a small note

in the morning

Vincent van Gogh. The Olive Trees. Saint Rémy, June-July 1889. |MoMA|

I sometimes make changes to the
subject, but still I don’t invent the whole
of the painting...I find it ready-made—
but to be untangled—in the real world.

~Vincent van Gogh

A small note in the morning—.

He passed away peacefully at 4:28 am. We were blessed to be at his side.

And another:

Lou passed away. At least he is freed from the battle.

After I woke and after I sat and watched the sky go from dark to light I read my phone and said, Oh! in such a sad and surprised way, the animals pricked their ears.

That’s 3:28 our time, my brother, Rog writes.

At 3:28 our time or 4:28 Iowa time one would not be passing away peacefully. One would be peacefully sleeping if one were to be actually peaceful. That’s what I thought.

I am blessed too. The sky looks and feels whole and moving, and every little thing is super-energy of the in-between worlds, and I feel some connection with my father’s brother. Also I so love these dogs, this cat. My daily pals, the ones I sleep beside, in winter at least.

As I walk through today, I know the temporary of the day. Every step. Fleeting day. I am teary about it all. I am teary about who has gone over as memory stacks build and collapse—

On the other hand, something smells in the kitchen even after I clean out the fridge and open the windows. Oh! I put the curried sweet rice in a glass container, in a drawer a few days ago, not the fridge. Usually, it’s reversed. I put something in the fridge that doesn’t belong, like my wallet.

I keep trying to put my family photos away, in the closet, all year, but then they come out again. I have to go through family photos and that means I must go through my life again. I know exactly the ones I need for the slide loop for the memorial service.

Smiling, laughing at any age. With his father, with my father, canoeing, in the service in his uniform, with his dog and traveling companion, Nesco, with his wife Carol. A wedding (mine), at the restaurant, us three, and with Rog, at the café in Clinton.

Last week I made Lou stay on the phone with me.

I wish I had longer, he said.

Rog and I are coming to see you, I said.

Oh no! I don’t feel like seeing anyone, he said.

But then he said, hold on, and circled the days on his calendar.

I said how I loved him but used the word, appreciated. All these years, I said.

He said he had to go. He wasn’t feeling well. But before that he told me a pastor just walked in his room and I thought it was going to be a joke, since he was a master of jokes and making people laugh, but it wasn’t a joke at this time. He had already told his last joke in his entire life. Lou stayed quiet as the pastor kept talking.

I’m an ardent atheist, he told me right then.

Good to know, I said.

See you soon!

He went on in the early morning, peacefully.

Sara H. said, because Rog and I had already planned to visit, it was like a bird flew by and touched Lou with a feather and he went on.

And so, my manner and reason and a costume change. I’ll pack for cleaning-out-the-apartment combined with a winter dress for the service. Not Boulder casual. I have a wool skirt but last time the hook cut the skin on my hand terribly and since then I’ve been afraid of it.

I have a wool dress with no danger feeling except the neckline strays to the left. The dress solid shoes always seem to be a problem. Today I went to the store to find shoes with no leather. She said we have white or black sneakers. But that’s not right. I could speed-order black velvet Doc Martens. Maybe I can wear my winter boots or summer light blue canvas that I bought for my mom’s service but ended up taking off in exchange for stocking feet. I’m not a speaker so it may be okay that I have the inappropriate footwear for the occasion. Rog thinks so. Rog rented a suit and shoes.

The cremation was today at 8:30 am Iowa time. Rog and I are usually there for the cremation. But Rog’s still in the Sonoran Desert, and I am here, in the plains, a tiny bit east of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

It had just rained and the sun was coming through the slats of the fence out by the Jizo shrine in my side yard near the street. I changed the card on the shrine that said free of pain and replaced it with his proper name, birth and death dates. Louis Sailor Kaufman.

As I was chanting the Heart Sutra I was worried I wasn’t honoring Lou’s wishes and that was when I thought: This too is atheist!

That which is form is emptiness, that which is emptiness form.

The same is true of feelings perceptions, impulses, consciousness.

No eye, no ear, no body, no mind.

No object of mind and so forth…

..Gone Gone, Really gone, Absolutely gone. Hey! Wow!

That’s the thing. I thought. That’s what’s happening.

But on the other hand, I can’t bear it. I can’t see it in myself.

When I was sixteen I wrote a poem: When I am about to die I hope I’m ready to die and that the sheets are washed and there would be curtains blowing, and the breeze would take me—

…or something. Even as a teenager, like my uncle at ninety-six, I knew there might be a problem.

Vincent van Gogh. The Starry Night. Saint Rémy, June 1889. |MoMA|

As I was finishing up my little ceremony in my neighborhood, I was clear I’d try to never convince anyone of anything, just belt out what gives me an opening to the real.

In this case, a memory of all the heart sutras I’ve chanted, in crematoriums, in back yard, in zendos. At my ordinations, at my wedding. At the baby Budda’s birthday tea offering in April. I’ve chanted the heart sutra more than any song—

Well, I take it back. This week I’ve been singing Vincent, the Starry, Starry Night song, like a loop that went with the skaters Piper and Paul from Canada and I could cry even more. Their great skates and precise blades sound like brushstrokes. The skating, so magnificent and emotional; it was like it always belonged with the song. It was so beautiful that for a tiny moment I thought I should go to Canada too. Of course I thought that.

I mean to say, the country where I was born is not like the country where I was born, right now.

My brother, Rog and I also like to dance and yip and howl at cremations.

That makes sense of what Kim Roberts said to me yesterday: You are a performance artist. Even now, showing me your dogs and cat on zoom, and the painting of the lavender fields.

And everything came together for me just then. I could be this way. I didn’t have to be another way. No need to be ashamed of my way of being.

The things that people say before they get down to business is my business!

Kim gave me the painting so long ago when she was moving—She was like, Does anyone want this painting? She was so free about her offering.

I couldn’t believe it. It was the most beautiful painting, A triptych of lavender fields, and she would just give it to me or anyone.

It’s just a print, she said yesterday.

But you spray painted the frame silver. I said.

Now I’m waiting for a painting that Kim has painted.

I’m waiting for the one painting. Two paintings. Three paintings, I said.

As I was finishing up the ceremony the sun came over the fence a tiny bit and shined over me and the shrine. Today, in my neighborhood I was satisfied enough with the sun beginning again.

~ o ~

A note about ice dance: In 2022 Skate Canada and recently, Finland, domestic ice dance competitions have been opened to all genders. Won’t that be glorious as they lead the way for the rest of the skating world!

Here’s Piper Gilles and Paul Poirier skating Vincent.

Kim Robert’s beautiful and glorious, inspiring substack: Art of Awakening. (Really, you’ll be touched and learn things—plus her art).

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writing, yoga, meditation, in person, online, on location ~

Small Stories for (various sized) People. An ongoing Monthly Writing Class online. Tuesday eves. 6-8. (Mountain Standard Time. US) New Session begins March 3, 2026. Almost full. Room for two. (We keep this class small.)

Sunday Morning Yoga. A gentle Yoga class on location at the beehive studio at Lashley Street Station. Longmont, Colorado. 9:30-10:30am.(MST. US).

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ON LOCATION RETREAT ~ new~ (There may be a waiting list).

Retreat and Renewal. Drala Mountain Center, Colorado, March 20-22. No tuition!Restore and relax as we turn to the start of Spring together (probably still a bit of snow). Yoga and meditation, walk to the Stupa, good food, and space for your own wander, rest, being on the land, meeting others.

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