Tribute to Ric Masten from Linda Lacey Missouri, March 3, 2008 - Here's my prose-poem I wrote and sent to Ric in his last months.
Linda Missouri has been in private practice since 1975, Individual Personal Growth, Jungian-
focused, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist
LETTING MY VOICES SPEAK AND REMEMBER 3-3-08 Linda Lacey Missouri
Edited by John Laue
1
Every hour somebody gets a diagnosis and their life re-focuses. Every minute someone just up the street or around the world gets the phone-call that changes everything. Their loved one has died. My rational brain says to the news, “That’s life. That’s reality.”
Then the news gets personal. A Northern California writing friend, Nancie Brown, sends me a message. Ric Masten is in the Subject line. His cancer has spread, “to his liver, kidneys, lungs.” He has decided to stop all medications. To say goodbye to his many friends. To face his death HIS way.
My inner child whimpers. Facing a loved one’s death brings up her unmet needs, her unfed hole, her wish to tighten her hold on everyone she’s ever admired. She needs comforting, redemption. She’s restless, fired up. “It hurts. It stinks. It isn’t fair. Pain is the enemy. Stay. Stay. Don’t leave me.” ”Why don’t you fight on, Ric, the good ole American way.” But Ric has chosen his own kind of independence. He doesn’t want to kill any more cancer invaders or stay dependent on pharmaceuticals. He’s decided to face the music head-on.
2
I like to know that my heroes are still somewhere on this earth, doing what they do, Ric strumming his guitar, making up poems that tell things straight. When it’s one of my mentors readying to die, my rational brain says, “I understand. He’s been battling prostate cancer for a handful of years. He’s written “Prostate Cancer as a Sporting Event” and talked frankly to men’s prostate recovery groups. I respect his decision.” But my emotional brain says, “Don’t do it, Ric. Fight back. Tell the cancer you won’t accept that it’s living in your organs. Tell it, please tell it, you want to live, for me.”
3
In reverie, I see you and your backbone wrapped in coastal ordinariness. Clothes slightly withered, eclectic and unimportant. You’re wearing sun-worn sandals reminiscent of hippie days, a hand-hewn boa tie for pizzazz. Lots of freckles here, there, even on the top of your head where hair used to grow. Always a beard to suggest your humble outlook. Behind your glasses and accompanied by a slight grin there’s something hidden just waiting to pop out in your next song or whimsy in your next poem.
I remember my school children attentive, sitting in a circle as you introduced them to the magic of words with the rhythm of your strumming guitar, the Unitarian church who let your story-poems be their preacher that day, your creative retreats at the home you built with your own hands on the top of the Santa Cruz mountains.
4
Do you remember when I had the honor of inviting you to the Orange County Jung Club? You brought your wife Billie Barbara. Together you gave us a mouthful of life lessons about noble and ignoble actions you’ve taken, personal yet universal -- how it is to lose a job, build a house, or pull the weeds out of a relationship. You told us, straight-up, and we were glad.
At the poetry place on my bookshelf. I find two of your many books: Let it Be a Dance, Words and One-liners, a limited edition 447 of 600, and They are all Gone Now—and So Are you that you autographed to me in 1986.
I read your poems aloud to my elderly cat Katherine Gandy. She purrs. We savor my favorite lines. “Time is a spiral and every road the road home.” And “dwarfed, I catch my breath beside the largest window in the world.” I get re-energized by your presence. I won’t let you die, ever, ever. I’ll let your words continue as a beacon, your deliciousness fill some of my yearning hole, your clarity and truth-telling guide me like a compassionate friend.
5
You’re here, Ric Masten. Here in my heart. For thirty years, up and down the California coast, I’ve known you through your verses, your visions, and your vernacular. You’ve opened your veins and spilled out your truth. I thank God our lives intersected in real time, that you weren’t just someone who got a diagnosis and disappeared. You did your life well. You continue to do so.
May I have this dance with you? When Nancie Brown visits you next week on your Santa Cruz mountain, let her hug be one from me, too. Peace to you and those who surround you now. Bless you, Ric. Bless you!
Linda Missouri has been in private practice since 1975, Individual Personal Growth, Jungian-
focused, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist
LETTING MY VOICES SPEAK AND REMEMBER 3-3-08 Linda Lacey Missouri
Edited by John Laue
1
Every hour somebody gets a diagnosis and their life re-focuses. Every minute someone just up the street or around the world gets the phone-call that changes everything. Their loved one has died. My rational brain says to the news, “That’s life. That’s reality.”
Then the news gets personal. A Northern California writing friend, Nancie Brown, sends me a message. Ric Masten is in the Subject line. His cancer has spread, “to his liver, kidneys, lungs.” He has decided to stop all medications. To say goodbye to his many friends. To face his death HIS way.
My inner child whimpers. Facing a loved one’s death brings up her unmet needs, her unfed hole, her wish to tighten her hold on everyone she’s ever admired. She needs comforting, redemption. She’s restless, fired up. “It hurts. It stinks. It isn’t fair. Pain is the enemy. Stay. Stay. Don’t leave me.” ”Why don’t you fight on, Ric, the good ole American way.” But Ric has chosen his own kind of independence. He doesn’t want to kill any more cancer invaders or stay dependent on pharmaceuticals. He’s decided to face the music head-on.
2
I like to know that my heroes are still somewhere on this earth, doing what they do, Ric strumming his guitar, making up poems that tell things straight. When it’s one of my mentors readying to die, my rational brain says, “I understand. He’s been battling prostate cancer for a handful of years. He’s written “Prostate Cancer as a Sporting Event” and talked frankly to men’s prostate recovery groups. I respect his decision.” But my emotional brain says, “Don’t do it, Ric. Fight back. Tell the cancer you won’t accept that it’s living in your organs. Tell it, please tell it, you want to live, for me.”
3
In reverie, I see you and your backbone wrapped in coastal ordinariness. Clothes slightly withered, eclectic and unimportant. You’re wearing sun-worn sandals reminiscent of hippie days, a hand-hewn boa tie for pizzazz. Lots of freckles here, there, even on the top of your head where hair used to grow. Always a beard to suggest your humble outlook. Behind your glasses and accompanied by a slight grin there’s something hidden just waiting to pop out in your next song or whimsy in your next poem.
I remember my school children attentive, sitting in a circle as you introduced them to the magic of words with the rhythm of your strumming guitar, the Unitarian church who let your story-poems be their preacher that day, your creative retreats at the home you built with your own hands on the top of the Santa Cruz mountains.
4
Do you remember when I had the honor of inviting you to the Orange County Jung Club? You brought your wife Billie Barbara. Together you gave us a mouthful of life lessons about noble and ignoble actions you’ve taken, personal yet universal -- how it is to lose a job, build a house, or pull the weeds out of a relationship. You told us, straight-up, and we were glad.
At the poetry place on my bookshelf. I find two of your many books: Let it Be a Dance, Words and One-liners, a limited edition 447 of 600, and They are all Gone Now—and So Are you that you autographed to me in 1986.
I read your poems aloud to my elderly cat Katherine Gandy. She purrs. We savor my favorite lines. “Time is a spiral and every road the road home.” And “dwarfed, I catch my breath beside the largest window in the world.” I get re-energized by your presence. I won’t let you die, ever, ever. I’ll let your words continue as a beacon, your deliciousness fill some of my yearning hole, your clarity and truth-telling guide me like a compassionate friend.
5
You’re here, Ric Masten. Here in my heart. For thirty years, up and down the California coast, I’ve known you through your verses, your visions, and your vernacular. You’ve opened your veins and spilled out your truth. I thank God our lives intersected in real time, that you weren’t just someone who got a diagnosis and disappeared. You did your life well. You continue to do so.
May I have this dance with you? When Nancie Brown visits you next week on your Santa Cruz mountain, let her hug be one from me, too. Peace to you and those who surround you now. Bless you, Ric. Bless you!
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