Further musings on the death of Dave Carter

The antecedent to this entry can be found here

I never saw him up close. I never spoke to him. I didn't know his smile, or his laugh, or what kind of drink he liked in the morning. But like many people at Falcon Ridge this year, I saw him in Thursday's moonrise and in the birds that passed overhead as Tracy sang.

I didn't cry. I'm ashamed of that, though I know that it doesn't mean I'm not grieved. The sorrow is taking a different path, and perhaps to a certain extent events have once again outstripped my ability to feel. My emotional nerves are frozen, numb, from a flood of sensation too great to be absorbed.

I'm ashamed, also, of how self-absorbedly I respond to everything I've been reading about Falcon Ridge, the tribute, and the song circle. Everything gives me a plunging sense of being not good enough: not much of a fan, since I only ever saw Dave and Tracy at Falcon Ridge; not much of a Falcon Ridge-r since I'd never been to a song circle before and I can't play anything and can only sing a little; a very lousy excuse for a spiritual being.

I only went to the memorial booth once, though I watched it often from the shadows of the dance tent, and I chose a time when Tracy was in the midst of a crowd so I wouldn't look strange for not speaking to her. Because I couldn't speak to her. I had nothing to say that hadn't been said better than I could say it, and that wouldn't be foolish and worthless coming from a stranger. And yet, now I'm ashamed of not speaking, of hiding from her, of not giving my featherweight of comfort. I was only thinking of myself, and not wanting to do anything at all because I couldn't do something special. Which, really, is a lame, stupid, and self-absorbed way to be thinking.