My Grandmother, Stephen King, Flesh, and Soul
Flipping through an old college math notebook recently, I came across a writing quote, of all things. Below is an excerpt from the book On Writing by Stephen King.
“Remember that the basic rule of vocabulary is use the first word that comes to your mind, if it is appropriate and colorful. If you hesitate and cognate, you will come up with another word – of course you will, there’s always another word – but it probably won’t be as good as your first one, or as close to what you really mean.
This business of meaning is a very big deal. If you doubt it, think of all the times you’ve heard someone say, “I just can’t describe it” or “That isn’t what I mean.” Think of all the times you’ve said those things to yourself, usually in a tone of mild or serious frustration. The word is only a representation of the meaning; even at its best, writing almost always falls short of full meaning.”
In the paper that I rediscovered submitted to my Statistics II professor, I carried on, illustrating the parallel between words/meaning and sample/population, that just as words are only a representation of meaning in writing, so is a sample a representation of a population in statistics.
But today, two days after my grandmother’s funeral, I make a different parallel.
The past few days have included a flight back to Louisville, Kentucky, my hometown. I don’t go there often, because my parents have passed away; I have no house to call home. Yet, believe me, I have lots of fill-in homes: aunts and uncles and dear friends know of my “homelessness” and, when they know I’m visiting Louisville, they flood my text with selfless, generous offers to be hospitality-d by them. How lucky am I?
This visit was to memorialize my maternal grandmother’s life. And, boy did we memorialize. Together with my extended family, I told stories and recounted memories and reviewed pictures and doubled over laughing at certain funny moments in our shared times with Grandmom. I even had the great honor of speaking during her service. How lucky am I?
And the whole while, I found myself in a state of great introspection. Nothing makes ya reflect on life like a funeral does. Am I living the way I want my eulogy to read? Am I loving people well? Am I not sweating the small stuff? Do my checkbook and my calendar reflect my values? Am I making the greatest use of my time here?
I returned home today feeling, even without a near-death experience, that I got a whole new lease on life. Priorities feel crisper. Values feel firmer. The big pile of unfolded laundry on my bed feels less stressful.
And Stephen King’s excerpt keeps rattling around in my head. Grandmom’s casket was open for a short time for family members only. It was good to see her one last time, and yet the moments on Tuesday when she truly came alive weren’t while I admired her serene face, her tidy hands, her rose-colored dress. Rather it was in the stories told during the service that we all felt her spirit.
Could it be that just as Stephen King positions meaning as that which is to be exalted – words, in contrast, a mere shadow of the actual – so too should our essences be what is true – the flesh only a mere attempt to demonstrate it? Could it be that what lies behind our eyes and noses and arms and legs and faces is what’s real? And what we see, our bodies, are trying, often failing, to represent our spirits?
Could it be that our physical beings are a shadow of what our spiritual beings are?
These aren’t new questions. Almost all spiritual traditions, at their root, profess these possibilities. Yet, I forget - over and over - about my essence underneath my skin, and that it needs to be nourished, tended to, and fed. I’ll be living a lot longer in my spiritual body than I will in my physical one. Best take care of it.
Even though I don’t know King’s faith background, he certainly gave me church this week.
Am I lucky or what?
