What can anyone say about a 5 year old boy? Well, he was my boy, and I loved
him better than any other boy I,ve ever known. He was a bright child,
inquisitive and curious as could be. At 3 and a half, he could recognize more
trees than I had learned in the first 35 years of my life. We had arrogant
fantasies of teaching him Latin, and homeschooling him. He had a great
vocabulary for one so young, and was quick to pick up new words and phrases
he heard other people using, such as Cool! (from his friend Odin) "Nothing
lasts forever, Mom, is a statement I heard him make with increasing
frequency in the last few days of his life. How little I suspected it would
haunt me!
Braggi was a pretty child too, with green eyes like his dad, long
eyelashes, and a fair slim body. I delighted in watching him, especially when
he was unaware of it, because his natural grace was more pronounced. He was a
sensitive lad; he didn,t want his shoes too tight, and he hated getting his
hair washed. He loved necklaces and jewelry, and any occasion to dress up,
which was due to his Auntie Suzanne,s influence.
He was a happy boy, too. He could get so excited about something that he
would literally dance with glee. He made friends easily and was loyal to
them. Receiving visitors and going visiting were among the greatest of his
pleasures, but he had many. He loved treasures and treasure chests, boxes and
pockets and pouches of all kinds, with his little valuables inside. He had
not yet outgrown the habit of crawling into my lap, throwing his arms about
my neck, and kissing me over and over on lips, cheeks and neck.
"I love you, Mommy" he would say.
Braggi had a hard time learning to share his parents with his sister. He
didn,t like to share his toys or his room with her either, and was delighted
when we gave him a door he could close, so he could be in his private domain.
He was learning, though. In the weeks before his death he spent increasingly
long periods of time entertaining Freya at the computer, teaching her the
games he knew so well, which brought him fresh pleasure, and had Freya
wide-eyed in awe and admiration. They watched a few favorite movies side by
side, with their mother holding her breath in the kitchen. He liked to pull
her around in the wagon he had outgrown outside in the yard, and showing off
on his bicycle. But most of all, he loved the water. Any puddle would do. He
grew up with hottubs as part of his reality, and enjoyed playing in the
bathtub, pouring water from one vessel to another, and sometimes over his
bathing companions. He loved to go wading in the stream near our house, or
playing in a kiddie pool on a hot day. He didn,t get to the beach more than a
handful of times in his short life, but Oh! how he loved it there, even if
the wind was blowing and the sand was in his face, he never wanted to leave.
People tell me that everything happens for a reason, and that the gods,
in their inscrutable wisdom, have taken Braggi from us because his time was
up. He accomplished what he came here to do. But this is very hard for me to
believe right now. I want to scream out in righteous fury, "It is not fair!
He was too young to die! His lucky, beautiful life had just begun. What a
wonderful man he would have made! How bitter that his potential went so
unfilled! "Some good will come of this, they say, or "Be prepared for the
Awful grace that will come to you. I am too fresh in my grief to grasp these
lessons, or to feel any relief or gratitude for this hard test, the hardest
of my life so far. But I do know that Braggi will always be with me, and that
I will continue to learn from him. Perhaps he will now teach me things I
could not learn in any other way.

Patricia Winters
August 27th, 1999

Although I was raised a Christian, I,ve never felt much affinity for
their scriptures. But there was one phrase I must have quoted thousands of
times over Braggi during his short life, as I stroked his hair, or hugged him
close or watched him sleeping. "This is my only begotten Son, in Whom I am
well pleased. Braggi taught me new meanings for the word Joy.
When Pat was pregnant with Braggi we prepared for the insomnia, the
diapers, the hassles--but we couldn,t have guessed at the Joy!
His love was so pure! So open! So full! Anyone who ever experienced one
of his big, sweet wet kisses, one of his warm tender hugs knew he didn,t hold
back from loving.
My mother came to grieve with us yesterday. She said, "I know you don,t
believe in Jesus, but I can just imagine Braggi sitting on Jesus, lap,
reaching those little arms around His neck, and saying, I love you, Jesus.,
I said,"You just go ahead and imagine it, Mom, cause I can imagine it too.
When I was a little boy, I was taught that Jesus is Love. And before I could
say another word, she said, "Well, I KNOW that Braggi was Love.
And how right she is. We all know that. Braggi felt he was a peer to
anyone. He would strike up a conversation with anyone. Easily and without
reservation. He was good with words. We named him well. Braggi the Old was
the first of Skalds, the old Norse storytellers. And the name of the God of
Poetry and Inspiration. Anybody feel inspired? Braggi did that for people.
He loved the garden. Digging in the soil. Took delight in the plants and
the trees. Loved hunting mushrooms. Loved planting and picking flowers with
his Mama. Loved digging in the dirt and getting filthy dirty. Pouring sand
and dirt out of his shoes inside the house. Blackened socks. He was the Green
Man in a little boy.
There are many mythologies that tell of a young, beautiful male God,
loved by all, who is killed. Sometimes as a sacrifice, sometimes just to make
a point. The whole world weeps for the lost, loved God. And all the Gods weep
for the lost, loved God. And now I know one reason why these these stories
are so universal. It is to prepare us for the loss of our own God, our own
unthinkable loss, the loss of a child. And now I know what the Gods felt
like. I know the anguish of the Gods! And it is an awful knowing. And I know
that Braggi is no less a God than any of the others!
He never stopped calling me Da-Da. A name for me that seemed too young
for the rest of his vocabulary. I loved it. I,m so glad I have that to
remember.
And now we must carry on. Pat and I have each other to care for. We have
our land, our home to care for. We have our beautiful Freya to care for and
be responsible for. And we have a planet to save from the ravages of human
existence. It is up to us to guarantee Eternal Life to our children and our
childrens, children.
Braggi is the God of Poetry and Inspiration. May he truly inspire us to
our very best. May we wax poetic while we do our Sacred Work.

So Mote It Be!

Jeffry Winters
August 27th, 1999

Wodan, drighten of the dead, ferryman, I call thee -- show the way to the
world's beyond.

Frija, in they sunken hall, hear my voice.

Thunar, Warder, Friend of men, be with us -- lend your Hammers holy might.

Heimdallr, open the Ases' Garth's gate; worthy steps shall sound soon on
thy bridge.

Hella, ready the bench; set a shield of gold over your ale; set a fine
feast. for a worthy guest comes to your hall.

Fro Ing, bring frith to the mound: a fair life within, and friendship to the
living aye.

Frowe, bear the mead forth: well should you greet this guest, and
roomy-seated is your hall.

Idunn, here is one worthy to eat your apples: I ask you to grant that food
freely.

Idises and alfs, greet your kinsman kindly.

All ye holy ones, gods, goddesses, and wights, hail Braggi who comes among
you: help him to enter the hall of his soul.

Braggi a shining soul. Full of happiness and joy. One whose eyes sparkled
as he played, spoke and sang.
Blessed child, sweet warm soul.....

I hollow my horn to Braggi our friend, kinsman, watersib. I drink this in
friendship and frith: that Braggi come well to the hall of Freya...

Those that have gifts for Braggi to take with him to the holy halls, it's
time that they be given for the tide is rising, the boat is waiting and the
steed awaits on the shore.

Fare thou well Braggi forth on thy path, where no sorrows scathe.
Thunar ward thee Braggi weal be with thee,
on the wet ways Thou far'st,
in the hallowed god-halls.
To Freya we send thee forth.
Hail Braggi!

Imari Nuyen

I light a candle tonight for Braggi's spirit.

And another, for all the wee ones among us, the gifts we are given.

I have a son, my Wonderboy, almost five now and dancing-eyes about starting
kindergarten next week. He is my Third Dream, and i cannot look at the
spectre of life without him.

I have lived with fear, since the day he was born, of that untold moment
when inattention and circumstance would lead to his death. I have dedicated
myself to guarding against it. And i know, deeply and bitterly, the futility
of such guardianship in the face of Fate's possibilities.

I keen with Pat and Jeff, whom i have never met yet who are part of my tribe
and thus part of me. I wrap my arms around my son, and rock him gently in the
embrace of love.

He knows of death, for my father -- is namesake -- is gone before, and my
mother -- his grandmother -- lies in a whitesheeted bed amidst the fogs of
forgetting and slowly sinks toward the horizon. Each night he prays, hands
held around, that she will be allowed to pass over to that place where she
can dance again, and walk, and talk, and sing.

So moved, so moved, by Maerian's tale of the love between Braggi and Orion,
for it was so evident at last year's Starwood between that gentle giant and
my little son, a kinship of equals that could only be admired and adored.
Wonderboy, as we moved toward Starwood this year, had one question: "Will
Orion be there?"

He asks me, frequently, about how soon i will be going.

Life. Death.
All that we would shield them from but cannot, nor should.

Ah, Braggi!

I cannot cry those tears, for they would destroy me.

I light a candle for Pat, and Jeff, for i do not know where such strength to
endure could be found. Please, gods, please, do not test me in this way, for
i am not ready.

Steve Wilhite

Dear Ones,
Upon opening my e-mail today after a trip, I am trying to absorb your tragic
news. I know there are no words which make sense at this time, but my dear
friend and children's songwriter, Tom Hunter, said it best to us when we lost
our beloved son three years ago:
"I cannot fix it, I cannot make it go away, I cannot heal the pain; but I
can be with you." Please know that you all are in our hearts and that as
Quakers say, "We are holding you in the Light."

Our love to you, Susan and
Tom Hopkins

Child and Mother

O MOTHER-MY-LOVE, if you'll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land--
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder,
We'll walk in a sweet-posie garden out there
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.

There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you;
There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you.
For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew stream,
And sing you asleep when you're weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.

And when I am tired I'll nestle my head
In the bosom that's soothed me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So, Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we'll wander -
Away through the mist to the beautiful land-
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder!

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD
Eugene Field
© MCMIV Charles Scribner's Sons
love, Bob

Braggi' Death: "Life is too short for anything but love."
August 27, 1999

Here is the question I keep asking myself: What is death? What IS
death?
And this is what I know, so far:
That for Braggi, death is a step across the threshold of our shared
reality, into . . .what? Into the mystery. Into THE mystery. He 's
moved from this familiar territory of the earth and sky into realms
beyond my senses, into places beyond what my intellect can know. But my
insides tell me that he is safe, and that he is happy, and for this I am glad.

But what is Braggi's death for me? For me his death has been a shock, a
loss, a time of stunned disbelief, of prolonged and heavy grief in my
heart, and a wrenching agony of endless tears. But it is also becoming
something else; it is becoming , for me, an incredible gift. An
incredible gift and an incomparable opportunity for me to wake up - - to
wake up to a new level of awareness of what really matters to me in life.
Like an icy cold splash of water on my face, this shockingly abrupt
departure of Braggi from my life has jerked me to my senses - or maybe I
should say, has jerked me to see BEYOND my senses, and deep into an
awareness that, as Jeff and Pat's friend Michael put it, " Life is too
short for anything but love."

Yes, this is it; this is the truth; this is what is real; this is what is
the gift of this death. To know beyond a shadow of a doubt that life IS
too short for anything but love. To hear and remember and realize that
this is the aim, the goal, the direction and the path down which I must
walk in life - - to see, identify and strip away everything in me that
gets in the way of loving every person and every thing around me. For
although I know that a boundless love exists inside of me, it cannot be
forced out of me; it has to be allowed to flow freely.

And how can I let it flow freely, if some part of me keeps blocking its
flow? How can I love freely, for example, if I am hot and tired and
irritable, and some guy cuts me off on the freeway, or a grocery store
clerk is chatty and takes too long to check out the customer ahead of me?

Where is my love then?

Or if my husband forgets to do something I felt
was important; or a friend says something to me that somehow hurts my
feelings, can I see how this little moment of irritation or weariness or
hurt blocks my awareness of the love I have for them?

Life is too short for anything but love. And so, moment-to moment, I
want to be alert, I want to LISTEN and PAY ATTENTION, and catch in myself
these bits and pieces of weariness and irritation, aggravation and
annoyance, impatience and distrust, hurt and anger, and hold them up to
the light of this truth, hold them up to the light of awareness until I
can see - really see - - that these negative mind-states are not the
truth; they are not the truth! Only love is true. Only love is true!
And all the rest of those emotions are my own internal blocks to the love
that is inside of me, and these blocks impede the flow of this love from
my heart to yours.

"Life is too short for anything but love"; what a precious gift, to be
reminded of this in such a powerful way.

Oh, please, let me never forget
this; let me never forget!

So, thank you, Braggi, my sweet friend, for bringing this gift for us
all. And 'though I will miss your tremulous little voice and your soft "I
love you's" , my ears will always remember them. And though I will miss
your deep and loving eyes, my heart will always see them. And I will
miss your hugs and kisses, but my arms and cheeks will remember them.

Fare you well, little one, wherever the mystery takes you. And know
that our love is always with you; flowing freely from our hearts to
yours.

From: "Theresa A. Becklund" <theresabeck@juno.com>

I

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in memory of our sweet Braggi,
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