“It’s the quietness that hits you the hardest”. That’s what my Grandfather told me after my Grandmother died in 2005. They were married 50 yrs. I said, “How you doing, Gramp?, what’s the part that you struggle with the most?” I asked him.
“Quietness”.
Many of you here have known Phil much longer than I have. To me, Phil represented another version of my Grandfather, Richard, who died in 2009 from the same disease as Phil. They both had the same mannerisms. The same humbleness, salt of the earth approach to things, a personal touch, a genuine interest in people, asked entirely more questions about you than they ever talked about themselves.
When I met Phil for the first time at Swedish Medical Center in Seattle, it was as if I saw my own flesh and blood relative walk into the room. He was in almost every conceivable way a direct representation to me of what my Grandfather was. The same energy. There are a few of us in this world that really understand the human connection. Few of us can bring so many people together or help so many others. Few of us never complain of our circumstance.
Phil looked at me the same exact way my Grandfather did when we talked. Directly into my eyes with a hint of delight as to what was going to come out next. It was then followed up with several questions, just to emphasize the intent on Phil really hearing you. For the last 4 years, when I would post on Facebook, Phil would “like” it or comment on the majority of them. I loved to look at his little profile picture and see the green light indicating he was logged on. I loved his posts on Facebook. I loved everything he posted. Every picture. Every saying. All of it. It was all relevant to me. When Phil made a Caminoheads post, my notifications would “ping”! It made me happy.
I had a Great Uncle once, Larry. I never met him. When my own father died, Great Uncle Larry started sending me letters. He reached out to me from California in a nursing home via letters. We became great pen pals for 16 years. One day, the letters stopped coming. I got a call from my other Grandfather in California, he said, “Ryck, my brother Larry died”. I was devastated. In those letters were checks of various sizes of money. Slowly over 16 years he gave away sums of it to relatives. It was always when we needed it the most. But you know, in the end, I didn’t care about that money, it turned out that it was the letters themselves that I cared about. When the pen pal was gone, my heart broke. When my Grandpa died and I could no longer hear his voice, my heart broke….when Phil Volker died this week, and no longer will I see his comments on my Facebook posts or hear his voice while walking with him as he puts his hand on my shoulder, this will also break my heart….but how lucky are we all, if for just one time in our life, we get to be in the presents of the Phil Volker’s of the world. We should be so lucky. It is now the quietness that my Grandfather told me about. That’s the hard part.
Written by Ryck; just posted by Cris on behalf of Ryck.
Great post Ryck! We are all…both so lucky and challenged to meet the Phil Volkers and Grandpas of this world…then celebrate Camino style!
Dear Ryck,
Thank you for writing this, sending it to me, and waiting so kindly till today for me to upload it. Wow. I am so glad I didn’t read it until now… it would have been very difficult to refrain from posting it the very same minute I would get to the last word, because I am now in tears, totally moved, fully grasping “the quietness” your grampa referred to you, how you felt with your great uncle Larry died, and now with Phil. I have experienced that quietness too.
My uncle, the one who raised me, died in Feb 2013. He was also the “salt of the earth”, “the spirit of the party” we would say. He died the day of Carnival, the day of the year he loved the most because it was always a “loud day”: children screaming while having fun when others were following them with buckets of water (that is the fun of carnival here!), music everywhere, and then in the evening, everyone would dress up with funny customs and dance and laugh loud in the streets of the tiny beach where he owned an amusement park and a carrousel. He loved to dress customs himself, sing, dance, laugh. He was gone that day. Since then, carnival has been quiet.
Often times, Phil would email me with a random picture saying “You are a peach”. Every single time those emails filled up my heart. I also feel the quietness without those emails these days.
Big hugs,
Cris
Thank you for posting this. It’s just beautiful. Yes, the quietness is the hard part.
My Dear Ryck.
For these beautiful words, I THANK YOU.
Such deep feelings expressed in each sentence.
Truly written from your kind and open Heart.
This Tuesday, as I spend the day hiking in yonder Rocky Mountains, I will think of You and Phil and others who have gone before us.
Blessed we have been to have connected, on this Life Journey, with such Incredible Human Beings.
Solvitur Ambulando.
Dear Ryck:
Thank you for sharing your life story with us! I too, found all that you describe in Phil. My own father had many demons and it put a wedge of 17 years between us. Luckily, for me my father-in-law was a man much like Phil. He died 17 years ago. He taught me the powerful lesson of passing it on. When I found I could not repay some kindness he and my mom-in-law bestowed upon us, he would often say,”It’s alright, just pass it on.”
Phil was always passing it on! This past week I have found myself many times stopping and thinking about what he might be doing or how different it is going to be without him and I tear up! He was definitely an Enigma!
But I will take some comfort in learning to pass on the many gifts Phil left with us!
Yes, Ryck, the quietness.
In quietness there is remembering. It allows ones body to be still. To feel our own heartbeat as our life source. With the quietness, the stillness, there’s space to breathe, put ourselves in that place where we walked, talked, laughed and cried together. We are blessed. Wonder if Phil has quietness. We spoke of this and of the closeness all our spirits would together be when it’s our turn to pass to the other life.
That’s my take. Bet your Grandfather was priceless. Like Our Phil. Blessings, Sherie
Yup. It is the quiet that’s so hard. And seeing some things and immediately think “gotta tell …” and that little jolt when it hits you again… no. Can’t share it. At least not in the in the usual way.
Nice post. Thank you for sharing 💕
Ryck,
Thank you for sharing your heart and thoughts with us. I never had a word for the space, the sense of physical disconnection, that happens after someone we love passes…now I do.
Quietness…❤️
In this quietness some senses and emotions seemed heightened and while Phil is no longer physically here there is a stronger sense of his spirit among us. What Sherie said also resonates with me:
“ To feel our own heartbeat as our life source. With the quietness, the stillness, there’s space to breathe, put ourselves in that place where we walked, talked, laughed and cried together. We are blessed.”
Had we not done all these things with Phil when he was with us, had we not known him here, we would not know this quietness now. This trade off is a bittersweet one…
❤️
This is such an elegant and true post Ryck. As we all reside in this new quietness since Phil’s passing. I was most touched by your story and your words. Be well dear friend. I send my love.
Beautiful.
Thanks, Ryck.
Beautifully written, Ryck! Thanks SO much for sharing your sincere feeling and eloquent thoughts.