On the morning of September 11, 2001, I walked into the living room and asked Dad to turn off the news … to hear instead the news I had to share. His doctor had just called with the results of his CAT scan the day before—an appointment made to check out Dad’s assumption that he had pneumonia. The diagnosis was stark—his lungs were filled with metastatic cancer that had originated in his kidney.
“Oh,” he responded.
Three weeks before his death, watching the horror unfolding at the twin towers, Dad heard this news differently that he would have the day before.
Today Howard and I will sign the latest version of our will. We started this process last fall, but our travels and our attorney’s family health crisis slowed the process. Finally, a month ago, we made our appointment. And here we are, mostly sequestered in our home due to a global pandemic … about to pick up a pen and sign our “Last Will and Testament.”
Howard and I are healthy. We are following the guidelines recommended by the CDC. We are living life fully and staying very connected, even in this time of physical separation. But signing our will in this moment in history feels different than it would have a month ago. Global illness and death are no longer far away nor out of sight.
Ten days ago, a dozen neighbors gathered in our shared courtyard with a drink in hand to toast the twin Tulip Magnolia trees in their full, pale pink glory. COVID 19 was lurking outside our gate—it was the last time we will be physically close together until this period has ended. Today the blossoms are falling. They remained in place much longer than usual, despite a short snowfall and wind—a gift of beauty we all have been grateful for.
This moment in history brings the fragility of existence, the power and 
beauty of life and our profound global interconnectedness of all of creation into stark view. This has always been true, yet today our thin and fragile illusions of separation, rugged independence and control have come crashing down.
How do we then live?
Words fall short these days so I’m looking in fresh places.
“Nothing lasts forever. No one lives forever. Keep that in mind, and love” I first heard Lisa Bonet’s* song years ago and found her haunting lyrics very moving. Lisa reminds us our life here on Earth is “eternally fresh” and precious, calling us to step outside of fear and into love.
“Learning to sit with not knowing when I don’t see where it’s going” I keep playing Carrie Newcomer’s song each day, as it is a good companion for this moment when I know so little about “where it’s going.” No answers, but it helps me live into the questions and the unknown.
January and February were my months of travel—Boise, ID, Klamath Falls, OR, NYC and Atlanta. I didn’t get to see Alison Saar’s Harriet Tubman statue while I was in Harlem, but hearing about it has sent me to search out photos and descriptions of this remarkable sculpture. Harriet isn’t depicted as running the underground railroad, but rather becoming it. She faces south, following her divine call to return again and again to lead people from slavery to freedom. Her time called for courage—i.e. being afraid and going forward anyway. Ours does too. We aren’t to try to be like Harriet, or anyone else for that matter, but to become more fully ourselves and to do what makes our heart sing as a gift to our global family.
At times like these I also turn to my old friends—books. I want to find my copy of Etty Hillisum’s An Unfinished Life, a moving diary of Etty’s spiritual transformation in the horrors of the Holocaust. And I’ll reread any of my Madeleine L’Engle novels as they skillfully illuminate the walk through darkness to light. Howard and I are reading World Enough & Time aloud, savoring Christian McEwen’s words. Rose just posted a beautiful blog about the sudden darkness…and light… in the midst of the Ash Wednesday service she, Steve and I attended in Atlanta.
I’ve also gathered with others on impersonal technology and have experienced a power of deep connection that left my heart warmed and comforted. Some were the organizational calls of Wisdom & Money and Be Present that I’ve been on for years. As always, we take the time to really check in during these calls, sharing wherever we are at that moment. Only then do we dive into the transformative work we do together—work that feeds me deeply. Saturday, twelve of us gathered on Zoom for our monthly Be Present Developer’s meeting—including the magical ability to meet all together, then electronically divide into small groups before returning together at the end. Some of
the calls have been keeping touch with family. Howard’s and my heartache at this time of separation from our almost two-year-old grandson, Danny, and his parents has been eased by regularly “hanging out” with him on Google Hangouts. We are exploring having a virtual living room gathering with our family in town sometime this week.
Creativity hasn’t stopped with technology. Next Saturday we were supposed to go with Danny to see the play The Hungry Caterpillar. Instead Howard and I are going to make a collage caterpillar, strengthened by clear packing tape, to share with him. Creativity and play are critical aspects of life, especially in a time like this.
Today will be a full one, including crafting the caterpillar and signing our wills. Each moment brings the opportunity to practice vulnerability and courage.
I’ll close with another song that is balm to my heart, with the prayer that it will touch yours too. This beautiful rendition of the 23rd Psalm is sung by Bobby McFerrin and dedicated to his Mother.
Peace be with you all.
*based on a Tagore poem