Living in the Midst of it All

IMG_0823Each time the wind blows, a handful of leaves dance and spin as they fall. As the world turns around the big topics, sometimes it’s the small details that matter.

A cup of tea shared with Karyn after weeks on the road.

The orange pumpkin at my neighbor’s door.

Stepping into a steamy bath scented with red spikenard as I let the lists go for an hour on a busy afternoon.

Its good to notice the little things at moments like these. I’ve been to the first of two funerals this week. In addition, I am working on a blog that started with one small topic—radiation dangers of cell phones—and has exploded into something that touches so many of the problems in our world and fills me with shrapnel of fear. The blog, and my emotions around the topic, are too raw to post yet.

I am tempted to be silent and delete my current draft. After all, I’ve avoided this topic for several years, so why proceed now? I feel the pull of despair, something I know can stop me from taking action.

My wrestling brings me back to the central question of my life—how do I remain steady, walking forward with an open heart as things crumble around me?

I’ve been on this road for a long time.

I don’t know what I thought I was writing about when I began working on Big Topics at Midnight nine years ago. Every step of the way I uncovered information—some personal, some ancestral, some historical, some cultural—that shook the ground under my feet. Each time I had to stop writing and trying to figure it all out and instead tap into a far deeper way of knowing. I used all of my tools—prayer, journaling, collage, essential oils, vibrational essences, cards, leaning against trees, talking to friends … In addition, I stopped to notice the beauty all around me: falling leaves, pumpkins and shared cups of tea. Slowly but surely I found the ground under my feet and continued writing.

I know I can walk that journey from fear to clarity again. When the timing is right, I’ll be able to return to working on the blog I’m not yet ready to share.

Grace is found in the big topics and in the little details of life. Both are part of life. I am called to dance between the two and experience joy, as well as fear, and hope, as well as grief.

Let Your Heart Break #4: Living While Dying

Ed and Paul, June 2001
Ed and Paul, 2001

What can Dad’s walk toward death teach us about living?

Thirteen years ago, as Dad lay dying, I watched the otters play in Monterey Bay and monarch butterflies fly around the bushes just outside his living room window.

Leaving my brother and the Hospice workers with Dad, I walked along the shore to the neighborhood coffee shop in the early morning hours of Monday, October 1, 2001. While waiting for my latte, I noticed a brochure for Reiki treatments by Wendy Cohen. I’d undergone this Japanese treatment before when a practitioner laid her hands over my body and filled me with renewed life force. I had found it more energetically powerful than a massage, and it felt like intercessory prayer. I wanted a Reiki session for Dad to ease his death process and for me as I supported his journey to and following death.

I immediately called Wendy. She was busy that morning but promised to check back in a few hours.

Wendy called mid-afternoon to say she was coming. By that time Dad was actively dying.

“Do you want me to come anyway?” she asked.

I did.

A few minutes later, in walked a stranger dressed in a mini skirt and Harley Davidson jacket, holding a bright red basket filled with little bottles of flower vibrational essences. Wendy silently took her place among the small group that circled Dad’s bed.

As soon as Wendy’s hands hovered over Dad’s feet, my hands touching his face felt his energy soften. His breathing slowed, and my heart melted. Two minutes later, his spirit gently slipped out of his body. His final letting go.

When family gathered for Dad’s funeral a week later, his casket lay in St. Mary’s by the Sea Episcopal Church, a church he’d attended only for funerals and weddings. Draped over his coffin was a cloth of bright red, orange and green—the tablecloth Mom had completed for our Christmas, days before she died.

I touched his coffin on my way to the pulpit to preach his funeral sermon.

As ended my sermon, I said, “Dad died in the living room of his home, where Mom died fifteen years ago. This tired old body he left behind is here in the same church

where Mom’s funeral was held and is now covered by the same cloth that covered her casket. And our family will again use the tablecloth to cover the family table when we gather to feast together knowing that we are encircled with the spirit of Ed and Sue. … God, ‘give to us now your grace, that as we shrink before the mystery of death, we may see the light of eternity.’ ” *

On September 11, 2001, Dad began his three-week walk toward death. Simultaneously, hijacked planes crashed into buildings that epitomized US economic, military and governmental power.

For a moment Americans came together in grief, but within days we shifted to talk of war and patriotic pride. As a result, thousands more have died in our unwinnable battles. In contrast, Dad responded with an open heart and lived even as he died.

Though Dad was an in-control man for most of his life, his heart had softened fifteen years earlier after Mom died. We’d grieved together, cried together and talked about her often. But my heart broke open even more as I watched Dad let go into his death. He taught me many things about life while dying.

  • Look around, even when things are falling apart. Butterflies and otters, flowers and clouds remind us that there is a bigger picture that surrounds the crisis at hand. Connecting with nature can keep us grounded.
  • Expect help to come from all directions. Sometimes it comes from predictable sources: family or hospice workers. Yet sometimes it arrives in a miniskirt and leather jacket, bearing a red basket of love. We never know. But before help will be given, you must be open to the unexpected and say, “Yes, please come.”
  • Gather together. The table of Life is spread and covered with a beautiful cloth. Sometimes that cloth covers a casket and it is time to grieve, cry, and remember. Let your heart break. If we don’t stop and give space to our hurting hearts, we can’t fully be present to joy and celebration either. For holidays such as Thanksgiving or Christmas, this bright cloth covers our feast laden dining table. Last month, our celebration was the wedding of my son Paul to Lauren and, thus, the cloth adorned the table joining our two families. When time is held for both grieving and celebrating, gifts are offered abundantly.

Whether we are faced with exploding planes or a terminal illness, how we respond matters. We are not alone. There are more possibilities than we can imagine. If we’ll keep walking with open hearts, dancing or crying or shouting in the midst of it all—anything except running away or knee-jerk reacting—we just might discover that Life is offered abundantly far richer than we can ask or imagine.

* Excerpted from my book, Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pg 143-145.  Final words are from ”A Service of Death and Resurrection,” in The United Methodist Hymnal (Tennessee: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1969), 871

Fourth in the series about living while dying.

Let Your Heart Break #2: Death is Part of Life

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERADad was an organized man who kept meticulous books recording every penny earned and every penny spent. For as long as I could remember, he had exercised right on schedule, played golf on schedule and focused on his bowel regularity. Until he began his walk toward death, letting go wasn’t Dad’s cup of tea.

Somewhere in his bones, this man who had never been overtly interested in matters of the spirit knew that these final weeks of his life were a sacred invitation of transformation through release. He let go gracefully, if methodically.

When we met his attorney, Dad released his legal responsibilities. He made sure I understood his bookkeeping, then handed over all financial tasks. He walked independently for another week before he surrendered to a rolling walker.

One afternoon, Dad made yet another trek down the long hallway to the bathroom with his rolling walker. He stopped at his bed to take off his Pendleton wool shirt because its length got in the way. I offered to shorten the hem. He refused, insisting that there was no need for me to do that, and continued on his own.

Thursday, Connie came to clean his house, as she had done weekly for the fifteen years since Mom had died. When he told her about his cancer, Connie replied that maybe he would get better.

“No, I am dying,” he corrected Connie. “I’ve had a good, long life and I am ready to die.”

On Friday, Dad stopped walking altogether. We sat together in his bed, as his thoughts vacillated between this world and the next. “I can’t think of any brilliant thoughts to say, though it seems like I should,” he said. “I am quotable.”

All week I’d also felt that I should have been grabbing every opportunity to share profound thoughts about my love of Dad. Instead, we both were learning the richness of shared silence filled with love.

“No one prepares you for dying. Is this the way you thought it would be?” Dad asked me.

He wasn’t expecting an answer, but I was fascinated by his question.

Dad interrupted my pondering, saying, “I want to live a natural death.” He mumbled something else then chuckled, “I didn’t understand that one myself.”

I smiled. So many of our conversations over the years had been practical. Here, with death lurking at the door, we felt free to let our thoughts bounce from the absurd to the profound. All thoughts felt welcome that afternoon as we sat propped up on the bed, side-by-side.

“What if butterflies are the good guys?” he wondered.

I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Dad was letting go of his life on this Earth. We will all face death one day but today we are facing a different sort of dying: releasing old, outdated ways of living on this planet.

Surrender may not have been my cup of tea so far, but now is a good time for me to practice. Dad’s actions illuminated several skills that help in times of profound change.

Start with an honest assessment of the situation. As Dad responded to unfounded reassurance with, “No, I am dying,” I, too, need to be clear that now is the time to relinquish my tight hold on the status quo. Many of the ways of being that have felt “normal” and “right” must be acknowledged as polluting our world and spirits for us today and for generations to come.

For Dad, death wasn’t an escape; instead, he let go of his “good, long life” with gratitude. Likewise, much of the old has brought me delight and needs to be honored as nurturing my life. However, my culture’s short-sighted, unsustainable and inequitable framework needs to die and be rebuilt.

We speak of violent crime and build more prisons even though violent crime is at a 50 year low. We embrace more and more standard medical tests and treatment (if we can afford it), but overlook the toxic chemicals, radiation and stress that erode human and environmental health. We overlook the implications of privitatization of our water, manipulation of our food supply and destruction of our natural resources while racing through our days at an exhausting speed.

When I am willing to stop walking in the old ways, I can pick up my training wheels for walking into the new.

Dad, pushing his rolling walker, showed another way. He let go of fear in the face of death, and hope was born. He had no idea of what was next, how the process should be or even if butterflies were the good guys. None of that mattered anymore.

After Dad returned to his chair from the bathroom trip where I’d offered to hem his shirt, he reflected, “You know, something interesting just happened. You wanted to do something to make things easier for me, and I wanted to do something to make things easier for you.”

Death is part of life. Transitions aren’t easy, but fighting the inevitable is exhausting. Dad taught me that when I surrender my fear of the unknown, reach out in partnership with others and make daily choices that nurture my global family, I’ll find joy even in the dying parts of my life’s journey.

This is the second in a series about Living while Dying on our way to something new. I offer this in honor of my father, Edward Victor Mathys (1921-2001) and the dying that all of us alive on this planet need to experience now.

Much of this blog was excerpted from my book Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pages 140-145.

Photograph by Brenda Wills.

Let Your Heart Break #1: The Diagnosis

Judy Bork photoOn the morning of September 11, 2001, the doctor called with the results of my father’s CAT scan: extensive cancer throughout both lungs.

As I hung up the phone, the drone of the television in the living room reported moment-by-moment news, some true and some outlandish guesses, about two planes that had crashed into New York City’s Twin Towers. It was only 9:00 a.m. on the West Coast.

I looked out the window at Monterey Bay. The waves broke and gulls shrieked as they flew overhead. Everything looked normal.

I asked Dad to turn off the television and told him the news. “The doctor just called to say that you have widespread cancer in both lungs.”

“Oh,” Dad replied.

In the context of burning buildings and staggering losses, what were we to do with news of a personal tragedy? Dad turned the television back on. I walked out of the room.

Later, when the TV was turned off and the news had sunk in, Dad talked about his willingness to have chemotherapy. “I’m not afraid to lose my hair,” he said, running his fingers through the few hairs remaining on his balding head.

A few days later I returned home to take my first-born son to college. When he’d graduated from High School a few months before, Dad was delighted and looked healthy. Now he was dying.

Six hundred and thirty miles away from the University, a man who thrived in solitude pondered much in his heart. When I returned to see him the following week, Dad told me in a strong and steady voice, “I don’t want any treatment for this cancer. I’ve led a full life, and I am ready to die.”

I was grateful that he’d decided not to pursue treatment but was startled to hear him speak so directly of his death.

As soon as I could be alone, I reached out to a friend, seeking comfort for my grieving heart. She listened to the full range of my emotions, then said, “Just remember, death is safe.”

Side-by-side with my sadness, I knew that she was right. Settling into the reality of Dad’s illness without fighting it, I became able to accompany him moment by moment.

Fourteen years later, I am haunted by the diagnosis I hear from many sources: civilization as I have known it has tumors in its lungs too. It is dying.

The day the towers fell and my dad began his walk toward death, there was a window of time where my nation could have made a choice to grieve, to come together to look inside at the shadows that have long been present within the twin towers of money and military power. Unfortunately, we made a different choice—violence and retaliation.

Today, as we try to extricate ourselves from those wars we entered on a lie, Iraq is in crisis. Far too many on all sides have died. Far too much money was diverted away from programs that serve life toward war. Again. And again. And again.

Pollution. Climate change. Wealth inequities. Fear. Fracking. Greed. Violence. These are growing out of control. The facts are easily accessible to anyone interested in looking at our culture’s horrifying CAT scan.

If we choose to cling to life as we have known it, to demand cultural chemotherapy even though it won’t do any good, it will be hard to move forward. Desperate attempts to treat the societal tumors in an attempt to get back to normal won’t bring the healing we need to thrive for today or generations to come. That which is diseased needs to die so that something new can be born.

Looks can be deceiving. Dad looked healthy at the graduation in June, but his cancer was growing inside. Likewise, appearances of economic recovery can hide the fact that the cancer of ever-expanding growth continues to spread. Hanging on to the old life and refusing to grieve the losses makes it hard to see, or tend to, the tender new sprouts that are already emerging in unexpected places.

Dad, a precise man who liked to be in control, made a different choice when he could see his life fading away. Walking with him in the last three weeks of his life, he taught me many lessons about how to find life right in the middle of death.

Death is safe. Life is safe. Clinging will kill a person or a culture. It is our choice.

 

This is the first in a series about Living while Dying on our way to something new. I offer this in honor of my father, Edward Victor Mathys (1921-2001), during his birthday month.

Much of this blog was excerpted from my book Big Topics at Midnight: A Texas Girl Wakes Up to Race, Class, Gender and Herself, pages 140-145.

Photograph by Judy Bork.

 

Death in a Season of Birth

The call came in the middle of the night—a shrill ring startling me awake from a dead sleep.

It was Dad calling to tell me that my mother was “gone.” He couldn’t yet say the stark word “dead.”

That call came twenty-seven years ago last week. This holiday, I heard of one death after another—Richard, Skipper, Gabe, Brian, Shirley, Nelson and people whose names I only know as Dad, Mom and Grandpa. None of these people were in my inner circle of friends and family, yet all were people I cared about or were loved by them.

Each of these deaths involved phone calls no one wants to make or receive. Death here in the season where we celebrate birth.

I know the light is returning on this side of the winter solstice, but in the dark of night, the ever-present reality of death has settled deep in my bones.

In this upcoming year I will turn sixty, the age of my mother when she died.

My knee aches. Howard’s hearing diminishes. What will aging take from us?

Death and loss pace just outside the door of my life, and at this moment I’m afraid that someone I love dearly might be next.

Several years ago, I selected songs to honor Howard’s and my thirty-five years of marriage. One, “Nothing Lasts Forever,” was based on a poem by the mystic Rabindranath Tagore:

Nothing lasts forever…

keep that in mind,

and love.

To live with an open heart, loving others and life itself, will lead to the sharp pain of grief when death comes. And yet, paradoxically, full-hearted loving despite the fact that “nothing lasts forever,” it is only path to joy.

It takes courage to be awake and present in our lives. Rather than push my fear of loss away too quickly, I sit in the dark of night and let it soften me. Now is what we have each been given. Tomorrow is mystery.

Writing is one of the ways I make sense of my life and my feelings. Putting these words on paper didn’t make the fear evaporate, but it reminded me once again of the solid foundation that trust and courage offer all of me, including my loving heart and frightened bones. Someday soon, my fears will settle as they have many times before.

When that happens, I will remember that life and death are two sides of the same coin. And both are normal and safe.

Khara Scott-Bey
Khara Scott-Bey