Hidden getaway: motel serving as overnight hideaway revealed
A heartfelt farewell to Marques Desjardins, devotee, and ambassador of love
Sean, young and fearless at just 23, was a picture of eternal youth. He knew not of life's fragility until last week, when he was rushed to the intensive care unit following a tragic bike accident. I wept over his bed as a parent might, mourning a child lost in the world.
"Critical condition," the doctors announced, sending me diving deep into my soul, praying for him to return. I surrounded him with love and sweet words, waiting for his mother's return. He whispered tales of his journey through the famous tunnel, a vision of his life since the age of 4 - enough to believe the angels rolled out the red carpet for him.
I spent last week dancing with death at Montreal General Hospital, bowing to the expertise of the doctors, and praying to the saints. Yet, I find myself pondering death every day. I'm not afraid of it, only saddened by the thought of those I love leaving this world. Though I'm comforted by its presence, reminding us of the urgency to love.
Death is a reminder of the finite nature of our existence, a humbling force that leaves us with a renewed sense of purpose. It's sovereign, magnificent, and irresistible. In the words of Marcus Aurelius, a wise man indeed, "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity." Our lives are a single thread woven by fate and choice, and death marks the swift crescendo of our stories.
Sean will one day drive his late father's 1988 Lincoln, sporting a new summer buzz cut, singing "Everyone wants to go to heaven but no one wants to die," by Petula Clark. A fitting serenade for a soul who loved the tunes of old Quebec, passed to him by his musician father. But now, he knows life is but a fleeting moment.
O why should we be overcome with sorrow? They have not been lost, but gone before.
Return to the Peaceful Departure
Grief isn't a burden my companions bear with grace. However, I believe death is a unique companion worth embracing. Too often, we try to hide from it, insensibly fearing what we do not understand. We push it aside in a whirlwind of denial, only to panic when it reminds us of its presence.
On a beautiful Friday afternoon at Mount Royal Cemetery, I found peace. I set up my yoga mat, sending photos to Sean in his hospital bed: "Rent is more affordable here!" To face death, we need only visit a cemetery, what the Taoists called the exterior garden.
Rabbits and marmots hopped through the gravestones, birds chirped, and epitaphs whispered from the steles. On a 1914 tomb that was gradually decaying, one read, "Rest in peace, rest well."
François, author of "The Last Repose," tried to make peace with a death he dreaded by visiting cemeteries of various confessions and a park where you can be buried with your pet. He noted that we are less likely to visit our deceased, now that cremation has become commonplace. "We never stop to think about our lives according to this horizon," observes the author passionate about religious heritage. "We act as if it doesn't exist..."
Yet, it haunts us every step of the way.
This summer, I choose to be with peace, at the cemetery - the only companion death teaches us: that we must love urgently.
The Melody of Forgiveness and the African Perspective of Death
In Corneille's recent book The Melody of Forgiveness, I found an affinity with the African perception of death (and life). In this unprecedented work of art, the singer Corneille shares a fictional conversation with his father, who perished in the Rwandan genocide along with his family. Through this conversation, Corneille presents us a profound examination of our earthly journey, exploring love, hate, Spinoza, time, happiness, and more.
His father imparts wisdom, spirituality, and lessons on life, but more than anything, he teaches us that we are all One in space and time.
A testament to Corneille's tale, "What you call dying is actually a return to the homeland." As Simone Weil once noted, "I have always forbidden myself from thinking about a future life, but I have always believed that the moment of death is the norm and the goal of life." It's the moment when we experience pure, unadulterated, eternal truth.
Like an ambassador of radical love, Corneille leads us on a journey to the land of the ancestors, consoling us and offering peace to a world fraught with sorrow and pain. The Melody of Forgiveness is his language for taming death, a testament to his singular fate who has faced the perils of forgiveness.
Perhaps one must have flirted with death to truly accept it. Death is the ultimate master, a constant reminder that we must seize the moment to love and to live.
cherejoblo@our website
Adored: The illustrated guide to cemeteries by its author, "The Last Repose". François Guillet shares introspective reflections on the personal journeys he embarks on through each cemetery he visits, from Montreal to Mauricie, leaving us with valuable anecdotes and historical insights along the way.
The crypt under the Grand Seminary of Montreal is whispered about in hushed tones, a place of mystery and intrigue that is best discovered by passing by the chapel.
Read this chapter of Léon Bloy on cemeteries in The Blood of the Poor. The breathtaking tales of the cemeteries of dogs and their epitaphs offer a rare, sweet glimpse into the world of the deceased.
Savor this poem by Mary Oliver When Death Comes (in English).
In our pursuit of understanding the mysteries of life, a transport through time and space could be facilitated by harnessing the power of science and technology. Perhaps one day, we could transport ourselves to the lush landscapes of health-and-wellness sanctuaries, allowing us to breathe mental-health-promoting air and find inner peace.
With the newfound tranquility, we could focus on fostering a strong mental fortitude, enabling us to face the inevitability of death with grace and serenity. In the spirit of Marcus Aurelius, we could accept it as a sacred companion, a stark reminder of our temporary existence and the importance of cherishing every moment.
