Between Fine and Dead

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Everybody wants to believe that their parents - and even on some level, more importantly, themselves - are going to be perfectly healthy, climbing the Himalayas one day and dead the next ~ Jane Gross.
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A lot of us think we have come to terms with the inescapable fact of our own death and the death of those close to us. But what I think we fail to accept, indeed often vehemently deny, is that there will most likely be another stage of life in between fine and dead.  And that stage will probably be much longer than we imagine.
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In another excellent  On Being  broadcast entitled The Far Shore of Aging, Krista Tippett speaks with Jane Gross, journalist and founder of the New York Times'  New Old Age  blog.  In this conversation Jane shares her experience of caring for her mother, who, "...was fine and then all of a sudden in a hundred small ways, none of which were going to kill her, not fine."

...you have no idea how long it's going to last. You have no idea what's going to happen next and I think, for so many of us, and, you know, this obviously is an upper-middle- class thing to say in a certain way, but we're mostly people who have been enormously successful in our professional lives and are used to feeling in control of what we're doing. You know, you make a to-do list and you check everything off the to-do list and then, when you get to the bottom of the page, whatever your task is, you're done. This doesn't work that way.

This piece really tore my heart open because Jane's story so closely parallels my experience with my own mother's decline, and she speaks directly and honestly about the raw emotions that permeate that in-between time - the denial, the overwhelm, the helplessness, the guilt and the exhaustion.  And the other, softer feelings that are unexpectedly awakened...

It takes a while to learn that some decisions are far more important than others; some things are actually in your hands and some not. What is vital, and well within your control, is being present in a consoling way and respectful enough to bear witness to the inevitable. This, too, is about slowing down. At first it's hard to walk at a snail's pace beside your mother or father when they can no longer keep up, at least without impatiently rolling your eyes. Or to kneel at their level when they're in a wheelchair. But the pace and the vantage become more natural and annoyance softens into tenderness if you let it.

For me it was a time of great sadness and yet also a time of great tenderness and healing.  As with Jane, my relationship with my mother was strained for most of our life together - again like Jane, my father (my source of unconditional love) died young.  Being forced into the role of my mother's caregiver put me right up against all the wounds and resentments that I had been carrying around for 50+ years but which I was no longer able to cling to as I watched this person, who to me had always been larger than life, slowly fade away before my eyes.  And as layer upon layer of who I thought my mother was fell away, I began to glimpse a beautiful, radiant being underneath, until I could finally see my mother as a person in her own right, not just who she was in relation to me.  It remains a great sadness, though less of a burden of guilt, that it took me so long to wake up to that.  I can't really say that there was complete resolution.  There has certainly been acceptance and forgiveness, although in those moments that I most strongly feel my mother's presence in my heart, through the tears I still tell her I'm sorry.

If there's any advantage at all to them having this long slow dying, there's a lot of time to get things right that you didn't get right earlier. I mean, it definitely changed the architecture of my family. It definitely changed what the nature of my memories of my mother are and I imagine will be forever. I mean, on the one hand, it makes me more scared and, on the other hand, it makes me less scared.

I learned what I was made of; I found my better self. I found my mother. I found my brother. But all of that came later.

Access the full program (podcast or transcript) HERE.

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I have seen in you what courage can be when there's no hope.
~ May Sarton - As We Are Now
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The Friction of Being Visible

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From The Book of Awakening: having the life you want by being present to the life you have, by Mark Nepo
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I found this wonderful book through our local library.  It is a daybook, a collection of 365 short insightful offerings that speak directly from, and directly to, the spirit.  It begins with an invitation from the author:

This book is meant to be of use, to be a companion, a soul friend.  It is a book of awakenings.  To write this I've had to live it.  It's given me a chance to gather and share the quiet teachers I've met throughout my life.  The journey of unearthing and shaping these entries has helped me bring my inner and outer life more closely together.  It has helped me know and use my heart.  It has made me more whole.  I hope it can be such a tool for you.

Gathering the insights for this book has been like finding bits of stone that glistened on the path.  I paused to reflect on them, to learn from them, then tucked them away and continued.  After two years, I'm astonished to dump my bag of broken stones to see what I've found.  The bits that have glistened along the way are what make up this book.

Essentially, they all speak about spirit and friendship, about our ongoing need to stay vital and in love with this life, no matter the hardships we encounter.  From many traditions, from many experiences, from many beautiful and honest voices, the songs herein all sing of pain and wonder and the mystery of love.

I was drawn to this form because as a poet, I was longing for a manner of expression that could be as useful as a spoon, and as a cancer survivor, daybooks have become inner food.  In truth, over the last twenty-five years, the daybook has been answering a collective need and has become a spiritual sonnet of our age, a sturdy container for small doses of what matters.

All I can ask of this work is that it comes over you the way the ocean covers a stone stuck in the open, that it surprises and refreshes, that it makes you or me glisten, and leaves us scoured as we are, just softer for the moment and more clear.

It is my profound hope that something in these pages will surprise and refresh you, will make you glisten, will help you live, love, and find your way to joy.

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Here's a taste:

January 17
The Friction of Being Visible

Living through enough, we all come to this understanding, though it is difficult to accept:  no matter what path we choose to honor, there will always be conflict to negotiate.  If we choose to avoid all conflict with others, we will eventually breed a poisonous conflict within ourselves.  Likewise, if we manage to attend our inner lives, who we are will - sooner or later - create some discord with those who would rather have us be something else.

In effect, the cost of being who you are is that you can't possibly meet everyone's expectations, and so there will inevitably be external conflict to deal with - the friction of being visible.  Still, the cost of not being who you are is that while you are busy pleasing everyone around you, a precious part of you is dying inside; in this case there will be internal conflict to deal with - the friction of being invisible.

As for me, it's taken me thirty of my forty-nine years to realize that not being who I am is more deadly; and it has taken the last nineteen years to make a practice of this.  What this means, in a daily way, is that I have to be conscientious about being truthful and resist the urge to accommodate my truth away.  It means that being who I really am is not forbidden or muted just because others are uncomfortable or don't want to hear it.

The great examples are legendary:  Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, Sir Thomas More, Rosa Parks.  But we don't have to be great to begin.  We simply have to start by saying what we really want for dinner or which movie we really want to see.

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"I used to think that the reward for understanding truth was wisdom, but I've come to understand that the reward for experiencing truth is joy.  And while I'd really like to have both, if I'm forced to choose, at this time in my life I'll choose joy."
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About the author:  Mark Nepo is a poet and philosopher who has taught in the fields of poetry and spirituality for over thirty years. A New York Times #1 bestselling author, he has published twelve books and recorded six CDs.  As a cancer survivor, Mark devotes his writing and teaching to the journey of inner transformation and the life of relationship.
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