Soft Chewy Center

Me at three

  When I was four I asked my mom’s boyfriend what he thought
  about death.  I guess I scared off a few of those guys, because Mom
  didn’t remarry until I was 11! Good thing because I loved my
  stepdad and he could handle the questions. Someone dear to me is
  facing the cancer journey and death is on my mind again. The
  thing about remembering my impermanence is that it keeps me in
  touch with my soft chewy center. We have a tendency to grow hard
  shells of protection, which may serve to get us through the day,
  especially in a culture that does not encourage us to express our
  deeper emotions.  I happen to be lucky, because as a counselor I get
  to be in touch with my soft chewy center all day long. In the heart space connection is welcome. Granted, it’s not always comfortable. Our tendency is to want to fix it - make the feeling or behavior go away. We ask (ourselves and others): “Why did you do that? Why can't I get this right?” But it’s not the “why’s” that help us, but the “what’s.”

“What’s going on right now?” “What are you feeling?” “Tell me what this brings up for you?”

Hwy 93

Part of the reason people avoid emotion is because the first thing that comes up is anger. You’ll see this on the road. There is a sense that if we let our feelings out, we will lose control, or things won't get accomplished. I hear my inner critic that I call Nasty: “Buck up. Pull it together. You should be so much farther along by now. There’s no time for contemplation. It’s time to ACT.” Nothing is really wrong with these statements, but the trouble is that when we power past deeper emotions that hold us trapped and stuck – it’s like we’re a fly pinned to a board at the thorax and flapping our wings.

The fields of Niwot

  Underneath the anger is a frightened
  child asking to be given voice, to be acknowledged in a world that is quick
  to give an answer and shut us down. The sad and scared child gets fed up
  and ends up stuck in a perpetual road rage tantrum. When the child is seen
  and heard and healed, she can focus and charge ahead, accomplishing
  goals in half the time because she is not hauling around a heavy board.

  Asking our emotions to stay put in the corner is like asking a two year old
  to sit still in a toy store; they’re bound to act out – whether it comes out as
  angry driving or body pain. It’s a lot easier to access these feelings in the
  presence of a loving witness – a counselor or coach trained in techniques
  that will help you not only feel, but also to calm down and heal. The more
  issues from the past clear out, the more resourced your body feels, which allows blood flow to the thinking brain and  decreases explosive outbursts.

A soft chewy center invites profound joy and deep connection with others.

Where the Light Leads

I really like being in a body!  Lemon bars and enchiladas; ripe figs and Honey Crisp apples; stroking the soft coats of my big gray cats, the pink and orange of winter sunrises; the snug feel of suede half chaps and galloping pony along the back roads; slow kissing and the smell of roses; music, "This American Life" and crunching through dry fallen leaves; the little birds and plump squirrels more visible in the bare trees, the feeling in my heart on Christmas morning, my daughter’s faces… When I take time to dwell in my senses – to appreciate the detail of the world around me - I feel so alive and grateful. Knowing that my range of movement will someday be restricted inspires me to dance to capacity, to fill out space and be present every second to the process – the connection between hundredths of seconds: to be inside the movement and watching it at the same time. Anything can be done with deeper presence: cooking, sex, biking to work, massaging a friend's back or listening to our kids. Lately, I am most aware of my body while dancing - celebrating how much the collage of muscles, veins, bones, organs do all in a day.

Working with the newly bereaved through Hospice Care has only increased my sense of feeling blessed, but, too, it has confronted me with questions like: Who will be with me when I die? Who will be around to help me through it? Some of these people have lost partners who’ve been with them almost 50 years. They didn’t bargain for going it alone, and it breaks my heart to watch them grasp for hope in the confusion of grief.

  

Sure, I’ve listened to Death Cab for Cutie’s song, “What Sarah Said” that ends: “So, who’s going to watch you die?” many times, but witnessing people who have just lost their "other half" face these bigger questions, I am compelled to do the same. People can’t just drop everything, and sometimes it’s the people who we least expect who come through during hard times… or even, in the end.

Some spiritual folk say that the reason spirits hang around is because death is not that big of a transition and the spirits occasionally need guidance towards the light. Not knowing where the light will lead, sometimes it’s more comforting to remain in the attic of the beautiful home they had built. "They" suggest that when a person dies we say: “Your spirit just left your body. Go look for Aunt Shoshana” (or whomever they know who has already crossed over). Otherwise the person might hang around wondering why no one is speaking to them. I've also heard it said that death is a continuation of how we live and maybe if we die with presence, we won't need anyone pointing us to the light.

I wonder what it will feel like to dance on the other side. But, for now, I really like being in this body!

photo: Eliza Karlson

The Bellow(s) of Wordlessness

Martha Beck makes me feel a little less crazy... a little. In her recent book, Finding Your Way in A Wild New World: Reclaim Your True Nature to Create the Life you Want, she puts words to the experience I’ve been going through. I have been able to describe the weird dream-not-dream I was taken on in March 2006 because it was visual (if you haven’t heard that story I will write about it in a future post), but this new wordless-feeling-sense I’ve been going through now – perhaps as an outgrowth of my dream-not-dream – was too hard to describe (and evidently requires  hyphenated phrases and original words). According to Beck, Australian Aborigines call it “Everywhen.”

I remember when I first heard the word “bulimia.” I was about 20. I experienced both relief and regret that my illness had a name. I thought I was the only person on earth that did something so disgusting and then it turns out there were a bunch of people like me and I was no longer unique. What?!? If I was going to be twisted, I at least wanted to be unique. Funny that we can get attached to our addictions as readily as to our highs.

But, thankfully I recovered from bulimia 27 years ago, and I can't classify this new experience as a "high" although it is ecstatic. The love it generates is outside of attachment to what I need or what anyone does. I am relieved and excited to discover this powerful experience I am having, this “Everywhen,” is being shared. We need all the help possible – from seen to unseen forces - to shift the consciousness of our relationships and of the planet so that every being can be empowered. Every soul will shine with its unique and not so unique gifts. Neurosis - mine or anyone else's - is such old news and offers little material for art. To move to the cutting edge, we put our ear to the ground, to the heart of the earth, to each other’s chests – to fathom the depth and expanse of what is possible.

Grasshopper and dahlia at the organic Lone Hawk Farm

Here I am a writer fascinated by "wordlessness." Beck quotes a Welsh wayfinder R.S. Thomas: “The silence holds with its gloved hand the wild hawk of the mind.”

This week someone in my extended family was diagnosed with cancer. Tonight I begin co-facilitating a HospiceCare group for the newly bereaved. Yesterday I met with my three clients at the Regis lab engaged in one of the most intimate relationships on the planet. The experience I am having that I call Bellow(s) pervades all of my relationships. It is whispering (in expansive thrust), calling (in low, whale sounds) me to my deeper path. I still get sad but the love is so big that it engulfs me like the sea. I can't see it, but I can feel it. People are no longer three dimensional, but multi dimensional, accompanied by messages from their ancestors, encompassed by vivid images as though their spirits are painting in living color all around them. Everything is so ALIVE just by being ineffable inside of the experience of what IS. Becks points out that LIFE is not the opposite of death – the opposite of death is birth, so life has no opposite.

People have always joked that I don’t need to be on any drugs, and now I’m beginning to understand what they really mean!

Dog of our Heart

REFLEX
When I heard the jingle of a collar as I was making tea this morning, a hopeful flash raced through my body before my mind had time to stop it. KEESHA’S BACK! Of course she’s not; she’s dead. Transitioned. Crossed over. It was my daughter's dog's collar. My body keeps anticipating what my mind knows is not true. Grief has many faces. I’m a little confused, really tired and have no sense of time. I cleared my schedule to give myself the space I need to honor my companion, which includes writing these highlights of our time with Keesha.

STROKE OF LUCK

When Bella was 6, she started riding lessons at a local riding center, Mita Sunke (which means “my horse” in Oglala Sioux). Lizzie was 2 and would observe Bella’s lessons with me. The first time we set eyes on Keesha she was tied near the parking lot, and she dropped down and rolled over for a belly rub. We kneeled and stroked her soft, red coat. When I looked into her eyes I thought: “You are my dog!” But that was impossible! She belonged to the wonderful family who ran Mita Sunke. I walked over to Sandy, one of the barn owners, and commented: “I just LOVE your dog.”

“Do you want her?” she asked point blank.

Skid in Broadside, Balls to the Wall

I am watching my 16 year old dog sleeping soundly – eyes pressed closed, her head encircled by a soft cone to keep her from gnawing on wounds. She has days, maybe weeks to live. I wish she would just go to sleep one day, outside in the sun, and never wake up, instead of slowly losing function. She’s not in a huge amount of pain yet, but there are moments like when she can’t stand in the morning and I help her up and hold her belly until I feel her legs able to carry her weight. She is still eating although she’s picky. I’ve never known Keesha to turn down anything!

Today I lay on the back porch with her and sobbed. Her imminent death brings up the people and pets I’ve lost, as well as those I will lose; my own mortality… failed relationships and missed opportunities. I let the grief grab hold and swallow me until it spits me out. It’s the only way to clear it.

Death is a Grumpy Cousin I Can't Shake

This morning was one of those times where I woke up with one sock on, one off, tangled in the sheets and crying as though my heart had just been broken – not about anything specific. Pretty much about everything: How long do I have with my old dog? Or with the pony - I am so darn attached! With my parents? They have to live forever because I don't know what I'll do without them. Why is it I live so far from my brothers and sister? Or what about my best friends - how long do we have? My circle of women is so dear to my heart. Why do dear friends move away or I have to move from them? Will my daughters overcome their health challenges? Will they survive college? It was one of those mornings where I was wide-awake when the alarm went off and I was happy to hear the alarm! The minute I got out of bed the anxiety and sadness fell away with the other sock as I attended the practical business of the body. I splashed my face with cold water to calm the salty eye-puffs.

Life has a way of tenderizing us. It’s called Death. Maybe it’s why I feel drawn to working with the grieving families at Hospice Care of Boulder and Broomfield Counties. I’m not sure I will get that placement for practicum, but I am applying. I’ve always been a depressing person – just get to know me a little better and you’ll see. Actually people who work with the dying and mourning tend to be funny. It’s why nurses are so witty (right Susan?)! It’s why my mother who was almost killed numerous times in WWII has such a wicked sense of humor, but also a deep kindness. Heck, I was even a depressing kid. At age 5 my mom would take me on a date and I would say things like: “Let’s talk about death.” Maybe she took me on dates when she was trying to lose the guy! I can’t help I got stamped with “existentialist” before being shipped onto this planet.

Then I got plopped into a family who had just come from Europe and the horrors of WWII. They had lost everything except the clothes on their back. There was a sense of underlying fear and: “It’s us against the world.” Death was a grumpy cousin we couldn’t shake. I didn’t play at other kids houses and they didn’t come to mine, unless I was at my dad's and Lynda's every other weekend, but those encounters with other kids were few and far between. I'm not sure if the other families thought we were weird Lithuanian immigrants or if my Mutti felt she couldn't trust strangers not to kidnap me. I played alone in the backyard or with my Aunt Helena who was like an older sister.

Helena would spin imaginary games for me that took us up onto the roof; she buried

crystals for me to find as part of the adventure and wrote notes that led me from one location to another on a treasure hunt. If not with her, I was playing with Pinky the big black lab. I had 5 imaginary friends who were so real to me, I introduced them to my friends when I moved to Santa Monica. I watched a lot of TV after school (Gilligan's Island, I Dream of Genie, Petticoat Junction, Green Acres, Bewitched) and then my Mutti and Papa, aunt and uncle and Mom all sat around the kitchen table for dinner. I was even allowed a “thimble-full” of beer. This was a very happy childhood that I treasure remembering - just different.

Then, frumpy, overweight kid suddenly does the swan thing and ends up fairly popular at Santa Monica High School. It was like some cosmic joke had been played on me. I hid behind my cheerleading costume, totally bewildered. Painfully shy, the facade suited me. The traditional roles gave me something to be. Parochial elementary school taught there was a right and wrong answer - none of this critical thinking stuff. I didn’t even know how to begin to form an opinion! Until I got to Santa Monica at age 11, I had been raised mostly by adults. I had never been to an overnight at a friend’s house. I didn’t even know the clapping game: “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?” I was an unsocialized Golden Retriever who had only seen other dogs through glass. I missed all the cues. I listened to classical, not rock and roll. When I did speak in high school, I was so painfully serious. But I took myself so dang seriously, because death was still a concept in my head. Intellectualizing death kept it at a safe distance. My feelings were shut down; they were too dangerous to allow out. Oh, I cried a lot, but I stuffed the deeper feelings. I had no idea how to broach anger. But when the concept of death got to my heart via heartbreak and love and loss and changes...when I had the bravery to let it move out of my head and into my heart, which came in waves from age 25 to 45, the experience was shocking and searing. Putting words to that kind of realization of impermanence is pretty much like trying to describe

a spiritual experience. Words became inadequate. When we awaken to the reality of imminent death, we can’t take anything too seriously, because tomorrow it will be different. It deepens our appreciation for the people we love and the time we have with them. Laughter heals.

The pursuit of an open heart didn’t stop at age 45, but now I’ve made peace with the idea that there are going to be mornings I cry my eyes out. It’s okay. That’s part of the deal. Sometimes I’m going to win a trip to Italy or be associated with aristocracy in England. On some level, I’m still the homely, lonely kid which causes me to appreciate others and the potential fun on earth all the more. Feelings are like the waves I body surfed. Sometimes I’m going to get rolled on the sea floor, but I’m going to stand up, crunching on sand, with more experience and exhilarated. I’m not going to stay planted on the shore telling everyone: “Don’t go in - the waves are too big!” With some discretion I’m going to dive in again. True happiness blossoms in the heart as an ongoing state of being when we can let sorrow tear through us like a hurricane and realize we will still be standing when it's over.

Excerpt from William Cullen Bryant's poem, "Thanatopsis"
So, live that when they summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach they grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Life and Death

My dad, Jerry, wrote to me about a conversation he had with a friend of his who is dying. Dad said that the conversation felt “unsatisfying,” that he may have made his friend feel worse. The trouble with death is we can’t fix it. I remember when the family guinea pig died. My mom and stepdad were out of town and I was taking care of my much younger half siblings. They watched as I dug a hole in the front yard to lay the little furry squealer. My sister (about age 4) was crying as I lowered it into the hole, but my brother (age 2) was angry. “Don’t put it in there. Wait until Daddy gets home. He’ll fix it!”

In my reply to my Dad, I wrote that I can't imagine what it's like to be losing a friend and trying to find the right words. But, I continued, in my minimal experience with death, it seems like people always want to find the right things to say when the best thing we can do is to listen and be present with what they are telling us. I remember when my dad’s mother, Margo (or Nonnie as we all called her), was nearing the end of her life. She said: "Everyone seems to want to tell me what I'm going through when I'm the one dying." Maybe I was afraid to hear what she'd say. Fear gets in our way. Death is a solitary, often lonely, process it seems, but we can learn from each other's experience of it. So maybe just my dad taking the time to be on the phone with his friend was enough.

When my stepdad, Phil, was facing death, deteriorating from Multisystem Atrophy (MSA), he seemed so resigned and lost in a way. One day I was sitting next to him on the bed watching TV and he said that he had dreamed he died the night before. I asked him what it was like and he said: "It wasn't so bad!" and then he laughed. I couldn’t believe we were laughing about something so grave. But, I learned that to keep our senses of humor even in the face of death is the way to go.

I am fascinated by death and how people die in peace - or not. For an assignment for my Masters in counseling program, I interviewed a chaplain at our local hospice. He said that he helps people find meaning, which helps regrets take a back seat. He said he listens to their stories and then points out how they contributed to the world and to others' lives. As a counselor, though, we primarily work with the grieving families so I’m not sure I will move in that direction. I want the chaplain's job!

One of my favorite books is A Year to Live by Stephen Levine. He says: “In whatever condition and conditioning we find ourselves, whether we have just won the lottery or discovered we have only a year to live, there is a basic, even essential, gratitude contemplation that is always appropriate…It acknowledges the enormous opportunity of being alive and awakening to our true nature.” Every page of that book is precious and I am moved no matter how many times I read it. Essentially, when loved ones around us are dying we are given, again, the gift of life and an opportunity to deepen our relationships to self and others and to appreciate this day, this moment in these dear bodies. And when it comes to their experience of transitioning from this planet, all we can do is listen and bravely follow their cues.