Jon Morton

 

 

Each of us has been lucky to have known Jon, to have sailed his way to that way with him, to have laughed and been loved by him along the way. Jon was genuine. He didn’t conform to or like labels. He was Just Jon. Just the most beautiful, kind-hearted, loving, fun person we have ever met. Like the birds of paradise he loved, his beauty, extravagance, and rarity—plucked too soon—will leave a chasm in each of us so deep and so big that it will never be filled. And that is because there is no one else like Jon. Compassionate and witty, he had a heart too big for this world. 

 

Jon’s Way to that Way started on July 1st, 1986. As one of those special people who made new friends and family wherever he went, he was accompanied by many on his journey, but he is survived by the love of his life, his husband Mark Morton, his momma, Tammy Robinson, his mom, Coleen Saylor, his dad, J.R. Robinson, his father, David Workman, his siblings, Jeremy Workman, Joey Workman, Heather Habecker, Brittany Robinson-Lynch, and Jayna Stockwell, his best friend and partner in crime, Lacy Cohen, and all of his beloved nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, one of whom, sharing Jon’s adventurous spirit was particularly special to him—his  Grandma Lucy—has preceded him in death.  Many of us navigated our childhood with Jon, and we were only beginning to embark on the adventures of adulthood with him. We were a family like no other, each of us touched by Jon’s charm, his pranks, his powerful forgiveness and fierce love for his friends and his family, his force that always sought to connect with all of us no matter the distance.

 

Although his life came to an end on May 2nd, 2020, this will not be his final destination. Instead, it will be the place he’d always dreamed of spending the rest of his time, where his ashes will be spread,  in the calm, soothing ebb of the Grand Cayman waters.   

 

 

When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou

 

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

 

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

 

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

 

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance,
 fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

 

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.