Her name was Awen Blackthorn Phoenix; also Trudy.

To those who knew her, and I number myself among them, the names, at times, were used interchangeably.

She was known among us as a teacher, student, Member of our Circles, and a member of the governing body of the WRCF. She was also a friend to many of us; someone who would work herself to the point of exhaustion, see the work done, then decide that she would get some sleep when she “got around to it.”

She would pick up and care for the occasional stray, whether it walked on four legs or two, and make sure there was always at least a little room in the home for him or her. She never asked about the pedigree of these wanderers; she just gave them shelter. Wolfie, her husband and partner, was often a member of this gentle conspiracy.

She was known for her cooking, which bordered on Arts Magickal, and which always seemed to appear in supplies large enough to equip an army on the march.

She had also served in the US Armed Forces, and was a veteran of Operation Desert Storm. After her retirement, she settled in central Florida; where she became someone we knew.

On Saturday, August 11, of the year 2007 by common reckoning, she crossed from this world into the next, at the end of long illness.

There, encapsulated, is a description of a life, which describes it not at all.

We are called on occasion to summarize a life with a handful of words, knowing that the truth of the matter is that no amount of words can describe a person we have known so well.

The description of a person, of his or her life, lies beyond the boundaries of words. It is kept to the charge of the heart, and of memory. In these places that person is enshrined. Words are not, and can never be, equal to the task of that language familiar only to the mind and the heart; kindred to the dominion of the spirit.

That is how it should be.

I remember a flash of red hair, a lipsticked smile, and laughter that could be a chuckling brook or the flow of a river.

A twinkle of the eyes, and a gloriously wicked sense of humor; treasures in my recollection.

She shared her wit, dark or light by turns; and never, ever, common.

Smiles she shared, as well.

Stately, in walks with a dark lacy parasol. She could wear chain mail or garb most feminine with equal ease. She was at home in High Court or in camping grounds.

In large crowds, or small gatherings, she moved as easily as the air.

I knew of her wood-working, and the scholarly bent of mind she could adopt; proceeding from the irreverent to the serious, then back again in a flash. One might barely catch the transition, so smooth it could be.

In Mid-Summer, she was June straining at the confines of a common blouse, lucky thing.

In Samhain, High Priestess who stood before the Veil.

And there, a handful of memories, my own.

Each of us has our recollections, personal and those shared in common community.

Each of these is sacred, for they remind us of the person we knew; the person who lives with all of us still.

It is a natural thing to wonder at the measure of a life; to ask one’s self of its depths.

And here, we look toward the Halls of Memory, and those places known to the heart.

That a person, passing, leaves a distinctive shape that can be filled by them and only them, may be a thing of true measure here.

For we know the past of this life, and will miss the shape of its future among us.

We may take a measure of comfort, for her, knowing that her illness is fixed firmly in her past; and another measure, for ourselves, knowing that there is a space in our Circle which will always belong to her.

She has passed from this reach of life. Into death; then, into life again.

Yet, in memory, and sense of Presence, she remains.

Immortal.