Generosity of Crowe

My friend Crowe, one of our warriors, has fallen. I love this man.

We are warriors, building these temples. Love and gratitude with Makita and a nail gun. Stephen Crowe was one of the best, such a great man, I cherished his friendship, his loyalty, his support, his humor, his good will. Strong as a bull yet always tender and thoughtful, humble and generous. So fucking generous in all things. Never an ego never a bad word to anyone.

He had the force of eight men on a job site, seriously, a one man whirlwind. IÂ would stand and watch him in awe. If he was there it would get done. So Irish, that Celtic heart, so his own unique blend of human. His legacy runs deep in our bones.

My friend Stephen Crowe fell from a building in San Francisco sometime between Friday evening and Saturday morning of January 31st, 2019 and February 1st, 2020. We all call him Crowe. For a long time I didn’t even know his name was Stephen, he has always been Crow to me. I have been surrounded by crows since Friday and many of his friends have shared stories of similar mysterious crow sightings. Thursday evening we met in a Catholic Church in San Francisco. His funeral was well attended by many groups and close family. There were lots of us from the temple family that he was such a part of, such a reminder of how we become a part of our chosen families, our tribe of like-minded warriors. Such a gathering of grieving yet loving humans. He was a beacon for love and generosity. Everyone here holds a piece of that spirit.

There was an open casket with with Crowe’s body laid out. It took my breath away. I paused, can I do this? I take my time holding my own history, my own relationship to Crowe and the power of spirit that no longer exists in the human form.

The last time I viewed an open casket was when my daughter Phoebe died. (if you read this and do not know me or Phoebe, she died at 20 and her art has touched many, a profound legacy.) In this profound journey of grief there was never a time more painful. Hers was a cardboard box ready to be incinerated.

The agony of that moment has imprinted on my soul like the iconic Hiroshima human shadow of death etched into a concrete wall. Phoebe, meet Crowe. Powerful humans alive. Old souls and now spirits to teach us, heal us, fix the broken parts, no doubt in my mind. I stood at this gate of connection, full of hope and PTSD before approaching. Standing in front of Crowe’s casket I reached out to both Phoebe and Crowe. They are my saints and angels in this moment.

The same Friday that Crowe went missing, I buried a dead crow in a stone grotto that I found on a job site. I was there with my son Henry and his friend Dustin. I don’t usually pick up dead animals, but as I approach this crow it shows no signs of struggle in battle, no signs of deterioration. In fact it seems magnificent, something I can only see closely in death. I feel a quivering sadness as I hold it in my hands. None of us say a word holding the quiet moment as sacred, which in retrospect it certainly was.

I have raised my son well in this awareness of gifts and sacred space. We hold the moment with silence.

I thought of my dear friend Jack. Just a few months back in the midst of deep traumatic loss, he saved a crow’s life that I believe saved his life. In this moment in the grotto I had no idea what was going to happen. As I dug the hole for the crow I wondered how I arrived in this place. I always look for gifts, small treasures, signs. After losing Phoebe that is all that kept me connected to this world, and I have found many. Every moment holds signs, gifts, sacred sign-posts, it’s just our loopy minds and conditioned perceptions that keep us from seeing them. Faith is on a need to know basis. When a young person dies we need to know. In death, in deepest grief, suddenly the veils are pulled back and the translucent beauty of how this world is so much deeper, so much more interconnected than we can begin to imagine, is revealed to us.

Moving away layers of decomposing leaves and bark, I chip through stone to find dark loam to place this crow. I ask, Is there another gift? And as I sift through the mycorrhizal network, just like that I see a smooth piece of wood and pull out an old rusty trowel. Writing this now, the message seems clear. Dave go lay some bricks and mortar. Phoebe told me always go deeper and now Crowe is telling me to lay some bricks. These are my bricks.

After few months after Phoebe died I was invited by my friend Dana, whose son ended his life jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, to a Native American drum circle in the Marin Headlands Batteries, a beautiful spot that overlooked that blood red suicidal monument. Phoebe also died less than a mile away from this spot off a cliff above Rodeo Beach. We arrived in the predawn frigid darkness. The songs were led by a native American chief from the sierra foothills who arrived there in a small white car with three others from his tribe. The others were parents who had lost children off the bridge and my two sons and their friend. We arrived before sunrise and began drumming when the light was just beginning. Soon after the drumming started the chief stopped. He looked me square in the eye, his gaze fixed on me. In the icy cold morning, at dawn’s earliest light, his stare froze me. He did not know who I was or that I had just lost my daughter. His voice pierced more than my ears.

“In our culture, we believe that when a person dies young, before their time, before their parents, they remain as a spirit for one solar year, sometimes more, to help and guide their relatives in their journey of grief. Often as you feel them deeply, you feel goosebumps, you feel a presence, do not be afraid, do not fear, do not cry as they are here to help you. If you show fear or sadness in this moment they will hesitate.

Do not be afraid to let them guide you in this journey. We are now going to do three songs. Do not hold fear.”

He paused and then started drumming and singing the first song. As the chief finished the second song the sun rose behind him casting bright light and warmth. We finished the third song and he closed the circle. Suddenly a strong wind started blowing and what had been a warm, inviting sunrise turned into a dense, misty fog blowing through, and then rain with sideways water. Gathering our instruments, we ran for shelter. As quickly as it started it stopped, and someone yelled, “Rainbow!” The southern end was landing on top of the Golden Gate bridge. The north end touched the exact place that Phoebe had fallen, emerging from the ocean and cliffs far below.

In my mythology the spirit of our loved ones is available. There is no doubt that the dead crow is not just a dead crow. It and that rusty trowel are significant parts of my friend Crowe’s death. He knows I am one that is listening and searching. Phoebe has has always reminded me of that and now Crowe is too. Phoebe says, Dad, always dig deeper. Crowe says lay bricks and tell the story. Pay the gifts forward.

Crowe fell from a tall building. Phoebe fell from a tall cliff. In these eleven years I have thought often about the meaning of falling. I hear a song about falling and it breaks me apart. The strange circumstances of Crowe missing for three days layers his death with a story. A friend shared with me how disconcerted he felt about the way Crowe died. Others standing outside of the church murmured the same thing.

I believe when someone dies young they are a shooting star, a shining light, an old soul, an angelic being.

This is not their first time leaving their body. They never hit ground. The body falls and the spirit soars.

The Dalai Lama once said, “When someone dies young they are a master in disguise, as they teach of impermanence.” I hated the Dalai Lama for years after I read that. But Crowe is a master in disguise. Look at every picture of him, he is always radiant. Always has a look that says Don’t worry about that we can fix it. I know how to make that happen. I love you.

I finally walk up to the casket and peer inside. He has top hat, vest and jacket, hand clasped around a small bottle of what I assume is Irish whiskey. He looks ancient, from another time, from another world.

It dawns on me that is exactly what he is. Rest in peace dear friend, your work is just starting, we still need you. As I stand there I remember this story.

We were building the Temple of Time in Parkland/CoralSprings Florida. It was to be released on February 14th, but had to be finished by the 12th. The one year anniversary of the mass murder of 14 students and three teachers. This was like no other build we have ever done, 18 of us and two weeks, not enough materials, not enough man power. (As I am writing this it occurs to me that Crowe arrived on this day I am writing this exactly one year ago). We are tired when Crowe shows up so he immediately jumps in and begins to take over the build. Fresh strength, ingenuity and a McGyver-way of getting through the thick of it. It is the very last day and we have floors to lay. The floors are intricately laid pieces of ornate wood. So many people stood over these 4x8 sheets and placed and glued these pieces of wood into beautiful patterns. It would often rain and we would hunker under the tarps where these panels were. People from the community, students from the school, members of our team would chat and create these floors and now was the time they had to be cut and fit and then somehow fastened to the concrete floor. It started raining hard. There were less than eight hours left to get a job done that on paper looked so easy but now looked absolutely daunting. Each sheet weighed over a hundred pounds. We are tired and scratching our heads as Crowe comes in with overalls and tool belt and grabs Gabe, our young, strong, strapping, rock star, and says Lets get the fucker done! By sheer will he bends down and cuts where cuts need to be made. Always perfect. Fuck that concrete nailer give me a roto hammer. He drills holes in the concrete.

Cuts off pieces of wire. In the movie I swear he did it with his teeth. Breaks a bit. I need a bit. People run to get him a bit. I need more wire. People run to get wire. It’s raining and we’re all wearing these funny plastic ponchos that say Coral Springs.

I see this picture of our Crowe on his knees securing these pieces of wood to a concrete floor. Panels that hold the designs and patterns that people who have suffered have placed in their own patterns. Community that smiled for the first time in doing so. There is the Bodhisattva Crowe on his knees, single handedly finishing the temple so the suffering of others can enter it and find a small slice of gratitude.

Generosity of spirit and strength is Crowe’s legacy.

May we all practice that generosity in our own lives.

Share your dreams and gifts with you friends and this community that holds the memory of Crowe so close to our hearts