Remembrance of Morris at the Hudson River, April 26th

Remarks made by Kathryn Kimball as a group of us gathered to remember Morris:

Here we are, on the Hudson River–significant to me because it was here, on this river, where I met Morris in 1968. Not far from here, the Queen Elizabeth set sail –carrying us on a journey that opened up our lives—and even more momentously, opened our hearts to each other.

This river was his last grand vista of water. He told us all about his splendid hospital room with a view, how comforted he was by the sight of the flowing water and the glittering bridge.

Then he came to Maplewood, where he spent the first of his last two evenings by the fire—as he had so many other nights—content, peaceful. “What a view I had!” he said enthusiastically, “I loved that view—Now I have fire. But this isn’t just a fire. It’s a hearth.”

Morris was an elemental man. But he was more. He was a mythic person to us who loved him. The last night of his life, Morris was thirsty—but the doctors had restricted him to only rinsing and wetting his mouth and then spitting out the water. He rinsed and duly spit out. “ I feel like Tantalus,” he said. “So close and so far away.” “That’s why I love you,” I said. “Who else would say it like that?”

Later that evening, he was restless as he was settling down in bed. “If I could only lay on
the bias,” he said, “I could rest.” On the bias? “Yes, diagonally. You know. On the bias.” Again, who else would say it like that?

I cut this ceremonial wrapping holding a portion of his ashes on the bias for him, our dear friend, brother, and uncle.

Morris was a legend while he lived, will certainly live a legend in our hearts. He is Orpheus, Greek and heroic, charmer even of the stones, the elements. Rilke imagined such a one as Morris when he wrote his sonnets to the mythic singer.

Erect no gravestone for him. Only this:
let the rose blossom each year for his sake.
For this is Orpheus: metamorphosis
into one thing, then another.

We need not search for other names.
It is Orpheus in the singing, once and for all time.
He comes and goes. Is it not enough
that sometimes he outlasts a bowl of roses?

Oh but if you could understand- he has no choice
but to disappear,
even should he long to stay. As his song
exceeds the present moment,

so he is already gone where we cannot follow.
The lyre’s strings do not hold back his hands.
It is in moving farther on that he obeys.

And so, let us obey his wishes and let him move farther on.

[From Sonnets to Orpheus, Part I, V

In Praise of Mortality
Selections from Rainer Maria Rilke’s
Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus)
Translated by Anita Burrows and Joanna Macy]

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