View from my desk: stars for my Dad, Marcy & Bill When I arrived at the Orphan Wisdom School earlier this spring, my friend and classmate Carrie Stearns said she had something to give me.
Carrie knew that the lack of a funeral for my Dad 15 years ago was part of what had drawn me to my work as a Celebrant, and that my friend Marcy's death a year ago was still much on my mind and heavy in my heart.
In the envelope she handed me were two richly colored paper stars she'd made: one for my Dad, one for Marcy. She said she'd be making one for Bill too, my friend who lay dying back home as we gathered in the Ottawa Valley.
Carrie started making these window stars with her daughters when they were little, at the start of every winter. "We would adorn many windows in our home with these star-shaped beams of light and beauty and also give them as gifts at Christmas time," she says. "I have taught many friends young and old to make these and everyone seems to find joy and meaning in the process. Now my daughters are off to explore life away from home and my practice of star making has evolved to include making them as a way of remembering and honoring a beloved one who has died."
I brought the stars home to Bill's house and taped them to the window across from his bed. I wondered aloud whether my Dad and Marcy along with all of his ancestors might be waiting to gather him in, and told him that a star for him would adorn my window in time. Those stars watched over a beautiful procession of close friends and family sharing sacred time around his bed.
Two weeks later, Bill died. I left the stars on his windows for a few weeks more. One day it felt like time to bring them home to my house, just a block away. I took them off his windows and carried them with me through the business of my day. When I arrived home, I put the key in the door and reached into the mailbox. An envelope from Carrie. Bill's star, ready to join the other two on my window.
"It is said that we are made of star dust… stars evoke this beautiful sense of mystery," writes Carrie. "They call to me to wonder and to remember and to wonder some more. When a beloved one dies in our culture we are not strong in the skill of grieving, remembering, and carrying them. Making a star in honor of one who has died and placing it in a window where light can touch it is a way of calling forth their beauty and presence among us. The beauty of these stars has a way catching my attention and encourages me to pause and to follow the path of my remembering."
May the story of the stars Carrie crafted for my beloveds inspire others to make star beauty and to practice remembrance.
Carrie knew that the lack of a funeral for my Dad 15 years ago was part of what had drawn me to my work as a Celebrant, and that my friend Marcy's death a year ago was still much on my mind and heavy in my heart.
In the envelope she handed me were two richly colored paper stars she'd made: one for my Dad, one for Marcy. She said she'd be making one for Bill too, my friend who lay dying back home as we gathered in the Ottawa Valley.
Carrie started making these window stars with her daughters when they were little, at the start of every winter. "We would adorn many windows in our home with these star-shaped beams of light and beauty and also give them as gifts at Christmas time," she says. "I have taught many friends young and old to make these and everyone seems to find joy and meaning in the process. Now my daughters are off to explore life away from home and my practice of star making has evolved to include making them as a way of remembering and honoring a beloved one who has died."
I brought the stars home to Bill's house and taped them to the window across from his bed. I wondered aloud whether my Dad and Marcy along with all of his ancestors might be waiting to gather him in, and told him that a star for him would adorn my window in time. Those stars watched over a beautiful procession of close friends and family sharing sacred time around his bed.
Two weeks later, Bill died. I left the stars on his windows for a few weeks more. One day it felt like time to bring them home to my house, just a block away. I took them off his windows and carried them with me through the business of my day. When I arrived home, I put the key in the door and reached into the mailbox. An envelope from Carrie. Bill's star, ready to join the other two on my window.
"It is said that we are made of star dust… stars evoke this beautiful sense of mystery," writes Carrie. "They call to me to wonder and to remember and to wonder some more. When a beloved one dies in our culture we are not strong in the skill of grieving, remembering, and carrying them. Making a star in honor of one who has died and placing it in a window where light can touch it is a way of calling forth their beauty and presence among us. The beauty of these stars has a way catching my attention and encourages me to pause and to follow the path of my remembering."
May the story of the stars Carrie crafted for my beloveds inspire others to make star beauty and to practice remembrance.
Resources for Making Window Stars
Carrie says, Sites for instructions are many. Here are a couple for a very basic star, which is a good starting place:
Wee Folk Art web-based tutorial
Duo Fiberworks web-based tutorial
Window Stars, the book Carrie most recommends
To order the kite paper (there is also a video tutorial on this page)
Read Carrie's moving account of her partner Sarah's death, The Brilliance of Dying, published on my blog in 2014.
Carrie says, Sites for instructions are many. Here are a couple for a very basic star, which is a good starting place:
Wee Folk Art web-based tutorial
Duo Fiberworks web-based tutorial
Window Stars, the book Carrie most recommends
To order the kite paper (there is also a video tutorial on this page)
Read Carrie's moving account of her partner Sarah's death, The Brilliance of Dying, published on my blog in 2014.
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