I have heard them talk of grief and how to handle it: perhaps let it flow through, perhaps go into it, or perhaps ignore it. Ah yes—that famous psychological expertise! I have heard talk of physical pain, too, and how to handle it: perhaps let it flow through, perhaps go into it, or perhaps ignore it. To my ears, it’s all talk.
They do not know—no one does. Each individual, I feel, is different in how they approach difficulties. For myself, none of what they say makes sense. What does make sense to me is light in the trees, a cat’s purr, and the obviousness of the gentleness behind everything, even the apparent misfortunes. I have been literally screaming in pain in the hospital after surgery which went wrong. And yet, and yet, behind it all such a stillness and a joy. Sigh. Sounds crazy I’m sure.
Vicki: My attitude is fearful and I cannot change that on my own. Lord knows I would like to. I am a sissy.
Peter: In this we are all children. My only suggestion, for what it’s worth, is to take what comfort you can find wherever and in whomever you can find it. It is my experience that few people are kind to themselves. I would gently suggest that perhaps the greatest good you can do, is be kind and loving to yourself.
Going With the Flow
So how do I move beyond grief? If I try, I will be using mental effort, which is not a power. I move beyond it by being it in the moment. I go with it, loving myself for re-experiencing the loss of someone significant in my life. Gone forever, not coming back, not here to fix things, to comfort me. I am not cast down but lifted up by love.
Love is holding me like a jewel in the palm of its hand. It is regarding me with infinite grace, encouraging me to bloom into my full soul beauty. It has been a rough and harrowing road, but there are also moments of sublimity. When I sit and write easily of both love and death. When I know that my path is unique to me and unfolding exactly as it should. If you are grieving or fearing loss, there is not a thought in the world that will heal you. That is the lesson in grief. Thought is for practical things; for the spirit, awareness is needed.
I move around my house; it’s the same house that fitted around our lives so nicely and yet it’s an empty house—empty of a husband. I fit it snugly these days. Its cedar sides are full of bird holes and I fear the arrival of the Pileated Woodpecker that can do damage in minutes. I would not be so aware of the house if I still had a husband to be “in charge.” That was his job; the outside of the house, the car and yard maintenance. I was the cook and shopper, the bill payer. And we lived side by side in the mystery.
We balanced each other and now I must balance myself. My masculine side is called in when boards are damaged, when the car needs air in the tires. I am learning to live more practically. But because I am alone, I am more in tune with what God would have me do. I write more because I have more time. I share myself with readers in an intimate way. I am not here to teach anyone anything. I am here because the river flows and I am going with it, not against it. What does love have to teach but letting go and entering the stream?
Only Peace Lies Ahead
Essentially we are transmitting love all day long, for that is what we are receiving from our higher selves. We try to block it out with thoughts that revolve around our powerlessness, our “not-good-enough-ness.” But once we surrender to the inevitability and eternality of love, we are in for a shower of blessings. That sounds trite; but who doesn’t want them?
Bob and I were in lock step for many years. His cancer diagnosis began to break the cadence. He became slow and I became faster, faster. I ran harder and harder to fill the demands that being a caregiver entails. I became angry and exhausted and, finally, sorrowful. I clutched at what used to be and found nothing but emptiness. So after he died, I became the emptiness. I spent several years taking care of business and the new norm. I lived simply and quietly, always hoping that God would show me the way to share myself with others.
Now I know that I am to do small things, not big. Careful things, not expansive ones. Inner things, not outer ones. I am learning to be myself in the midst of inner chaos. There is still a chasm to leap. And one day it will be time. I am not even sure what it is, what it is made of. I go to my Tai Chi class and out for an occasional lunch with friends.
In the meantime I write about my inner life and what it is feeling like on any given day. I am trying to share the marrow of myself. Bob’s cancer was of the bone marrow; odd as that is, it is a fact. In his bones he was dying and now in my bones I am living as God would have me live. Sharing the spirit of dry bones come to life. Singing the notes of hallelujah and amen. I like to think that I have survived the worst times of my life; that only peace lies ahead.
You Are What Bob Is
I had been hearing from Peter less and less often; he, too, was weakening as the days went by. By now we knew what we meant to each other. As he had told me in the very beginning of our friendship, “For what it’s worth, I hold your hand in this.”
When I let Peter know of Bob’s death, this was his reply:
He is missed. It seems to me that what remains, of course, is love. His love for you and yours for him. That always lasts. Life must have loved him dearly to take him into itself.
It seems that we are in a rowboat without oars, adrift on the river. What can we do? The current carries us, sometimes through smooth water, sometimes through rough. But it is all out of our control, no matter what we do, what we think, what we understand. So we go, carried we know not where, carried we know not how. Adrift under the clear bright stars, awed by the wide wild sky as we look up and see the stars shimmer and dance in their glory.
You are what Bob is.
Love, Peter
Keeping Busy
Peter was growing weaker.
Vicki: I miss hearing from you but understand completely.
Peter: Hi dear Vicki,
Yes, I continue to be ill, hence writing is pretty much a challenge. Life may not always appear to be the bundle of smiles and giggles that was originally advertised. Perhaps a consumer protection agency should be established.
Vicki: I can’t let go of suffering until I am able, can I?
Peter: Well, I kinda feel that suffering is on the whole simply a path of more suffering. I cannot see how suffering leads anywhere else. Toni, who likes to have people call her by the name of a river in India, told me once that she had never experienced real physical pain. Yet she keeps telling people to dive more deeply into the pain anyway. Hmmm, perhaps the tea should be sipped before declaring it tasty.
Ho ho. I see no point to suffering. It seems such a drag. Someone said to me recently, as I was trying not to fall down again, that I must be really angry at life to be suffering so much. For a moment I thought she must be talking to someone else, but no; she apparently meant what she obviously mistook for me. I started to giggle. Poor thing thought I must be cracking up.
Suffering? No thanks. Why would anyone want to do that? I sit with little Alexandra on the green green grass. We watch the dance of the butterflies together and sing. Sometimes I have breath and play my flute under an open sky. Even when things are a tad difficult, sunlight and song are always available, don’t you feel? Just a small shift in attention from the antecedent to the causeless quiet. Oh, sure, I yell and carry on when needed. But suffering? No thank you.
No Time or Space
There is a key here somewhere that I am trying to play. When Bob was alive, our love was just as human as anyone else’s. There were good times and bad, roughs days and smooth. But overall, it was just garden variety love. Now he is gone and my love for him grows daily. What is the key to this mystery? There are no bodies involved. When the body fell away, the love remained. At first I was in shock and later I built a wall around my heart as I had done when our daughter died.
Now the wall is gone and the love has rushed to fill the space. What is the key but absence of ego? Absence of the body equals the full presence of eternity. I
t is an awesome void he left that is filled with presence. It isn’t his or mine; that is also a key. It is a radiating out from center to center. There is no periphery, no time or space.
I sit here with a mug of coffee looking out at a cold December day. Bob and Vicki have parted. This body types what the spirit says is so. Who am I to argue with that?
I’m really writing for myself. My friend Monica, who is psychic, said the more I wrote, the faster I would heal. And I love to write; it is my therapy and my passion. Here I sit allowing words to emerge from innocent fingers who do not know the score. They are just serving the moment.
So Christmas is one week from today and I am on edge. I have never liked holidays and the fact that Bob died on December 20, 2004, doesn’t help. I have eaten too much fudge, felt too much sadness and am now exasperated because a chuck roast refuses to get tender. I put it in the crock pot early this morning and it is as tough as I would like to be.
I have eaten fudge and cookies and all kinds of sugary no nos that march straight to my stomach and stay there. There is nothing on TV but reruns and the usual Saturday fare. I am reading a good book but it is almost finished. Then what will I do?
Are you waiting for me to say for the hundredth time that I miss being married? I do. Although I am on the spiritual path, I had a mate who was, too. That is unusual. I am sure he doesn’t want me to grieve but to enjoy my life. Enjoyment, for me, is a simple thing. It happens or it doesn’t. Nothing complicated interests me. I write simply and quickly. I cook the same way. In fact, I am both simple and quick (insert a grin). I am also slow to move on, to try new things or shake things up. It’s a wonder I have learned to balance my life in any way at all. Inwardly I may always walk alone, but I have learned to try and do it gracefully.
Now I love him with a universal love. I have transcended the pettiness of the normal human marriage and now belong to love itself, as does he. When I write I also feel this deep love that is not possible between people in a personal relationship. My writing reaches beyond the borders of time and space and I am grateful for that. In that way we enter the mystery of universal connectedness without egos getting in the way.
A Gentle Simplicity
Vicki: I was out walking and talked to a neighbor who has a white cat that adopted her. The flowers were bright around the cat—a lovely scene. She was planting some flowers and the cat was just there being beautiful.
Peter: This is so lovely. This is what I see—just this gentle simplicity of love in everything. Habits and such may hang on. So what? I would much rather not be ill or poor. Or so incredibly handsome. Hmmm, wait a second—maybe I’ll keep that last one, ho ho! And yet ill and debilitated or strong and active, I am always happy when God stops by, with cats and sunlight tugging at Her hair; so I look at this and laugh. We all fade, sooner or later. So be it.
My wife is off for a couple of days’ vacation. I am so happy that she can get away for a bit. I promised her I would be here when she returns, so she left with a lighter heart. Little Maple (Alexandra’s brother) has been so kindly caring for me by catching small baby rabbits and bringing them to my feet on the living room carpet. So loving is he to do this. Ha! Although it appears that rabbits have a different view of this. Ha! Viewpoints and opinions. Lots of fun to play with, but what a weight to place upon oneself if believed. God juggling rabbits and humans between Her tender hands. Who knows which will fall first? But She juggles with such obvious mirth, that one cannot help but smile whilst careening through the sky.
An Awake Heart
An awake heart is like a sky that pours light.
Hafiz
Knowing that you are bigger than the sky is a gift that you share spontaneously. Peter never intended to become like this—it just happened. Effortlessly he knew that his being extended itself into infinity.
As a boy he was poor, standing in the cold parking lot of a library, waiting to get in so that he could use the washroom to keep himself clean. I can picture him soaking up knowledge as eagerly as he did the free water coming from the faucet. He always appreciated the little things.
I never knew him when he was small, but to know him now is to believe what he tells you. He speaks of the beauty of a raccoon running over the rooftops and his feeling of awe at such a sight. He talks about his cat named Alex who is the quintessence of love. We are with Peter as he sits in the sun feeling the wind on his skin. He conveys the simplicity of his life with a nod or a grin.
Peter never speaks of his prognosis, other than to say it is poor. I know it is worse than poor. His brilliant mind is hampered by the conditions of an impaired body. What he gives us all is a frank beneficence born of courage and surrender. It takes a great deal of courage to let go when one has almost nothing left. That nothing is even more precious. To let go of it is a monumental decision. When he lets go, we feel his love. Ah, Peter, you are indeed bigger than the sky!
The Nub of a Wing
My inner life is changing, reordering itself around a new core. Hard to put it into words because it is such a simple thing. I don’t think as much as I used to. That leaves me empty much of the time, but in a good way.
I have apparently made a soul decision to stand firmly on the shores of my new life. A life where I am at the center and not my mind. This feels redeeming and fruitful and mysteriously destined. As you know, I have been putting myself through the wringer for many years. And now, well, I fancy that a nub of a wing is poking through the wringer. Could it be? Yes, it feels like real growth into the mystery. Into the elevation of the soul to its rightful place. Perhaps there are small crocus bulbs waiting to sprout at my feet.
I am no spring chicken but that just means my new growth is all the more precious. I see myself in a kinder light, as if I had taken out the glaring bulb of thought and put in a rose-colored lower wattage one. The lines erased from my brow and my shoulders a bit more relaxed. Oh, the mirror doesn’t like me any better; it’s just that my song is softer now.
I bought this bright blue coat that I love just because it isn’t black. Fancy that. I went to T. J. Maxx and bought goodies like lebkuchen, lemon cookies and coconut ones. I have made cups of cinnamon tea and savored the flavor of this new life.
Now for the mystery part of the essay. Are you ready, dear reader? I am inviting Bob to speak from the other side.
“Dear Angel, you are not about to believe we are apart. Never have we been apart since I fell truly, madly and deeply in love with you in fourth grade. So sweet you are, so young at heart. Your aura is the most beautiful song I have ever heard.”
“I didn’t know that auras made music.”
“Oh, I see you as pure music. Pure grace and rhythm.
“You had a tin ear,” I said.
“I was blocking out much of my sensitivity. I didn’t learn that until I crossed over. Now I hear beautiful music every day and see colors without human names.”
“I have to decide where to go on my next adventure,” I said. “I am thinking about California.”
“You are free now. You may go or stay. You may come or go. You may speak or be silent. Just know that this is your time now. Let no one convince you otherwise, especially the voices in your head that would condemn you.”
And so, my love, my beloved Bob, now when I do my exercises at night, I no longer look at your side of the bed and feel tears welling up. Instead I look right at the middle of it, seeing us together in truth. And so it is and so it shall be. Amen
The Other Side—A Meditation
When a woman is awakened
she melts and perishes.
Rumi
“You have mastered death twice, yet you have not walked upright onto the shore of the Sea of Sadness. Your husband and daughter are waiting for you, but you have always been too exhausted by your journey through the sorrow to meet them.
Your husband is showing me the symbol of a wheelchair. He is kicking it
over the cliff so you can stand in your own strength and mastery. Your daughter is holding a small stuffed toy and a balloon.”
“What about my son?” I asked the guide.
“He already sees this; he is merely waiting for you to see it, too. He looks to you, the mother and the matriarch, and sees your sadness. But now you have been given a new life, one where you are strong and reunited with your loved ones.”
That was several nights ago. The meditation was guided by a gifted psychic. Although some of you may be skeptical, I am not. It has turned the key to a new doorway for me. For the past several nights I have been having fruitful dreams. I can only be grateful I took this inner journey.
You feel a softness in the energy of these words. I know that because I feel it as well.
I have crossed the sea of sadness and am now standing on the shore of the other side. And I see now that separation is only in the mind. There IS no other side. It’s all one.
You Are the Self
Vicki: Things must go on just exactly as they do. I must fret and fear and get mad... until I don’t anymore. This is my sadhana, you might say… to know my actual condition.
Peter: It seems to me—just my opinion, of course—that we do not have an actual condition. Just some thoughts that cascade in an apparent connection from past to predicted future. Thoughts cannot exist now—they are always before or after, don’t you feel? Little Alexandra cat just came in for a chat, but when she saw me typing, she wandered off. Like this—a thought comes, natters on a bit, then wanders off. And we think we are that thought and hug it as if that poor dead thing can ever give us comfort or warmth. Ho ho. Little Alex is so much nicer to hug. And so much more real. Nisagardatta said once that people keep busy because they find it difficult to bear their own consciousness.
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