The Wizard of Castle Rock

A Midsummer Ceremony

Michael and I didn't hear that Jim was gone until 2 months after his death, and so missed his memorial service in Bisbee, Arizona. I had been in the habit of going down to the Inn every month or two to get away of the growing noise and chaos in Tucson, and after Michael and I moved in together, we continued this tradition. But since our last visit with the Wizard in April, we were crawling through our own dark tunnel of stress and trauma. We spoke several times of getting away - of going "off to see the Wizard" again, but business trips and financial difficulties kept pushing the trip further and further back on the calendar.

It was Michael who found out that Jim had died, when he called to make reservations in mid June. Jim's daughter was out of town and the Inn was closed, but our friends on the staff invited us down to spend a quiet weekend anyway, since we were friends of the family. The days before our visit passed in a fog of disbelief, confusion and sorrow.

The Friday before Midsummer, we bought a dozen red roses at a flower shop in Tucson, and drove down to Bisbee to say goodbye to Jim. The Inn was shrouded in silence... and an unfamiliar heaviness was in the air. As we walked in, I looked up at the familiar paintings on the walls in the entry way, and felt a knife of pain slice through my heart.

We stepped out onto the garden patio. Jim had lovingly planted and cared for every plant in the lush gardens that surround the Inn, and it was here that I felt closest to his spirit. My thoughts drifted back to a cool, fall evening the previous November, as Jim and I had one of our long and magical conversations by the outdoor hearth. It was inconceivable that he could be gone.

I reached out for Jim with my senses, drawing on a deeper awareness that I have come to trust more than my eyes or ears. His energy was all around us. It was hard to believe he wasn't going to walk around a corner at any moment and greet us with a radiant smile.

Saturday night Michael and I slept upstairs in the Wizard's attic bedroom. We studied the photos on the walls and looked through a few of his books, marveling at the diagrams and notes he had scribbled in the margins, and trying to come to terms with the reality of his death. We had brought along some sage in a shell, and some poetry so that we could perform our own ceremony in his room, hoping to bring some kind of closure to our friendship. The soft light of a full moon streamed in through the windows, bathing the room in a silver glow.

It was the night of the Summer Solstice. The ancient Celts believed the Equinoxes and Solstices were "portal" times, when the veil between the worlds is thinner, facilitating communication with the departed. I didn't know this at the time, but I knew it to be a time of power. And I knew Jim felt the pull of the full moon very strongly, so I believed he would be closer to us at this time. Or perhaps it was just chance that we arrived on this weekend, and that the moon was full... if you believe in chance.

A few minutes before Midnight, we lit the sage and a small white candle. I began our little ceremony by playing my Indian Flute for Jim. I had planned to do this while he was alive... but like many other things, I didn't get around to it in time.

I then read a poem that seemed to embody the complexity and lovable contradictions of our dear friend. As I was reading the very first stanza, one of the closet doors flew open with a loud crash, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped the book. Michael and I froze. There was no one else in the room, and the bedroom door was closed. We felt no drafts. I walked over to the closet and looked in, feeling for an air current, but there was no movement of any kind. I felt a chill ripple up my spine. "Hi Jim," I said softly. "We are here for you, my friend."

I resumed my reading, but again the door flew open, even after we firmly shut and latched it. Throughout the remainder of our ceremony, Jim was there with us, repeatedly slamming the door or banging it against the wall. Michael read a poem that he had picked out especially for Jim, and then we held hands and each said a prayer for him. We then laid a red rose on a high, carpeted platform by a large window that looked out towards the desert mountains further up the canyon. It seemed to be a special place, and I wondered if Jim had ever meditated there, facing the east and the rising sun.

After passing a quiet night, we looked out of the same window from our perch on the Wizard's platform. We watched the morning light spread over the dusty mountainside. Again came the thought, as we reached back across the chasm of time, that maybe Jim had watched the same family of hawks gracefully circling on the early morning air currents on other mornings, a few months and one precious lifetime before.

- Maire Quilter & Michael Melby