Saturday, April 18, 2015, at ten am, Cy Brinson ended her life. It was a rich, full life. Cy was a musician, a singer, a painter, a writer, She lived with manic depression, the terrific highs, the horrible lows.
Cy believed that we are all created from energy which cannot be destroyed or snuffed out, but is simply transformed at death and re-enters the universe. She was a sensitive, someone whose spirit, whose soul is open to to others’ energy.
Cy wanted to be in control of when and where she would transform to whatever comes after. It might be nothingness, she said, and that would be okay. Her energy, her spirit, might be reincarnated into energy for this world, for the earth, the air, for all living creatures. The transition might be a return to heaven, that place from which we came, the source of spirit and energy.
Wordsworth proposes in Ode: Intimations of Immortality that we come from heaven, or God, or some other place where we are pure, innocent, loving, where we understand our connection to Nature, that we are part of the earth, air, part of “the splendor in the grass, the glory of the flower.” Wordsworth surmised that when we are born and move from heaven, or God, or the Source of All Energy, we must forget the glory and majesty in which we were created. The innocence of childhood is but a faint reminder of our special connection, and as we grow and learn, the realization of that relationship to all living things, that knowledge of the glory of heaven, all of that awareness gradually diminishes until we are at last adult, and unknowing of those things. “The child is father to the man” Wordsworth states at the beginning of the ode.
This ode, in its entirety, (some 208 lines) is effusive in praising the lovely, wondrous descriptions of Nature. Reading this poem leaves one with a certain wistfulness, a longing for those “trails of glory.”
The child is father of the man;
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
And the poem concludes:
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Cy Brinson knew. She never lost the child’s innocent delight. She knew from whence she came. Cy was ready to return to the source of all energy, which can be created but never, ever destroyed. “I have a choice,” she said.
So Cy left us, trailing wisps of joy in every living thing, joy in creating art that moved us to remember faintly, briefly, the glory in the merest flower, the trails of glory that great art, great music, song, dance, painting, the written word, poetry convey to us. Cy was one of the great conveyors of joy. “Be joyful in sorrow,” she said.
So I am trying to be joyful in my sorrow. It is a good thing to try, even if we don’t achieve it. It is a choice we can make to be more open to the energy all around us, to remember our majesty, to share it with others.
I can feel Cy’s energy now, as I write this. It makes me smile. She is not gone. She is transformed.