The Parting Glass

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Of all the money that e’er I had

I spent it in good company

And all the harm that e’er I done

Alas it was to none but me


And all I’ve done for want of wit

To memory now I can’t recall

So fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be with you all

And all the comrades that e’er I had

They are sorry for my going away

And all the sweethearts that e’er I had

They’d wish me one more day to stay

But since it falls unto my lot

That I must go and you must not

I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call

Good night and joy be with you all

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If you happened to be hiking through the back side of Corral Canyon in Malibu, California the evening of February 10th, you may have heard this sad, and slightly out of tune, lament echoing out amongst the hills. It’s not uncommon for me to sing a bit when I hike. Songs like Ramblin’ Man  by The Allman Brothers and Wanderlust by Frank Turner help me to pass the time in a way that seems to add to the whole experience rather than take me out of it.

The Parting Glass is different. It’s not really by anybody as far as I know. At least in my search it isn’t definitively credited to anyone, though a couple make their claims. It’s a traditional Scottish funeral song that is also utilized quite often by their Irish cousins. And this past Wednesday I was singing for Aunt Pat.

Aunt Pat is a bit of a misnomer. She’s not my aunt. She’s not related to me by blood or marriage. She’s my paternal grandmother’s best friend in the world. My Grandmother married my Grandfather around 18, and Aunt Pat married an Irishman around the same time. They stayed close and both families would rent shore houses in Seaside Heights, New Jersey every year. My dad knows her sons as cousins. I know her grandkids as cousins too. And I really loved Aunt Pat. After my first year of college had gone a little iffy, my mom reported my tribulations. Aunt Pat went swiftly to work, adding my name to her list of rosaries she would say to protect the ones that she loved. Towards the end of my time in school, she had let us know that her rosary beads were getting a little worn out from all of the praying. When I graduated, I sent her a fresh pair. 

So Aunt Pat passed this week. My dad let me know on the phone and I called my grandmother to see how she was doing with it. That’s a bit of an awkward call because what can you really say? It’s alright? She’s in a better place? It all seems pretty cliché. But Nana sounds alright. She said it had been a difficult year for Aunt Pat and it seemed like this was coming.

It’s never easy, but sometimes you’re just ready to let go.

One piece of language that I’ve picked up from some of the hippies out in LA is the replacement of ‘died’ with ‘transitioned’ as in, “Aunt Pat transitioned this past week.” I like the adjustment. At times it can be a method of running away from a hard truth, but I think it can also be used as a better way of understanding what may or may not be happening.

Einstein said that energy can neither be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another. Over the years I’ve developed a view on death that I think sits in line with that. The atoms that make up our body are changing on a day-to-day and even hour-to-hour basis. You’re not the same makeup of pieces that you were five years, five days or really even five minutes ago. You’re always taking stuff in and expelling stuff out. So when we die, even if the joint idea or concept of ‘self’ is no longer present, all of those pieces have to go somewhere. The Tibetan Buddhists in the Himalayas live too high in the mountains to bury bodies, so the undertaker takes the body to a sacred place where the family can say goodbye. He then proceeds to cut up the body and feed it to the birds. It’s thought of as one last act of karma, energizing another sentient being. It’s a little gruesome, but I do think that it’s kind of beautiful.

Anyway, I went up onto this particular trail because it is home to my favorite tree. He stands at attention on the side of a fire road right before an uphill stretch. It reminds me of a scene from A Knight’s Tale where Heath Ledger and his companions meet Geoffrey Chaucer (Paul Bettany) trudging naked along the side of the road. He has made it through countless fire seasons. His trunk is black as night, and I wondered if he would bloom green by the spring this year. Sure enough when I came across him, he had sprouted an impressive amount of green leaves.

I took off my shoes, took out my own prayer beads and sat down beneath his trunk to meditate. At times like this, I must admit that I have a lot more hope than befits someone who speaks a lot of the benefits of hopelessness.

My hope is that something amazing will happen.

I’ve watched enough movies and I’ve read enough books to have an idea in my head that if I sit really still and get really quiet, the spirit of Aunt Pat will grace me with one last meeting. I think that’s what a lot of us look for in our spiritual practice. Some kind of holy specter descending from the heavens to tell us that we are on the right path or that all is well in the next life. Wouldn’t that be absolutely fantastic?

But alas, I sat for longer than an hour and no one came. Not even another hiker perhaps showing up as her spirit in another vessel walked past me on the trail. My mind was fairly quiet during the meditation, which was nice. I usually struggle to actually get my mind that quiet, but I do think that I was looking for more interaction on this specific date.

I got up and said goodbye to my tree, thanking him for his help, whatever it had been, and wishing him good fortune. I then started back along the fire roads. As I walked it began to get cold, which I attributed to the quickly setting sun, but as I picked up my gaze from the dirt at my feet, I noticed that the entirety of the canyon had been filled with a white and fluffy fog. The marine layer does tend to roll into the canyons this time of year, but I had never seen it like this at this time of day. It was usually an image reserved for a higher elevation or early morning hike. Yet here it was. The white fluffy clouds from the heaven of my youth rolling in to present me with a picture more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

Maybe that’s Aunt Pat’s last little joke on me. She rolled her eyes when I started getting tattoos and talking about meditation, but I think she’d find humor in the thought that the Kevin, who really really wanted to see her spirit, got clouds and a sunset instead. The universe is not without a sense of irony.

Dedicated to My Aunt Pat

May She Rest in Peace

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