering”  I got in my car and drove. We told tales of the significance of this life. Unfiltered sorrow released memories that will live forever with joyful radiance making the future bearable to face.

Already the acknowledgment os another wake had begun. The pattern in the water of the community left by the passing of one person. How to travel in that wake? Water skis pulled by the boat’s momentum? Confronting it sidewise hoping we don’t tip over? On the shore waiting for it to disappear into the new waters that will inevitably flow into its path? That is the choice, we the living, those left behind, must make.

How will this hole be attended to? Is it a stitch dropped and never repaired leaving a gaping openness, or do we, the community, take the thread of this life and reweave a beautiful lace pattern that is new and fresh and displays the legacy left for us to live?

Wake.

To arise. It is too soon to think on this, although frequently this is where we find our anchor. Railing against the disquieted peace, we try to impose sense and reason on that which has none. It is not the time for us to distance ourselves in either thought or deed from the fact that comfort is elusive at best right now.

No. Today is for living out of our too broken hearts. Today is for distilling the best in a person that is their contribution to our lives and letting that influence change us for the better.

Where then is the solace? In each other. We can only find solace in moving through any loss together. We are the answer for each other.

I can’t write anymore. This is my third draft. My fourth attempt. We are a good island. We care. We are there for each other. We are invested everyday in living life better than the day before. Let that be our resource for this week. And when it is time, we will figure out the next step, together. Because life, too, is a collaborative art.

— Deborah Anderson is a family care specialist and community activist.