WRITER'S BLOCK - PART 2 - BODY & SOUL

Hub is a saint.  I'm sure there are times he wants to throttle me.  I am just the type of patient he didn't want to see in his exam room.  Lots of vague complaints, skeptical of medical-pharmaceutical complex, non-compliant about taking medications, a little lazy about sweets consumption and aerobic exercise, but totally reliant upon, and demanding of, the health care system to keep me healthy and vitally alive until 2057.  (I have decided to live to 106 with fully functioning mind and body until some night that year when I fall asleep and forget to wake up.  This will not happen during Seahawks season.)

I have not been writing so frequently lately and we've already covered my preoccupation with politics as one distraction.  Let's move on to hypochondria.  NO!  I am NOT a hypochondriac!  Every moment of ache and pain, queasy, "weird" sensation, headache, muscle ache, joint ache, heart palpitation, ear ringing, itchy patch, and blurred vision is REAL and is likely a precursor to something truly awful, and which will cause me tremendous suffering until that blessed moment of release into the endless purgatory of trying to pass a math test to get into Heaven.  (I know there must be a test.  I hope its spelling; pretty good at spelling.  But probably it's math.)

The thing is, there is nothing much wrong with me.  Physically I'm in good shape.  No chronic anythings.  Slightly elevated blood pressure; slightly high cholesterol.  I take low doses of drugs for those.  That's it.  But my overactive imagination that conjures up a litany of "what ifs" has been diagnosed and is pretty chronic -- "generalized anxiety disorder"with the subset "health anxiety" being the most predominant since some unexplained fainting episodes a few years ago, the memories of which still haunt me.

So, I do spend a lot of time fussing about this or that "symptom" and imagining the worst and bugging Hub to explain what it could be and what I should do. He used to take all this rather seriously and would conscienciously try to help.  Now he tells me to call my primary care provider.  He does triage me though, so my poor doc isn't inundated with Nervous-Nelly calls.  Hub listens to me while he's reading the paper and I'm sure he's concerned enough to rule out everything but those symptoms which might be truly alarming, but he also knows that most of what I complain about is normal body stuff that everyone has, they just don't carry on about it.  In fact I know people with real, potentially life-threatening conditions who seem to go about their lives with nary a care for the Grim Reaper.  I am amazed.  My anxiety keeps me stuck on the sofa, scrolling through Mayo Clinic and WebMD sites when I'm at my most distraught.  I am definitely NOT booking a flight to Madrid.  Lately I've been focusing on some out-of-the-blue joint and muscle pain and morning headaches.  Also memory loss.  Is constantly forgetting names (or getting them mixed up) normal?  How about sort of forgetting where I'm headed when I get to the bottom of the hill on my street and take the automatic right when I should have turned left?

And... what happens when we die anyway?  I have a vague notion of my spirit returning to the Source, or whatever, and I know a couple of people who are Mediums who report that they have contact with those who have taken a step into the Parallel Universe on 'the other side'.  (I should ask for the answers to the math test.)  I dunno.  But what I do know is that in spite of all my neuroses, I love my life.  I DO NOT WANT TO DIE!  I have written about dealing with depression and yes, I've had moments of Demon Depression trying to talk me into ending myself, but I always win that argument because I've learned that Demon is a big fat liar and I'm also so curious about the future.  I want to see what happens next, even when I'm at my very emotionally distraught worst.  What new tech innovations will there be?  Will there be Game of Thrones spin-offs?  Super Bowl repeats?  Impeachments?!?  I want to see my sons as old men, my grandchildren grow up and have children.  I want to get another cat someday and outlive it.  (I recently read an article by a woman who measures her life in terms of how many dogs she will be able to have before she dies.  She now figures her age at "half a dog"; that her dog's lifespan is likely double hers.  Now that's putting a point on it, huh?)

At my age, in spite of our absolute vow that it not be so when we were all younger, many conversations with friends revolve around physical ailments, terrible diagnoses, and fears of mental and physical decline.  It's impossible to deny, avoid, and put off.  These things are real and for my age cohort are often the answer to "what's new?" because dealing with all of it can be all-consuming. It seems everyone has had a joint replacement, a case of shingles, or an errant organ.  Everyone's waiting for test results.  A friend and I went visiting the other day to the homes of two other friends who we don't see frequently.  They are lovely, smart, funny, creative women.  We had a blast catching up.  Yet, in the course of that day they both independently brought up the idea of suicide as a totally valid and hoped for response to dementia or debilitating illness.  This is what we talk about over coffee and cake these days.  It's not depressing really, just weird to find myself at this stage where these conversations are not ironic, but deadly serious.

So, I think about my eventual decline and demise too.   I think about it too much.  I get nervous, frightened, terrified.  I spend a lot of time trying to stay strong, balanced, and flexible with yoga classes, strength training, treadmill walking.  I try to challenge my brain to grow new neurons by reading and doing "brain games".   I have enormous gratitude for the fact that  (I'm knocking on every piece of wood I can find right now) I'm, so far, healthy and able.  My anxieties are controlled by yoga, meditation, and mindfulness practices (also time-consuming), and by shifting my thinking from negative to positive, when I remember to do it.  So, instead of assuming the worst, I'm working on assuming the best.  I will live with fully functioning faculties to the age of 106, then perhaps die the night after Hub and I cheer on the Seahawks as they bring home the Lombardi Trophy in Super Bowl XCI.  Boom!

At least, that's the view from here...©

PHOTO CREDIT:  Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_aihumnoi'>aihumnoi / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

REMEMBRANCE

My mom died nine years ago this morning.

It was a day just like this bright and sunny July 10th.  I had been sitting vigil at the hospital for 12 hours each day since July 5 when she had a massive stroke; I had spent the night that first night, not thinking she would live until morning.  She did, although she never regained consciousness in the next 5 days.

Still, I was there, talking to her, stroking her arms, brushing her hair, holding her hand, laying my head on the pillow next to hers.  I brought in family photos for the windowsill and placed the flowers on her bedside table.  Hub was with me most of the time.  Our oldest son came home from his college town to see her; our younger son, home on summer break, held down the fort at the house, stopping in periodically at the hospital.  I called the rest of the far-flung family and held the phone to her ear as they talked to her; I didn't hear their words but I assume they expressed their love and appreciation for her.  Was she aware of any of that?  I don't know...

On the morning she died, I got off the elevator with my Starbucks mocha and had a big smile on my face as I prepared to greet the nurse coming toward me. I had gotten to know the nursing staff, the custodial staff, the Hospice workers.  All were gentle, caring, respectful, friendly, compassionate people.  This morning, though, the nurse came came to me with a look that could only mean one thing...she enveloped me in her arms and said, "She passed about a half hour ago."  I was not shocked, but I burst into tears.  I was sad and relieved.  Her 5 years of a subtle, then precipitous decline into dementia and physical weakness were over.  She did not want to "linger" and she really didn't.  Her stroke came on suddenly and then she was gone.

The Hospice harpist happened to be on the floor...she had learned of my mom's death just before I arrived.  She waited there for me and we entered mom's room together.  She played while I sat at my mom's bedside, weeping.  Truly she was an Angel in that moment.  I will never forget the sense of awe and peace her music elicited as I spent the final moments I'd ever have in my mother's presence.

I'm not sure why I needed to recount all that here, for others to see and read.  But as with any other post in this blog, my hope is that by sharing my life, I'm touching that of another.  There is reassurance in knowing that the human experience is shared.  We are not alone.

I miss my mom every single day.  Sometimes I feel her close by...like right next to me!  But other times, like today, she is only a memory.  I am honoring her in my heart today, with recollections of her love, her hugs, the firm grip of her hand on mine that last time I sat with her before her stroke, her smile, her laugh, her holding my babies, her amazing talents in undertaking almost any job, from hammers to hair cuts, from baking to painting (walls and landscape canvases!), her pride for her family, her stoic determination, her introverted need for quiet, for her tidy and organized home and the flowers in her garden.

After the arrangements were made for her cremation, there was little else to do until planning for her memorial service began.  We'd decided to hold it a month later, in Illinois, her home before she'd moved to Washington in 1996 to live near me.  So we packed a couple of bags and left town.  I needed a change of scenery, to breathe, to grieve, to heal.  We have a little place in North Idaho.  So we went.  And that is where I write from today.  It's all flooding back, even the trip to Idaho.

Here's what I know:  Unless there is crazy pathology or abuse in family relationships, you will find that in spite of any differences, disagreements, or arguments; in spite of petty squabbles, misunderstandings, or simply 'putting up with' the weirdnesses of various family members....you will miss them when they are gone.  Make peace with those you love every day, forgive the annoyances,  and celebrate the good in each other.  It's lonely to be the last one standing in your original family.  I am that.  And some days, I just want them all back, with all the flaws and flailings we all brought to the mix.  Me included.

At least, that's the view from here...©

SHARED GRIEF

I'm just now getting around to writing about this, a week after the shocking news of three young people killed 10 miles from where I live, and a fourth young man gravely wounded.  The shooter was a classmate of all of them when they were in high school, the former boyfriend of the young woman killed.  All were 18-19 years old and in their first years of college;  all of life ahead of them and by all accounts talented, gifted, vibrant individuals.  I'm just now writing about this because writing about it sooner would have made it too real.  I just couldn't believe it.

The story is that the shooter broke up a couple of months ago with the young woman he killed.  She began dating other guys.  He wanted to reconcile and was jealous.  There was a gathering of a bunch of friends at a private residence in the small, quiet waterfront town where they lived.  It was not unusual for this family to open their large home to these kids who were well-behaved and just having fun together.  (My younger son, when he was in high school had good friends in that community, his best friend in fact, and hung out at their homes at parties and gatherings just like that one.  I could picture him there, on a similar summer night, having fun with his buddies.)

At about midnight, the shooter showed up.  He saw his ex-girlfiend with another guy, returned to his car to read the instruction manual for the Ruger semi-automatic rifle and two 30 round magazines he had purchased days before and returned to the party to shoot his ex-girlfriend.  He did, as well as three others before finally fleeing the scene.  The girl and two boys died there.  A third boy was wounded and taken to a Seattle trauma center in serious condition.  A community woke up last Saturday morning to this shocking news.  It had happened again.  It had happened here.

I've been reading about the kids who were killed.  There has been less written about the shooter other than that his parents are devastated and remorseful.  I can't even imagine their shock and grief.  He was apprehended a couple of hours later driving south of Seattle, making frantic cell calls to out of state friends.  (Police were able to pinpoint his location based on cell tower "pings" off his phone - technology can be a good thing.)  He basically confessed to everything and gave the police a chronology of his actions.  I don't know what kind of defense they will mount for him, but I heard he's entering a "not guilty" plea.  The law baffles me at times.

What I haven't said yet is that I know the father of the boy who was wounded.  He is engaged to a friend I've known for 20 years.  We've socialized with them and I met his son last December at a gathering at their home.  It is unbelievable that my friends are party to this, are devastated by this,   are unhinged and disbelieving about this.  Fortunately the young man is recovering from his physical wounds.  The bullets shattered his shoulder blade, likely saving his life, since the doctors say had it hit anywhere else he would likely have been killed.  His physical wounds will heal.  But how does anyone ever heal emotionally and psychically from seeing and hearing your best friends being killed, the screams from others at the gathering, the horror of the carnage left behind?    I know my friends and they are wise, compassionate, resourceful people with a huge support system.  They will do all they can to help this young man regain his strength and heart.  But such a tragedy, such an experience can never be fully overcome, can it?

I will say it now.  Had this troubled young man, the shooter, not had a gun in his hand, four lives would have been saved.  Kids fall hard in love at that age.  They have limited experience with break-ups and moving on.  Their brains are not fully formed.  They say and do stupid things.  They need time to live and learn and find perspective.  I would guess that "back in the day" this kid might have shown up to find his ex-girlfriend with another guy and maybe caused a scene.  There might have been yelling, pushing, shoving, maybe a punch thrown.  But I can't believe three people would have been killed in a pique of jealous rage.  And the shooter himself maybe would have walked away defeated, embarrassed, bereft for awhile.  But he wouldn't be facing a possible death sentence at worst, a long prison sentence at best, at the age of 19.  The families of all of these kids, those killed and wounded and those of the boy who did the shooting, wouldn't be torn apart by an unending grief.

A 19 year old can't legally buy a beer, but he legally walked into a store somewhere and buy a semi-automatic rifle.  He bought the second magazine for it the very day he killed his friends.  There is something very wrong with this scenario.  It is impossible to overstate how much I hate the gun culture we live in, how ridiculous I feel it is that so many people walk around armed, how the gun lobby has hamstrung our Congress to the point that common sense gun laws are stalled at every turn.  The CDC is prevented from researching the effects of gun violence; pediatricians are forbidden to ask parents of children whether they have a gun in the home and how it is secured.  We have a public health epidemic of gun violence in our communities and we are doing almost NOTHING about it.  It's harder to get a driver's license and maintain a car than to buy and use a gun.

I've joined Mother's Demand Gun Sense in America, associated with Everytown for Gun Safety, USA.  Mom's Demand was organized by an Indianapolis mother the day after the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings.  It has grown to have chapters through the U.S.  I hope to join (or start) a chapter in my county.  This has to end.

At least, that's the view from here...©

BABY BROTHER

I may have pinched him.  I won't admit to it, but I do admit to it being possible.  I mean, he sort of materialized out of nowhere and to my 4-year old sensibilities, it was like waking up to an alien invasion.  I don't think the pinch would have been malicious -- just curious.  "If I do this, what will he do?"  Oh!  Cry!  And Mommy will come running and assume I'd made a nefarious move on him.  Well, maybe I did.

I just know that, oddly, my aunt and uncle showed up on Davy Crocket night (not on Sunday afternoon, like usual) and talked all through the show with my grandma while my mom and dad were out.  The next morning Mom was still gone which was terrifying, but Dad said I had a baby brother and she was with him.  Grandma helped me make paper chains to decorate Mommy's hospital room, since she would be there for almost a week (the norm back in February 1955).

This memory came to me out of the blue on Saturday.  There are so many memories I could have chosen, but that one seemed so sweet, so innocent.  I just sat with my coffee cup and thought about that and the ensuing 60-plus years.  I wanted to go back to the beginning; to remembering the announcement that I had a baby brother.  That memory still held a lifetime of possibilities.

My little brother's lifetime ended last Friday, January 22, a month and a day before his 61st birthday.

So many families have cancer stories to tell.  They each include emotional shock and physical horror. They all include courage and perseverance.  Many end in a reprieve and a joyful appreciation of a battle won.

Some end in grief.

The cancer story in our family ended in grief.  The details aren't important but people are curious so the cursory outline is this:  My brother was diagnosed in late 2010.  He had surgery in January 2011 and a round of "just in case" chemo, since they were pretty sure the surgery "got it all".  All tests were normal until out of the blue on a routine exam in late 2014 he was told the cancer was back...and bad.  He underwent aggressive and absolutely horrific chemo regimens to no avail.  In June he elected to withdraw from treatment.  He hoped to make it through the holidays.  He did.  And then through his daughter's birthday, then his wife's in early January.

In recent weeks the decline was precipitous; comfort and reassurances were the orders of the day,  until in the wee hours of January 22, when, as my sis-in-law said when she called me:  "He slipped out during the night..."

As adults we didn't live near each other.  As families do, ours has scattered from one side of this huge country to the other -- he ended up in Georgia and me in Washington.  Hub and I traveled to visit him and his family in late August.  I am grateful for that visit even though it was hard to see him looking and behaving so differently than how he'd always been.  But that was just the disease, not his spirit.

Now I think about the brother I always knew:  a big-hearted, fun-loving, family-loving guy.  I see the twinkle in his eyes, hear his big laugh, feel the welcoming hug, and note the tenderness of a man who also shed a tear when his heart was filled with pride --  I saw this on his daughter's wedding day.  He didn't want this disease; he didn't want to be restricted from living large; he certainly didn't want to leave his family behind:  wife, children, grandchildren.

Yet, I hope he found healing and peace in his final journey.  If near-death experiences are to be believed, it seems there's a place of enormous love out there waiting for us.  What I know for certain is that those left behind hold a place of enormous love in our hearts.

As for me, I just wish I could reach out and pinch him....this time he'd laugh, I'm sure of it.

As least that's the view from here...

My brother was a stained glass hobbyist.  The last piece he created, as a gift for me of a
 quintessential Northwest scene, is something I'll treasure forever.  Isn't it beautiful?

AGES AND STAGES, PART 3: I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN PEOPLE DIE

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing,
I can't help but listen...
--lines from the song "For A Dancer" by Jackson Browne

I love this song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IU1rZa8Ur_Q  I want it to play behind the video montage at my Memorial Service.   Jackson Browne's poetry and music have been so often the soundtrack of my life.  And this particular song has always moved me -- especially after my older brother died far too young in 1990 and then with each subsequent death of a loved one.

I don't know what happens when people die either.  Having been raised Methodist, and having had children's Bible story books read to me, I got the message about Heaven, even saw pictures of it (artitst's rendition anyway), which looked like a peaceful place.  I would journey there after I died... IF....

It was the "IF" that scared me.  I never really believed I could ever be good enough to make the cut, and Jesus dying to ensure my spot in the clouds never made any sense to me.   So I have spent a lot of time trying to sort out the meaning of life, the reality of death, the oh so tempting desire to believe there is "something" out there, something else, something after.  It has mostly been an intellectual pursuit, a curiosity of questioning and an occasional topic of Google searches and Amazon purchases.

One of those purchases was the book, Proof of Heaven, by Eben Alexander, MD.  He tells in this memoir the story of his Near Death Experience (NDE) after contracting a rare E-Coli meningitis which attacked the thought and emotion centers of his brain and put him in a barely not yet brain-dead coma for  seven days, with death the only possible outcome, according to the physicians caring for him.  But, alas, he did not die, and miraculously returned to consciousness telling of realms beyond this one where he had visited and was absolutely certain existed on the other side of death of the body.  Some part of us lives on -- not only lives, but thrives, and "returns" to our soul's source.  I give credence to his account because he was such an intellectual, scientifically-trained, mostly non-religious skeptic.  Now he's not.

His new book, The Map of Heaven, explores this further, pulling in the latest discoveries from quantum physics to help explain that we know so very little about the universe and the subtle swirling  subatomic ....whatever, whatever, whatever... I don't get the science of it all.  That stuff is what Stephen Hawking has spent his amazing lifetime studying, along with other really smart people who are good at math.

All I know is that sometimes I feel like the people I have loved and lost are sitting just beside me, almost palpably real.  All I know is that when my dad had a massive heart attack, which he only survived because he had it in a hospital bed, told my mom later that he had a feeling of tremendous peace while he was unconscious and no longer feared death.  All I know is that my niece says she regularly has contact with the spirit of her dead father, my brother.  All I know is that stories of NDEs are ancient, real, and becoming more and more accepted as fact in mainstream circles,  rather than the crackpot meanderings of a psychotic mind.

When religion asks us to have faith, tells us that the unanswerable questions are the "Mystery", I actually believe that to be true.  While I don't think we've figured it out yet, I have faith that there is something (a lot) we don't know, and the "mystery" will remain just that until, and if, we ever get the answers from science -- or God.

So, here's what I believe, on faith and a bit of science:  There is a Source (God, if you call it that) from which the universe(s) emerged.  We are part of that.  Humans are pretty well evolved (for now) in that we are given the gift of intellect and emotion and the ability to contemplate our own mortality.  It's our job to do that -- to think and feel and question and learn, and then to further this gift of Creation by honoring the Source by living a life of Love and Service to this Creation.  I believe that some part of this Source lives in every part of the Universe -- including you and me, and that part never dies.  It moves between planes of existence most of us can only imagine in a Science Fiction-y way, but into which some people have gotten a glimpse.

I'm not sure this Source cares about the outcome of football games (obviously not, since my fervent prayers went unanswered in the Seahawks Super Bowl loss...still mourning) or even about each and every individual life.  I think we are sort of on our own as humans and while deep inside we are Love and Light and have all goodness (the Spark is not evil), we do end up making dumb decisions, experiencing terrible things, being awful to one another.  I believe we are big swirling blobs of energy -- not even solid according to that science stuff I don't understand -- and that energy can affect energy, so that "miracles" can happen where the energy gets shifted and something seemingly amazing happens (Seahawks win!!!).  I don't really get that part because there is so much seeming capriciousness involved in any given outcome, but it might explain (to our little human minds) the unexplainable.

At least I think so.  I don't know...I used to try to believe the Sunday School explanations.  Then I didn't really believe anything.  I guess at this stage of life, aging as I am and giving more careful thought to what lies ahead, I've formulated this rather interesting, ultimately comforting belief in a mix of science and spirit that sustains me.   I don't have all the details down.  I just hope everybody enjoys the music while watching the video of my life.  Maybe I'll be there too...right beside you. ©

At least, that's the view from here....

AGES AND STAGES, PART 2: MEMORIAL SERVICES

I no longer think it would be cool to have my Memorial Service end with everyone dancing to Sympathy for the Devil.  At one time (not really that long ago, actually) I thought that would be a fitting send-off......rockin' to my favorite Mick/Stones song.  I've matured.  A little.

Yesterday my BFF of nearly 30 years and I spent the day at my house revisiting the Memorial Service plans we made in 2006 (type of service, music, flowers, memorials, burial/cremation, etc.)   I had typed the whole plan up and stashed it in a file drawer. It was a semi-serious enterprise then, amidst lots of laughter and silliness, mostly meant to create a record of what we'd like so other family members didn't hijack our final hurrah with trappings we most definitely DIDN'T want.  For example, my friend didn't want any photos of her sitting around staring at everyone with a forced static smile.  I, on the other hand, wanted a full video montage of my life with with a rockin' soundtrack backing.  She had some crazy notion then that rose petals strewn up the church aisle would be nice, especially if mixed with sparkly confetti.  (WHAT?!?)  I had a whole seasonal thing going on, with bright cut flowers for summer and lit greens for winter.  We both agree we still will not abide any of those God-awful floral arrangements with the "Loving Mother" or "Beloved Grandmother" banners stretched across a wreath on a wire stand.

Both of my sons were here in the morning, one helping the other move into a new apartment.  They  thought our get-together yesterday was weird.  They shook their heads and smirked at their silly mom and her "bestie" spending a Saturday refining plans for celebrating our deaths.  Well, that's because they are in their late 20's, not their mid-60's.  The dawn is still at their backs, the sun barely over the horizon.  For us, well, that dusky horizon is before us and the sun is getting low in the sky.

Yesterday's enterprise was still an occasion of laughter -- well, whenever she and I are together, it's an occasion for laughter.  We find each other infinitely amusing.  But it was tinged this time with many more tears.  We've had a few more funerals in our lives since 2006, have endured some changes, have gotten older, and the whole topic has taken on a bit more urgency -- or at least seriousness.

I've ditched the Stones in favor of a couple of UU hymns I love (but I'm keeping the video with Jackson Browne's For a Dancer playing in the background).  She has given up the rose petals and confetti and isn't even sure if she wants a Service at all.  I had thought a nice bookmark for the mourners as a remembrance would be a good parting gift...but gosh, who even reads real books any more? That idea has been scrapped too.

What we both discovered as we went over various parts of the outline we'd created nine years ago, was that there was less extravaganza and more simplicity.  Less for others to tend to and more consideration given to making everything as easy on those left behind as possible.  Often instead of filling in the blanks on our form with minute details, we just wrote -- "whatever will feel right to the family", "whatever is easiest", etc. etc.

I know now, having created a Memorial Service for my mom in 2008, what details go into making a beautiful service.  It was one of the most loving and meaningful things I've ever done and I still remember the initial confusion of many who came and found our non-traditional service surprising, then ultimately moving and deeply meaningful.  You don't need a church or clergy to say a prayer, to read a poem, to give a eulogy, to sing a song, to chuckle at a favorite story, to share a life with those who loved the departed.  You don't need confetti.

There's something very comforting to me about writing down my final wishes.  I so appreciated having in my mother's own handwriting what she preferred, especially since it went so far afield of the traditional funeral rites she (and then I) had grown up with.  She wanted to be cremated, no funeral home visitation, no formal church funeral, no potluck "open house" party afterwards.  So we created our own Memorial Service, a month after her death, for extended family and a few friends.  We gathered her immediate family (children, grandchildren) to bury her urn next to my dad in the shaded corner of an old country cemetery where so many others of my family rest,  then the family spent a night socializing together -- the first time in many, many years since we'd all moved from one side of the country to the other.  It was a reunion Mom would have rejoiced in seeing.

I am writing my requests down too.  But ultimately, like my mom, I just want things to be simple, for my family and friends to remember me with love and care (and a good deal of laughter), and then to live their lives joyfully in connection to each other and the wider world.

This is the Age and Stage of facing mortality, of making plans, of watching that horizon grow closer and hoping for a brilliant sunset full of light and hope. ©

At least, that's the view from here...

KAUA'I AGAIN

Aloha!

Back here for our annual Kaua'i respite.  This is my early morning view from the terrace, becoming more and more busy with folks coming down to the coffee bar for caffeine and pastries.   Groups of elder folk (this means anyone obviously older than me) and youngers with little kids (kids younger than school age).  This time of year travel is for those who don't have as many responsibilities and commitments tying them to the mainland, I guess.

We got in on Thursday after a 6 hour flight that was informative regarding the various euphemisms the flight crew employed to describe frequent turbulence… "a few bumps"; " 'chop' over the Pacific; "a little shake".  Hmmmm….. I must have had just the right amount of meds on board because my flight anxiety stayed fairly under control with a little deep breathing; a little visualizing a peaceful scene.  God, I hate flying.

The problem up there was the massive low pressure front still creating 120 MPH winds pushing at our little 737.  That system had created huge swells of Pacific Ocean rushing onto the Islands' north shores creating 40-50 foot waves the day before we flew in.  Yowza!  That's a lot of water hitting the beach!  We saw photos, saw signs at the airport when we landed warning tourists heading north of flooding and closed roads.  We stay on the east side, on a protected bay, that has been calm as a lake.  Just like I like it.

We've been coming here for 15 years.  Flying in just before landing felt like coming home, as we cruised alongside the island landscape that has become so familiar to us.  I love familiarity and a sense of belonging.  Yet….this time I'm feeling antsy.  I'm a little impatient.  I realize I'm feeling like I'd like to see and experience something new.  Hub is a little startled by this admission.  He is usually the one pushing me to move out of my comfort zone and here I am fussing about wanting to branch out in my "adventuring". (This might mean a Marriott on a different island…I haven't completely lost my mind!)

The other thing that seems to be nudging at my consciousness is (as is frequently true), thoughts of my mother.  There was a time when she was about my age I suppose, when she used to say she had always wanted to visit Hawaii.  She said it wistfully, as if this was a dream far beyond her ability to realize, and I suppose for her it must have felt that way.  A northern Illinois farm girl of the Depression years, living a subsistence existence, had thought she had realized the pinnacle of success for having been able to marry, raise a family, build a new home in the suburbs, and come to own her own small beautician business.  Travel that didn't happen in the car on a highway was not in the cards -- or at least in her mind's ability to fathom for herself.

Later, when we started coming here, I suggested she might want to come along.  But she was older then, and not interested in travel anymore, and she turned me down.  She said she just didn't have the same desire to go anymore; just wasn't interested.  I think now I should have ignored her and made her come; should have pushed her a bit.  I wish I had been able to give her the gift of a morning like this…the warm air hugging my skin, the gentle breeze like a loving caress, the soft glow of sunrise over the Pacific promising a day where the visual landscape is a riot of tropical color, where birdcall delights the ear.

I don't know if there is a heaven or anything like it.  The more I think about mortality the more I want to believe there is something pleasant "out there"…I hope for my mom she is in a warm sunny place that is far more beautiful than any Hawaiian Island.

I hope for me, that whatever I find after this mortal life has ended, I can get to that new adventure with a minimum of "chop".

At least, that's the view from here… ©

LIMPS AND SWAGGERS

It's raining.  A good day for cocooning in and being quiet.  I've been busy, busy, busy with home projects and social events.  My dear, sweet, brave, beautiful, hilarious friend from Boulder, Co. just left after a short visit and I miss her already.  Our long talks about life, personal work, and spiritual growth has put me in a contemplative state.

That, and reading a book called "A Year to Live" by Stephen Levine, in preparation for a monthly class I'll be taking with 7 other intrepid seekers over the coming year.  We are going to explore how to live fully in this moment as if we only have a year to live...and to face that end time without fear, whenever it comes.

I read this morning in Chapter 5 about the importance of doing both our deep personal psychological work as well as the mindful spiritual work of focused awareness.  Levine says this:  "When one level is fostered to the detriment of the other we develop a psychological limp or a spiritual swagger." Oh, how I have seen (and experienced) both!

For almost 15 years I've done deep personal work based on a Jungian psychology of archetypes and shadows.  I have gone away for a number of weekend experiential "initiations" and "trainings", that are really like intensive counseling sessions.  With skilled, loving leadership and facilitation I have uncovered many psychological keys to understanding my core psychological wounds, what behaviors continue to prevent my full expression of Self, and how to break through barriers and become more fully expressive of my own nature.  My twice monthly women's group continues to support and challenge me in this awareness, keeping me on track and reminded of where I came from and where I'm going.

I could go on and on and you are either right there with me now, or you've already tuned me out.  Suffice to say, I know myself pretty damned well and the whys and hows of my psyche's dance steps.  I still sometimes lose the beat, but more often these days, I get right back in the groove without too much anguish and sometimes with a fair amount of laughter at my 'backsliding' into a less aware state of being in the world.

But for a long while I was so focused on the psychological work, and "healing my wounded Self" that I walked with that psychological limp like a badge of courage, obvious to all.  I AM DOING MY WORK!  I HURT!  That eventually went away and my walk became whole again.   For others, I've seen them move into "wound worship", limping along on a constant path of "healing" that never seems to conclude, always seeking another training or workshop to be the "be all, end all" for their suffering.

And I've seen the opposite -- the spiritual swagger of those (me too, sometimes) who "transcend" the mundane woundedness of the human psyche and move right into assumed higher planes of existence by focusing on a constant "feel good" spiritual high, as if to say, "This incarnation of the human experience is full of pain...let's not go there."  Let's go instead to the Zafu or the mat or the ashram or the temple, church, or mountaintop where I can just be At One With the Cosmos and not have to muck around in figuring out why my earthly life is such a friggin' mess...why I'm lonely, or angry, or afraid a lot of the time.

There is such satisfaction and relief in the ah-ha moment of a psychological breakthrough.  There is such euphoria in spiritual transcendence.  But in my judgement, as Levine says, there is something incomplete in choosing the duality of one or the other.  Integration is key.

As I move more inevitably into my eldering years, with mortality on the horizon and more real, there are times I feel the terror of impending death.  I love this life and what I've made of it.  I want more of it; I am so curious about the future and what the world, and me in it, will be.

Yet, reality is that it is our nature to die.  Gotta do it.  So, the work of this age and stage is to get ready; to fully embrace what this human life has been, is, and will be, and to remove the obstacles to living it freely and without constraint of old patterns, wounds, and inner voices that hold me back and keep me down.  It is also a time to turn inward; yes, to sit in quiet contemplation in those places of calm and to connect with a consciousness greater than I am; to know that whenever the end comes, whatever awaits, I am ready to take that step without fear, with peace, with love.

At least, that's the view from here....©

"PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF..."

I'm an obituary reader.  Always have been.  Probably for the same reason I love memoir.  I relish the glimpse into others' lives -- who they loved, where they lived, what they did for a living and for the world, what they learned and leave as a legacy.

Lately, I've noticed something a little startling.  Since publishing a photo with the obituary is now "en vogue", I immediately scan the photos before going back to read the "stories" and with nearly each obit I think I recognize the person!  I rarely do know them, but at first glance everyone looks familiar!  I realize this is because most are around my age or a little older...."elders" over 60.

The lie I tell myself is that I don't look my age ... certainly don't look as old as those people who regularly show up at high school reunions, Class of '68 for Hub and Class of '69 for me (yes, we were high school sweethearts).  And I want to believe I don't look the age of the people in the obits.  But the reality is, I certainly identify them as my age cohorts, or those of my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins -- people I know!

I also always look for a clue as to the cause of death.  I like it when they say what caused the deceased demise right in the first paragraph, especially if the deceased is my age or younger.  I like to think "Well, that couldn't happen to ME!"  I want to be reassured that I am living in a land where death doesn't visit.

But I also notice lately that I'm relating more and more to what did them in.  I know people with heart disease, cancer, Alzheimer's!  I know people who died unexpectedly, or in an accident, or on a trip.  Death visits all the lands in which I roam.

One time I was on a visit to see my parents when they were probably in their 70's.  My mom took a phone call and turned to my dad and said, "Honey, we lost another friend...."  I will never forget the look of grief on her face, shock and sadness on his.  I will never forget the phrase, "....another friend."  At a certain age, death comes calling with frightening regularity.

When an acquaintance around my age died suddenly a few years ago, it was a wake-up call of sorts.  So a couple of gal-pals and I got together to plan our own funerals.  It was a lark.  It was fun.  We laughed a lot and made elaborate plans for our funeral/memorial services.  Music, flowers, eulogies.  All of that needs updating now.  (I no longer think it would be "cool" to play "Sympathy for the Devil" to end the service,  no matter that I'm still a Stones fan.)

We also wrote our own obituaries.  One common thread of the obituaries I read every day is that they are relentlessly positive.  Each person was the greatest person who ever lived.  I'm sure they could also be total "shits" but who wants to remember someone's flaws and foibles?  I love that in memory, only the best traits survive -- at least in print.  I have a boxful of yellowed newspaper clippings, obituaries saved by my grandmother and then my mother, of relatives who died.  They are a treasure of family history.  They, too, were the best people who ever lived.

I also want to be remembered fondly, for being a loving wife, amazing mother, cherished grandmother, exemplary friend, devoted to my spiritual practices and my community.  (Please leave out the parts about me being a little neurotic, meddlesome, self-centered, anxiety-prone, and whiney).

Finally, I want my cause of death to be "excessive dancing" at age 106.   And if you want to throw in a little Rolling Stones tune at the memorial, well, that might be OK after all.

At least, that's the view from here....©

MOM

These 6 days in July are a tough time for me.  July 4, 2008 was the last time I talked to my mother, saw her smile, held her hand and felt her squeeze mine back.  July 5, 2008 was the day she had a massive cerebral hemorrhage, likely wiping out  at least the meaningful consciousness we identify with healthy brain functioning, except for that part that keeps a body breathing.  July 10, 2008 was the day she died, hanging on far longer than doctors, nurses, or Hospice workers thought she would.

So, these bright summer days so associated with fireworks, parades, picnics, and beach-going remind me instead of shock, sadness, loss, and grief.

My relationship with my mom had historically been a complicated one from my perspective.  She was complex -- at turns rigid, judgmental, and opinionated, while also generous, creative, loving, and gentle.  She loved her family above all else, and what felt like judgement came from a place of worry and care. She often had a glass half-empty perspective on life, expecting the worst.  She came by this stance honestly, based on the hard times of the Great Depression, which formed her, as well as life experiences she'd encountered as an adult.  I felt, at times, that she was hard to please, hard to know, hard to understand--at least when I was also trying to find myself, my way, my identity.  In my youthful arrogance, I was determined NOT to be like her.  (The laugh's on me, of course.)

After my dad died in 1994, she seemed to mellow, and allowed herself to be more vulnerable, admitting she was lonely and depressed.  I lived 2000 miles away.  Together we made a plan, in 1996, for her move to the Northwest, finding a home for her 2 miles from my house.  For several years we were able to finally have a relationship based on mutual love and respect.  I guess we'd both mellowed -- me into a middle-aged realization that life doesn't always go as planned; she into elder years of more ease and acceptance.  We had fun together -- women sharing and connecting about "woman stuff".

And she seemed content.  She spent her time with a few friends in her neighborhood, went to church, took the bus to the Mall, worked in her garden, decorated her home, wrote her historical fiction, walked 2 miles a day, ate well, did her crossword puzzles, sewed, read voraciously, spent lots of time with me and my family.  In other words, she did everything "right" in terms of commonly reported tips on remaining healthy and active into our elder years.

Still, I started to notice the changes in 2003, when she was 83 years old.  Over the next two years she gradually started sleeping late into the morning, not eating well, neglecting her housework, sitting in the same chair for hours on end, forgetting to take her medicines, having trouble with her finances, and becoming addicted to sending money to any charity and sweepstakes "come on" she received in the mail.  At each change, along with an increased number of medical issues, I was vigilant in trying to find the cause and to mediate any deficits.  I was DETERMINED and CONVINCED she would return to "normal" once we figured out what was causing this disruption in the mom I knew.

Finally it became clear we were dealing with a "new normal" -- one with the name "vascular dementia".  The neurologist said the changes in gray matter he saw on MRI and CAT scans were consistent with the damage a life-long smoker does to their brain.  My mother never smoked, but she lived with smokers for most of her life, from childhood until my dad died.  Don't believe second-hand smoke isn't harmful to those around you; it is.

She moved from her small home to an assisted living facility until she needed even more assistance than they could offer, then again to an Adult Family Home.  I was so fortunate to find absolutely lovely and loving places for her to live in both instances, close to my home.  Over the 5 years of her gradual decline into increasing dementia I suspected, as did the doctors, that she may have been having small strokes.  Eventually she could not walk unaided and her confusion at times was profound.  I was often sad and disbelieving that this was happening to her.  It didn't seem fair; she'd always been the picture of health and vitality.

Gradually, however, I gave up on the "fairness" argument and began to see the gifts in the new mom before me.  She was unfailingly polite and even happy, no longer worrying herself with the "what if's" that had plagued her throughout her life.  She was always delighted to see me and my family, joked with her caregivers, enjoyed her housemates for the most part, had a childlike joy and wonder over the most mundane of events, was up, dressed, and a part of the life of the home in which she lived every single day.

Until that day when she wasn't.  She always said she didn't want to "linger" and hoped the end would be fast and painless.  It was.  She had that massive stroke while getting ready for bed and never regained consciousness.  She hung on for several days, quite unexpectedly, until the Hospice nurse suggested there might be some "unfinished business".  Indeed.

The rest of her family had become geographically far flung; she had not seen most of them in many years.  The day before she died, I called each of them on the phone and asked them if they wanted to talk to mom/grandma.   The Hospice nurses said we never really know what a comatose person can understand -- words, the sound and cadence of a voice, a gentle touch -- maybe on some level beyond our comprehension there is a consciousness still aware.  I held the phone to her ear as each member of her family spoke to her, offering her their love and gratitude.  It might be coincidence, I know, but I choose to believe this connection allowed her to let go peacefully and with assurance that all was well in the world she was leaving.

So I think of her these early July days and of that time 4 years ago when I sat vigil at her bedside, holding her hand, resting my head on the pillow next to hers, singing Happy Birthday to her a month shy of her 88th, telling her how much I loved and appreciated her, asking her forgiveness for my naive judgements of her, and telling her I would do my best to be happy, which is all she ever wanted for any of her children.

It's all any mother wants.

At least, that's the view from here....©