When death comes

Do not stand at my grave and weep

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Malcolm and his wife Pamela in a Hillsboro, VA Memorial Day
Parade. Malcolm was a passionate voice for conserving the rural land and farms
of Loudon County, VA. 

An old friend from my high school days just died, and I find myself grieving as if we had never parted upon graduating so long ago.  Malcolm Baldwin, classmate at Harley School, Rochester, NY, brilliant, funny, voracious reader and learner, class leader, and that twinkle in his eye that all who knew him comment on to this day. The sadness hits me, to see the fabric of our lives unraveling.

Harley student council, I think. Memory photo from
classmate Barbara Poole von Schilcher.

I remember Malcolm for his wide-ranging interests and curious intellect. I remember how he passed a news-of-the-day quiz with flying colors in a Harley social studies class, while I struggled because I wasn't paying as much attention to what was going on in the world.  Malcolm paid attention.

After we graduated from Harley, we went our separate ways, all of us in this lively, intelligent class of 16 serious students with bright futures. We scattered into the four winds like seeds floating across a field of wildflowers. We went to colleges and universities across the country. Malcolm went to Haverford and then to the University of Chicago Law School. I took off to Wheaton College in Norton, Mass, and then on to the University of Wisconsin-Madison for graduate study in American history. We all went in different directions, on different paths, far apart, finding ourselves as we went along, finding our ways to a sense of purpose, to work and the professions, to family and kids, to farms and cities, to travel and other adventures.

We shared our stories at the 50th Harley Class reunion. I'm glad we did. I got a glimpse of Malcolm in full stride, retired from the U.S. Foreign Service, pioneering environmental lawyer, a farmer he called himself, talking about his beloved WeatherLea Farm, about raising sheep and growing grapes, about his commitment to conserving the land and small farms of Loudon County, Virginia. We caught up as much as we could, learned of hopes and dreams and changes, talked about where we had been and where we were going.

This Wendell Berry saying
reminds me of Malcolm.

I had just been accepted into the Peace Corps, so I knew I was going someplace far away. It was a dream I had had since JKF established it in the early 1960s. That's how Malcolm and I connected again at the 50th reunion. Pamela asked if I knew where I was going. "Somewhere in eastern Europe," I said. "You're probably going to Ukraine," she replied. Malcolm agreed. We talked about it for a while, she and Malcolm sharing their knowledge and experience of working abroad.

They were right. I did go to Ukraine soon after that reunion, living for the next two years (2009-2011) as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the village of Starobelsk, Lugansk oblast, not far from the Russian border. My friends joked I could see Russia from there, and they weren't far off. That part of far-eastern Ukraine, including Crimea, has since been invaded and occupied by Russia. Malcolm and Priscilla understood the terror I felt for my friends, still in harm's way to this day.  They understood as well how different the experience of a PCV was compared to Paul Manafort's, who was there when I served, although I had no idea at the time. I learned when I returned to the US that while we volunteers worked to help Ukrainians strengthen their communities, Manafort worked for Ukrainian and Russian oligarchs on behalf of Russia, against the self-interests of Ukraine.  

Malcolm shared a passion for the land
like poet and farmer Wendell Berry.
.

When I learned about Malcolm's passing, I turned to some of my favorite poets seeking comfort and assurance. Mary Oliver and Wendall Berry came immediately to mind. Their poetry reminds me of Malcolm. Oliver has a way of making the natural world come alive, and Wendell Berry is a farmer, a conservationist and advocate for small farms like Malcolm. I imagine he liked their poetry. I've put a few poems here. I want to believe Malcolm is now embraced by the awesome wonders of the natural world he loved, the same place I hope one day to find my brother Loren.  It's why I love the poem by Elizabeth Frye that begins this remembrance.

Trees, by Wendell Berry

I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
there is singing around me.
Though I am dark
there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy
there is flight around me. 

The Peace of Wild Things

by Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

Messenger By Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.