Bigger Than the Sky

by Vicki Woodyard

  A Quiet Vibrancy

  Hi Vicki,

  It seems you were asking how I have been doing. That’s lovely of you. Sorry not to write—but I have been keeping pretty quiet with everyone. I have thought of you, though, and wondered how you and Bob are doing. I really hope Bob is better, and am keeping my fingers crossed for you both.

  There is little new at this end: The latest iatrogenic pontifications suggest I may be having dozens of small seizures a day. However, since I can no longer afford their expensive treatments, they are unable to say for sure. Ho ho, as if effect could ever have a cause. What silliness.

  The sky still sparkles and the cats still dance through the grasses. Deer come and nuzzle the roses. In everything there is a quiet vibrancy. I watch the birds in the trees—lovers at the kiss of the sky. What else is there?

  Consolation from Peter

  I told Peter that we had to have our beloved dog, Christy, put down. Before Rob and I drove her to the vet, Rob insisted that she be fed a few bites of chicken, one of her favorite treats. His Japanese friend said, “I alway remember her putting her paws on the chair, as if to say ‘Give me chicken!’” Here is Peter’s reply:

  Peter: How blessed you are to have been so loved, and to be able to so love. The cats here prefer fish to chicken, but they would not turn either down. They appear to be particularly fond of food that can still walk a little. Compassion is all very well, but they seem to feel that food is food whether in a tin or still trying to escape. All I can say is that I am eternally grateful that this body is bigger than theirs.

  Vicki: I feel my powerlessness, yet I know that I am still trapped in the “me.”

  Peter: Perhaps what you are is what Christy saw in you, rather than what you believe. It is my experience that some folks equate awakening (whatever that word means—maybe an imagined escape from pain) with the freedom to be what they believe an awakened person to be. Did I say that right?

  I feel that the whole concept of awakening may be a kind of strange nightmare. It is astonishing that one person could be considered enlightened or awake and another, not. Sort of like saying Sandra (the oldest cat here) is trapped in her “me” and Christy was not. Just doesn’t seem to make any sense. Perhaps we like the idea of the mind understanding, and so forsake the heart, which has no need of understanding anything.

  When I was younger, getting food was not always easy. I remember being a tad hungry once and watching some raccoons around three in the morning walking across some roofs. Very lovely. They never knew from one day to the next if they would be eating or starving, but they were so alive and splendid, framed by the moonlight.

  Hmmm—I’ve forgotten if there was a point to this little story. Maybe just the wonder of how their beauty absolutely drowned out my own hunger? Sorry, not much of a point, but it’s all that seems to be popping up.

  Well, I am girding my loins to help load the car with garbage for the monthly trip to the dump. There is no garbage pickup here, so at the beginning of each month, we load everything that cannot be recycled and drive 31 miles out to the nearest dump site. An enjoyable experience that no one should miss—the smell at the dump alone is worth the trip.

  I hope Bob is doing well. And you, too.

  Always, Peter

  Temporary Good News

  Dear Peter, After this message got bounced twice, I sent it to you at your website address.

  Peter: Oops, sorry. Between doctors, getting ready to move and inability to afford my email account anymore, things sort of got away.

  Vicki: You weren’t going to leave me high and dry, I hope.

  Peter: Really now, how could that ever happen? Unless of course a cat falls on my head and kills what’s left.

  Vicki: Haven’t heard from you this week.

  Peter: Just weak. It takes me a long time to do things lately. I think that if reincarnation works, then I may return as a very slow-moving rock. It seems to me that rocks appear generally to be a rather peaceful race, loving the warmth of the sun and the dance of the clouds overhead. It has been my experience too that the average rock is more observant, loving and open to life than many, but I may well be mistaken.

  [I recounted a story of how I got lost in the hospital parking lot… I started down the steps and couldn’t quite figure out where I was.”]

  Peter: I loved your story of your parking garage adventure! It sounds like when you sat down and stopped looking, the car just came to you; but that’s probably a complete misrepresentation of events.

  Vicki: The good news is that Bob’s blood work was okay.

  Peter: This is wonderful news!

  Vicki: The bad news is that he can’t wash the dishes.

  Peter: Ah yes. And yet somehow I cannot quite imagine how getting out of washing the dishes may be entirely a bad thing.

  Vicki: We are still sad about Christy, which is to be expected.

  Peter: I am so sorry for this. It can be difficult to lose a loved one, especially one who loves back so freely. I would guess that she lived her life without the knowledge that one day she would die, and so escaped much effort.

  Vicki: I am ready for a brief patch of sunlight before heading into the next tunnel….

  Peter: There is a lovely story which you may have heard of a guru who was asked about the proper way to pray. He answered that one correct prayer was worth a lifetime of incorrect prayer.

  “Ah, but how does one pray correctly?” he was asked. “By sitting in the sun and falling asleep,” was his answer. I love this. I always knew cats knew how to prey! Always, Peter

  Ease

  Peter: It is my little experience that what appears to occur simply does so, whether we fight it, embrace it, or vomit purple stuff all over it, ho ho. After appearance appears, it is gone. No cause, no effect. No relation of one thing to another. It seems to me that no special thoughts encourage grace, no special grace encourages thoughts. What a giggle! Striving, and perhaps more especially, spiritual striving, it seems to me, is the association of past and future as if they were connected—and all at the expense of hearing the laughing lilt of the wind as it nuzzles Alexandra’s fur and sneezes.

  That which can be gained can also be lost. Speaking personally—and this is just my opinion of course—only that which is permanent is of interest. God dies when I fall asleep at night, so She is of no interest. Teachers die too, as do their teachings, so they are of no interest. Insights also fade, so they are of no interest. The story of one’s life, love, hate, religious fervor, knowledge, self… all fade, so they are blind avenues too. The fun question it seems to me is what lasts—what is permanent? Anything other than that, (just my opinion), is not really as tasty as pie… oops, I meant to say “the sky”, which is also pretty sweet.

  It seems to me that truth (perhaps with a capital T) is so simple and easy that we run past it, sweating heavily. The love of a little cat in one’s arms as you snooze together on the sunlit grass is, I feel, more profound and lasting, than all the world’s holy books and thousand year old teachings. Ho ho.

  To me—just my opinion again—ease is simple, obvious, permanent, and always present. The tortures of one’s apparent life, sated and abated. So simple, just to relax with a little cat and breathe the sunlit days as they appear to pass. Tomorrow, if it comes, will take care of itself.

  Peter

  Downhill Fast

  We were heading downhill fast. The cancer had picked up speed in Bob’s bone marrow. He was living only by the grace of packed platelet transfusions. Me, I was living only by a frayed string of effort.

  We are sitting in the great room.

  “Can’t you cry?” I said, desperately. “We’re being parted!”

  Bob had been unable to cry for the longest time. But I needed to see his tears; otherwise, it would just be me lost in this coming deluge.

  He looked at me, every muscle in his body limp,
spent. And tears formed in his eyes and finally made it down to his cheeks.

  My own crying tasted salty and futile. There was nothing left but fatigue and honesty.

  The Show Must Go On

  This is our human predicament and the only consolation is embracing it.

  Leonard Cohen

  Bob was now being kept alive by transfusions. We were worn to a nub. The week before Christmas of 2004, he was admitted to hospice and died four days later. He did not go gently into that good night. He climbed out of bed trying to “get up to the second floor” and there was none. I am told he fought vigorously in the last hours of his life, but I had gone home, unable to face them.

  Exhaustion demanded my absence from the scene and I feel that destiny played a hand in that as well. My sister from Pennsylvania appeared right on schedule to insist that I go home and rest.

  My friend, Aile Shebar, saw the photo of Bob I posted online after he was quite ill. In her words:

  “Because I have nothing to compare his likeness to in the past I can tell you what I see, through the subtle tearing of my eyes, now. He is noble—looking directly into the eyes of the photographer, and they speak volumes of space, of the vastness we come and go from, and an openness.

  There is a hint of a smile, and the innocence of a child. Rather than the hands you miss, which were large and strong, he has the sculpted hands of an artist and they are beautiful in fact. I see a kindness and a willingness, in that moment of the picture taking, to be present. And that is how I feel him today, present—present through this thread, present in your heart, and present in all of ours as well. We are touched by your love and your words, Vicki.”

  A Diamond Tear

  I talk to Bob at night before I go to bed. I ask him for help and say I love him. This makes me feel connected to what is eternal. I also bless myself as if I were another person altogether. Then I end another simple day. Writing and launching my books, I am more hopeful than I have been in a long time. I feel they will develop wings and go on a journey that I will enjoy.

  Bob came to me in a dream recently and let me know that I was doing fine, spiritually speaking. He wanted me to be less passive toward life and so I am going to share my message freely from this point on with whoever wants it. It is so simple. Everything is in the hands of God.

  Everything given to God is returned to us on a higher plane. When I am reunited with my lost loves, we will not recognize each other for our beauty.

  It is only some years later that his tenderness blesses me unexpectedly. How can that be? He’s dead, after all. The quality of the soul is eternal; it is able to reach down into hearts on earth that feel quite alone. And his soul is tending mine like you wouldn’t believe. It reminds me that he never was anything but supportive of my writing, that he asked me to find my passion before he died (and writing was that passion). His presence surrounds me with this house that he paid for and the son we raised together. And when I cry a diamond tear, it is often because of his undying love.

  For you readers who follow my essays, I express my tenderness in these little notes written without a certain someone coming in to look over my shoulder. But then again, who knows? I would like to think that, when I married a six-foot-four-inch Georgia Tech man who thought a slide rule was interesting, I knew what I was doing. I didn’t, for no one ever knows what deals are being struck. I used to think if I had known he would die such a terrible death, I wouldn’t have married him. But in reality there is no such luxury of choice. And since I am on the path of awakening, I now know that love lies far above the realm of choice.

  Saying “I do” is not something a person in their twenties does consciously. When Bob came to me after his death in a dream and said to me, “Your prayers are written on the wall of my heart every day,” I realized what our marriage had been about. It was about coming to terms with what love really is. It is something we are, and in the last analysis, is better off undefiled by the ego’s touch.

  His glasses are now in a box of mementos that I have saved. But the eye that looked on me with love is the one that sees the sparrow, too, with love. Tenderness: who doesn’t need some? It comes in small things, not large. It lingers in the heart, expanding it to infinity. It says “I love you” in ways that defy logic. And that’s a good thing.

  Dreams of Love

  It’s winter and I’m sitting in my cozy chair with the footstool and saying to myself: I own this house. I look up to the four long clerestory windows that let in the sunlight. I feel sad and try to figure out why, in this particular moment, sorrow has come wafting back into me once again.

  Suddenly these thoughts materialize: Did he feel a sadness as he was leaving the house in the ambulance that would take him to hospice? Did he realize it was the last time he would be there? I felt the sorrow shroud me. We never had a real conversation about what his death would be like. He didn’t say many of the things I wish he had. There was nothing like the lines you hear in the movies. Instead he was silent, his strength waning, his words lying as dormant as his body was becoming.

  Grief can never be fully put into words. Because love is not about the words. It’s about the music. There is a dirge in my heart as I allow myself to remember the devastation that I felt and still feel at times. We were deeply in love and yet we put distances between us to minimize the sorrow. I know that. We each built walls to keep the other’s wall from toppling over. I know he would have liked to reach out to me more than he did. Soon I would be living without him. His clothes would no longer hang in the closet and I would quickly fill up the space they used to take. That is a woman’s dream—to have enough closet space. I kept his bathrobe for a while and would put my face against it and would end up using it to wipe my tears away.

  Don’t let anyone tell you that you should get over your sorrow. Yes, it waxes and wanes, but the love inside is never deleted and thrown in the trash. I am getting older without him. There will be no more back rubs on a cold winter’s night or his pills to put in the little box or a certain look on his face that said it all: I am leaving you now; I will always love you. And then I had a dream visitation where he said, “Your prayers are written on the wall of my heart every day.” Amen.

  Dwindling Down to Nothing

  The physical body eventually dwindles down to nothing Some end up in God’s Waiting Room, Florida. Others move around in airstream trailers or on luxury liners bound for “exotic” ports. Plaid shorts, dark socks and funny caps are the men’s uniform, while their female counterparts go for winter wear of sweatshirts with cardinals on them and Chico outfits in the summer. Dull City, dwindling down to nothing.

  I find myself looking at the skin on my arms and thinking: I wish I could get that removed. “That” being the latest little patch of brown or white, the reminder that I am just passing through. Even online, while death of the ego is an ongoing conversation, ironically discussion about the death of the body is avoided. Ageism is the last “ism” to face.

  We prefer our gurus young or dead; we definitely don’t want them covered in liver spots. Even J. Krishnamurti had a troop of women who anointed his hair with almond oil and kept him impeccable. U.G. Krishnamurti died looking ancient, emaciated and frail. My teacher, felled by cancer, became child-like and would sneak into the office just to hang out with his students. Life is not a barrelful of laughs or wisdom. It is more like a creaky machine running slower and slower. That old song, “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down”, comes to mind.

  I am sure if Jesus had lived long enough, someone would have had to prompt Him on the Beatitudes. “Blessed are the… what?” Buddha would have had to wear a Medic Alert bracelet and Krishna would have scooted around in a walker with a basket.

  Now I am laughing instead of crying. The only therapy there is for growing old.

  A Jeweled Net of Grace

  Today I am remembering how badly I failed Bob when he was ill and dying. I cannot minimize this;
I was really angry and exhausted for years. The grief ran like blood through the streets of my heart. I forged ahead knowing that death would eventually outrun him. Who wouldn’t be angry?

  I am now beginning my ninth year of life without him. How have I changed? It is hard for me to see or know. My friend, Tallulah, says that she has watched a great change happen in me. She sees how I have become more than a wife or more than a caregiver. I often feel stuck and powerless. I walk on.

  My life is my own now. I run it well. But at night bad dreams still arise. They are usually shame-based. A childhood shame rooted in trying to please my mother, apparently. She is dead; the shame is alive in the unconscious. I circle myself with white light.

  My Mac is where I find answers arising. Of course, it serves as a bridge between my heart and mind. My fingers find themselves walking peacefully and quickly over the keys. I want to share with the reader. I want to connect with them softly and in a healing way. To do this I must become vulnerable and open.

  It is sad that I feel I must be a good soldier rather than one who gracefully surrenders to what is. I am still mounting a defense against my ultimate surrender. It might involve an even deeper suffering, a cleansing of everything I am clinging to.

  I have been given proof that I am not alone. That I can live peacefully and meaningfully. Yet the child within does not quite believe that. She draws back from being seen and heard. She hides behind the veil of the mind while her heart is standing there in plain sight. I am a mind-fish caught in a jeweled net of grace.

  Self-Kindness

  Peter writes: I feel that the so-called ‘holy’ people, those who think they are teachers—you know, flowing robes on a comfy satsang couch—when speaking of ways to handle illness or misfortune are for the most part talking through their hats.