Marie Susan Evans Arthur Morehead

December 13, 1951 - February 22, 2020

Marie Susan Evans Arthur Morehead Resident of Talent, Oregon Born: 12-13-1951 Riverside, CA Passed: 02-22-2020 Beloved wife to Charlie Morehead and mother to Tara and Clea Arthur "Sitting with my face in the sun today in my garden, there is such Joy feeling winter's sun. Feeling my heartbeat seems to be extra strong today as it searches for oxygen. It's been a long emotional journey somewhat unbelievable at times since November 30th when I went to the hospital for fatigue and shortness of breath. Forty Eight days later I'm sitting in a wheelchair with Oxygen and have been put on Hospice with acute leukemia. I'm only 68 years old and feel like I still have so much more I want to do So many garden projects sitting unfinished, So many walks on the beach, So many Spring times enjoying my garden chaos creation from nothingness. Seems like a dream, my daughter says it feels like being between a raging storm and a calm beautiful rainbow. I'm a little disappointed in my body, which I have tried to take care of all these years. It's a tough decision to refuse their treatment and poisons killing everything in my body,(was this really the best approach?) My quality of life was more important than my quantity of life at this moment. I have been given a gift in an odd way. Time to delete some accounts, I don't need anymore, like that accidental life insurance policy that I have been paying JCPenny $8.99 since I went to Taiwan 25 years ago. Time to burn those old journals that were just about depressing times. Time to show my husband how to pay the bills and make a will. Time to give things away. Time to tell people how important they were to me in my life, write letters of gratitude and goodbyes and profound insights as I'm sitting at death's door. Time to experience "Real Time Love". Time to buy the "BOX" I will be cremated in and bring it home to decorate and paint it and let my friends write profound send off quotes. Wow I get to see this all happen, even tho a lot of my friends are uncomfortable with the whole idea, it has opened up the conversations of death that we so need to have. I hope to lay in my little cabin for 3 days and then my husband can drive me to a private cremation in my old vw camper van. None of us are getting out of here alive. How we choose to go out well can be our decision unless we get hit by a truck. I'm Not dead yet, so mize well make some plans. It is truly a miracle that we are even here on this little blue dot of a planet whizzing through an expanding universe. If only our minds were expanding towards Human Kindness. We are broken. I wonder if I can get an absentee ballot? Would it help one vote from the grave?" -Written on January 28,2020 by Marie Morehead Marie: wife, mother, and friend passed from this physical world February 22, 2020. Our dear friend Brandon described her perfectly: "You always knew. And you never ran, you never turned away. You were always there. You met every turn of events with that same wry expression. Often coupled with the exhale of smoke, a look that somehow conveyed both disdain and acceptance. Thinking of you I think of butterflies. I think of life cycles. I think of the seasons. I think of constant change that always stays the same. Like a butterfly, conversation and focus fluttered from the serious to the playful and back again. We never rested long in any one place, but we would return again and again. I just remembered the orgasm phase. God, you had so many phases. Such endless curiosity and interest. An Anne Lamott sentence reminded me of you, "My main spiritual practice is puttering around my house." Thank you for creating a place in this busy world that honors the art and spirituality of puttering and doo-dahs. I'm only beginning to recognize the profundity of these practices. Tears flow and my breath catches on my throat. I miss you. I know you are fine wherever you are and I miss having you here on this plain, in this world, with me, with us. So many things remind me of you. Tacky shit that changes colors with the temperature, rainbow whirligigs, clematis, milkweed, all fences with too much stuff hanging on them, all lawn ornaments. That strange sprawling plant that blooms once a year and drips thick nectar, netting in bathroom walls displaying decades of earring styles, Hordes of coy fish, water hyacinths, blind horses, star thistle, pesto, boron, and fifth wheels. Because of you, the ordinary clothespin will always be a demon demolisher, Hollyhocks will always rise from the most tiny cracks in the concrete. You are the Oregon coast, long black cigarettes, and Ram Das. Poodles, of course poo dogs. Butterflies. Always butterflies. Be well my friend. I can't yet say goodbye, I can only say thank you. I am grateful for you. You live in my heart. You live in my unfolding courage to be myself. You live in the springtime buds and the barren winter silhouette. You live in morning coffee and midday sun. You live in wonder and curiosity and also in standing for what you believe. You live in this miraculous hurting earth. My aching heart reaches and my blurry eyes look skyward. May you be held in the love of creation, May you be free. May you know you are so very loved." Due to the restrictions imposed on social gatherings during the Covid-19 pandemic, the memorial service for Marie has been postponed until further notice. Questions can be addressed to Clea at: [email protected]