This weekend was a weekend to pause and reflect.

We spent the whole day outside and walked, and walked, and walked. Some of David’s friends from Stockton came up, and it was comforting to feel slightly useful as we toured Oakland and SF.  Saturday night, after feeling the sun on my skin all day, my legs a bit sore from walking, with the Bay breeze on my face as the ferry pulled away from the pier, it was just nice to breathe in the day.

One memory I would like to note was Tim’s vigil.  His friends worked tirelessly to plan a beautiful evening celebrating his life.

Wrote this earlier, and wanted to remember:

The vigil is beautiful. Hundreds of votive candles line the stage set up at 630 Weber, where just a few days ago, a band performed at Stockmarket. Friends are passing out candles and a colorful Programme of Events. I smile at the British spelling. Like the Stockmarket, hundreds of members of the community  crowd around the stage and turf.

There’s comfortable cloud cover, with a snip of setting sunlight peaking through. In a few days, the temperature plummeted, and Stockton jumped from summer to fall. A pastor opens the celebration, urging the city to triumph over tragedy. David shares thoughtful memories, and I laugh, probably too hard for a vigil, at his memory of the clash between Tim’s creative, big thinking brain, with David’s careful, “almost bureaucratic,” mind.

More friends, in their twenties and nineties, share memories of Tim and his positive impact on the city. Katie closes the vigil with a few final words. I’m amazed at her composure, and grace as she thanks Tim’s friends, and introduces a reading, from East of Eden:

“Sometimes a kind of glory lights up the mind of a man. It happens to nearly everyone. You can feel it growing or preparing like a fuse burning toward dynamite. It is a feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves, of the forearms. The skin tastes the air, and every deep-drawn breath is sweet. Its beginning has the pleasure of a great stretching yawn; it flashes in the brain and the whole world glows outside your eyes. A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, even the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then -the glory- so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished. And I guess a man’s importance in the world can be measured by the quality and number of his glories. It is a lonely thing but it relates us to the world. It is the mother of all creativeness, and it sets each man separate from all other men.”

And just as she’s finishing the reading, it begins to rain.


Not really sure what else to say, but just wanted to take a moment to pause and remember.

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