A New Year - a clean slate - a time traditionally filled with hope and possibility. The days, weeks, and months stretch out in front of me and I can't help but focus on the year ahead.
Will it be happy, healthy, and peaceful as I want it to be? Will there be challenge that I can't even yet imagine? In the midst of this is the awareness that it's another year without my son. I remember the July that David died. Because his last days on earth were in the summer, the approach of autumn felt wrong, like a betrayal and abandonment of my sweet son. The season was changing too soon and I wasn't ready. I longed to stay in the last summer of David's life for just a while longer to cling to even a shred of fading connection. But time didn't ask if I was ready; it just continued its relentless march and pushed me along with it. Soon it was David's birthday and Halloween, then Thanksgiving and the holiday season. Each special day brought a new wave of grief that I couldn't wait to get past. Then New Year's arrived. Leaving the last year of David's life was the most difficult of all. There was no turning back; no wait one more minute. The ball dropped, the page turned, and I was in a different year. Since then I've become used to the feeling of being pushed along by time. Mostly it seems to rush forward like a surging current, carrying me with it on its journey. But sometimes it feels excruciatingly slow, like when I can't wait for springtime or to achieve some long-range goal. Why am I either wishing I could stay in the past or longing for the future? I know I'm not alone in experiencing time as sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow. And it's not only a function of grief; most of us tend to live either too much in the past or the future and we end up not really noticing the present. Unchecked, we are wishing our lives away. I've decided to make 2014 my year of practicing mindfulness. It's not a resolution really, because I don't think resolutions usually hold. It's more of an intention. I intend to practice mindfulness this year and I'll see how that feels. Being mindful means paying attention to what is, without judgment. Anything in life can be done mindfully: eating, working, playing, resting. Tuning into one's present experience and returning to that awareness when the mind wanders (as it definitely will) keeps us anchored in the moment. It fosters appreciation, gratitude, and patience, all of which I want more of this year. Right now I'm sitting at my desk writing on my laptop. I'm sipping a cup of tea as I write and occasionally gaze out the window. It's snowing again. A million thoughts try to compete for my attention: cleaning off my car later, my to-do list, memories, worries. I take another sip of tea and gently bring myself back to this article. I am writing. Writing and sipping. They're two simple acts that ground me in the present where memories don't haunt and worries don't matter. I feel peaceful and grateful. Mindfulness is thought to be helpful for coping with many of life's difficulties. Try it yourself and let me know what you think. And don't hesitate to contact me for more tips on living mindfully.
0 Comments
I recently had the privilege of attending the passing of a great lady named Rose. She lived for 97 years and was the matriarch of a loving family. She had not been sick; she simply reached the end of her natural lifetime. Here is my account of the last hours of her life.
~ Rose was ensconced in a large room in a very attentively run nursing home. There were couches and chairs surrounding her bed, a television, and snacks and beverages for visitors. She seemed comfortable, even though she could no longer communicate. Her nurses told us her death was very near. I was struck by the visceral feeling of love in the room. Children and grandchildren, some who had left jobs in other states to be at her side, reminisced about holidays and birthdays; sharing pictures and videos from days gone by. Someone played Rose's favorite music; others smoothed the hair from her forehead; many told her how much she meant to them. She was literally surrounded by love. There were tears and sadness, to be sure. It's hard to say goodbye to someone who so profoundly impacted your life and who acted so selflessly. But there was also a sense of completion and celebration of a true woman of valor. The evidence was all around her. We became aware of the signs of dying: changes in breathing, body temperature, and appearance. We learned to swab her lips when her mouth seemed dry and to read her comfort level hour by hour. We were told what to expect. It occurred to me that Rose's dying process was like a reverse birth. We all come into the world through labor of some sort. Now Rose seemed to be going through another kind of labor as systems shut down in preparation for non-use. The time of her departure drew close and even though we understood she had to go, no one wanted that moment to come. We decided to order dinner in rather than go out, as nobody wanted to leave. And then, shortly after the meal was finished and with the arrival after work of her eldest living son, Rose's breathing began to change. As family circled her bed offering tender touches and loving words to ease her journey, Rose took her last breaths and quietly slipped away. Tears. Sadness. Peace. I have never experienced natural death from old age before. I'm familiar with the long suffering of illness and the trauma of accidents. But this was different. Rose was ready to go; she had repeatedly said so. There was no need for crash carts or 911. All is peaceful. All is right. It felt healing to know that despite my previous experiences of loved ones' deaths, it is indeed possible to have a good passing. And so I offer this celebration of Rose's life and all life. You know, I used to think of death as the opposite of life. Now it seems to me that death is the opposite of birth, and that life encompasses them both. I wish you all a wonderful 2014; here's to Life! |
Essays on Grief ResilienceArchives
December 2020
|