Church of Trees
Michael Phillips, December 31, 1980 – March 26, 2020
Redbird Hollow
Photo by James Schorey
Everything is different now. It’s not an exaggeration to say the human race is under attack. That this attack comes from a submicroscopic piece of genetic material that isn’t quite a lifeform is fitting. Coronavirus might just as well be a zombie, a cruel impersonation of a living thing, given the fear it is embedding in all of us.
Still, we must remember that life goes on. Of course it does. If you’ve taken a walk by yourself in the past week, at least in the Midwest, you can see the earth coming alive. The explosion of green that comes about on the trail that I walk with my Australian Shepherd is a sight for these tired and frightened eyes. There is solace to be found in this church of trees.*
Yes, life goes on, and with it comes some unbearably sad news that is not a part of Covid-19.
We lost one of the giants in disability rights advocacy on Wednesday, March 26. Michael Phillips died at his home at the age of 39 as a result of a ruptured artery inside the wall of his trachea.
Our founder, Peter Ford, and I worked with Michael over many years to give him a communication system, NeuroSwitch, to unleash his considerable humanity and his acerbic wit on the world—mostly in the form of the written word. Looking back, Peter and Michael didn’t always agree on design choices, and I have always smiled at the irony that Michael was able to use the NeuroSwitch in a clever email or other communication to express his displeasure to Peter when they were at odds.
Oh, how good and healthy it would feel right now to have a simple disagreement related to this shared creation, our baby, the NeuroSwitch (precursor to the NeuroNode). Of course, Peter and Michael always resolved their differences, the result of this collaboration an ever-evolving better device (and a tattoo for Peter!). Always, when a significant result was clinched, Michael would message “Spectacular!” to his friend.
Peter and I were thankful to have had a phone conversation with Michael’s mom, Karen, last night. Her words, “I know how the lowest point in my life feels,” brought the “life goes on” certainty to its clearest relief. Things will get better for Karen. The deepest of grief will find her twin sisters, hope and purpose.
And for us, the zombies will be vanquished—science and love will prevail. Michael would like that; he was quite fond of zombie stories.
When I first heard the news about Michael, so many memories came back to me. I did my best to put my thoughts in a short condolence note to Karen (reprinted here with Karen’s permission). Then I retreated to the church of trees to ponder all that is still good, and to celebrate, at this place where the world is reborn, my friend’s extraordinary life.
–James Schorey
March 27, 2020
Karen,
I just tried to call you. Your voice mailbox is full—of course it is; Michael was loved.
All of us are thinking of him today. I am glad you had the chance to talk to Peter. There is no way that he and I can talk about our history without mentioning Michael—as Peter's diaries and logbooks can attest to. Michael was a huge part of our lives and our want to always do better.
I was puzzling over an odd question last night, one that I didn't think had a resolution. And then I remembered there was an answer. The question was this: I was wondering if I was Michael's friend. I know that we had mutual respect for each other, and, obviously, I thought highly of him as a writer and an advocate for all things good, including his fight for disability rights. Likewise, I hope he held a high opinion of me for my desire to always outfit him with the best we had to offer.
Then I remembered.
Once he wrote a blog that moved me. I shared it on my FB post and said it was written by my friend and an oh-so-talented writer. After posting it, I checked with Michael to see if he was OK with that, my calling him a friend. He said, of course.
I remember how happy that made me to be a confirmed friend of Michael's. God, I am so thankful that memory came back to me last night.
After I spoke with Peter, I let my daughter Emily (our Product Director) know about Michael. The news made her terribly sad, but she vowed to put on some Nirvana with "the hope that Michael hears it."
Truly, I think there are a lot of things we can say and do with the hope our dear friend hears it all.
I will never, ever forget Michael. It is a profound honor to know that I was his friend.
Karen, we are crying with you, but we are also celebrating your dear son's amazing life. I know your work will continue. You will undoubtedly harness your grief, loving Michael every day by the good you bring to this world.
Let it be said, then, that more than anything we are blessed that you continue to be Michael's mother.
–James
*I first heard the description Church of Trees as the title of a song by the pianist and composer Liz Story. This song moved me when I first heard it. I hadn’t listened to it for years until just recently, and now its emotional tug on me is even more pronounced.