On Living with Death in Mind
Yet it is in this loneliness that the deepest activities begin. It is here that you discover act without motion, labor that is profound repose, vision in obscurity, and, beyond all desire, a fulfillment whose limits extend to infinity. - Thomas Merton
[This post was held back in draft form because I was emotionally drained. And wanted to be clear on one thing before the post goes up again. This is an intensely raw challenge for me because my grandparents raised me from the time I was eleven. It tears me up to know they are facing their mortality, the mortality of their friends and brothers and sisters and, in my grandfather's case, mom. The challenge is in staying open and raw to that. It is my hope that that is what comes through in this post. That knowing my struggle may help you in some small way - with yours.]
I think about death on an almost daily basis.
But wait. Don't go!
It's not a morbid preoccupation with death. I'm not depressed. I'm enthusiastic about life.
In fact, I'm going to start where Suebob left off, "So. That's not the most cheerful challenge on earth, but there it is. There is no tidy ending, no Oprah-episode aha moment. Just life. I hope that's enough."
She's referring to her relationship with her aging parents. That's her biggest challenge.
*
As my grandparents have gotten older, it has become more challenging to connect with them. When I call, our conversations turn to who is dying and of what. Who has lost her mind (literally. This is not kvetching, we're talking Alzheimer's). The ailments and illnesses and end of life care. The ignominy of losing control of one's bodily functions.
I love my grandparents. These are difficult calls to have.
The challenge isn't getting easier - it gets harder. I selfishly don't want to pick up the phone and call because I don't want to know who is dying. Or of what.
When my mom died it signaled the loss a buffer between youth and old age. The one that keeps you from thinking about death and dying until you approach your own mortality. My grandparents were only in their fifties, but I started hearing about cataracts when I was a teenager. I guess I became a bit preoccupied with the notion that I was dying, too.
The biggest challenge for me, if I get to the root of it, isn't tethered to 2009. Nor is it the challenge of a decade. I'm always working with it. And on some level, I believe, so are you. The challenge of life is to cultivate it with an awareness that it ends.
I use the thought of death to get started. I know I can stew in my self-loathing or I can grow something. Being aware of my own mortality lets me keep my fingers on the pulse of life. Two fingers. Square on the throbbing bit. Knowing we're going to die puts us right up against the unflinching edge of life.
*
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
- excerpted from T S Eliot's "East Coker"
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Reader Comments (22)
Gwen, I hug you. Hard. And although I did not lose my mom at age 11 and will never know that particular pain and challenge, I know what you're talking about. We're all in this together.
I sustained my brain injury when i was thirty-two. In the next seven years, as I went to hospital rehab on a near daily basis, I watched my friends marry, have children, build careers, change careers, change partners, buy houses...
But I know a secret that most do not. I know that I am alive. And I know that life is precious.
Big hugs to you. Mahala
whew. this post, read tonight while i cuddle on our couch with tons of cats (four surround me as i type), while my husband builds us a new bathroom, and i am stopped. i have spent my day knitting and snuggling and shoveling snow, grateful for a day off, but ever conscious of my lack of gratitude. for this life i have, for the "struggles" that are really not struggles at all.
and then i am reminded, tonight, by your words, that sooner than i'd like i will be gone. and all that will be left will be the things i have done, the impressions i have left.
i have a quote on the back of my brand-new business cards. "our actions are our only possessions." somehow this sticks out strikingly bright in light of what you've written tonight.
Your grandmother would likely love your phone calls if you set aside your fear and listen to HER fears. Death and dying is as much a part of her life now as Internet and Twitter connections is to yours. Ask her about her feelings and struggles in life when she was your age. Or when she was experiencing something new at a stage in her life. Powerful lessons to be heard and to ever resonate within.
I lost my father when I was six. Mama died when I was 26. Both of my half-siblings died in the past two years. I am all that is left of them. My parents' generation is slowly going away, too. I am not close to my family. It doesn't get easier; it gets different.
I used to be angry to be the one always left behind. Now, in an odd way, it is comforting. I don't envy my friends and the stuff they have ahead of them. Being an orphan, while difficult in so many ways, makes living easier. I am responsible to no one except myself. The problem is I want to be responsible for someone...so I'm responsible for everyone. I've come to see everyone as my family now.
I think about death every day, too. I'm not a morbid person, though I find great humor in the most horrendous things. I am delighted by happiness when it visits me. More than anything, I want to be the person my parents never could be. It's a big responsibility.
Dealing with my dad's was the biggest challenge and greatest learning experience of my life. I actually purposely avoided this challenge (although I had it in mind when I wrote this post - http://herbadmother.com/2009/12/of-shoes-and-ships-and-sealing-wax-and-hoarding-stuff-and-things/ - and I guess that *writing* that post was the answer to the challenge. I should go back and tag it) because it was too much - too much to think about, too much to think about, more than could be contained in one post, or even two.
When my dad died, I felt as though I'd been preparing for that moment my whole life, and, in a way, I had: I had feared it and wondered about it since I was old enough to understand in the most basic terms what death meant. So arriving at that day - the day that I learned he'd died - was like traveling through time, being launched from my childhood to the moment in time when the greatest fear of my childhood was realized and it felt - viscerally felt - as though I had been suddenly, finally, irrevocably plunged into adulthood. More than when I got married, more than when I gave birth to my own children: THIS was the moment of my growing up, the moment in which I had to face my greatest fear and walk through it, walk through it and feel it and LIVE it and come out the other side.
(Something about that here - http://herbadmother.com/2009/08/here-be-monsters/ - although I'd really only just begun to walk.)
I'm not out the other side yet, which is maybe why I struggle to write about it. But I'm walking, and learning, and the whole thing has and is causing my heart and soul to expand and to feel in ways that I never thought possible. And I am so immensely grateful for that - grateful to him, for letting me love him so much that I cannot help but have this experience, and to this experience, for being what it is. And to myself, I suppose, for persisting in the walk, through the fear, hanging on to the love.
You will do that too. I know that you will. You already are.
Thanks for sharing this, Gwen. This is some of the toughest stuff we deal with, and as you mention, it can also be some of the most motivating. One of my favorite poems, "When Death Comes" by Mary Oliver, expresses that urgency. Link to the text below. I first heard this poem read at a Shambhala Training weekend and I read it again every few months.
http://www.globalideasbank.org/LA/LA-2.HTML
Gwen,
Thank you for this. It is brave and honest. I so relate to the notion that one of the biggest challenges is staying raw to something hard, something that pushes us to think about our limits and, indeed, our end. To think about loss and the ways in which this time is limited and insufficient.
But only by keeping that openness, that vulnerability, that truth right there next to our day to day lives can we really live in them. I believe that.
Thank you for your gorgeous words.
You have struck me speechless. And yet, I want to find the words. I know how much courage it took to let this see the light but, hell, lady, it absolutely shines. And yes, you are absolutely correct (at least for me) - death is a frequent thought and it can provoke amazing action. I think other cultures have much better structures in which to place one's fears, concerns, questions, and wonder about death and mortality, but we do what we can. And you are doing one of the most beautiful things, which is being honest in a public space where others can share in camaraderie, commiseration, shared wisdom, and hope. xoxo
I love you.
I cannot imagine the pain of losing a parent at age 11. I can, however, empathize with the pain of dealing with people you love who are aging. Iin my case my parents. My father, in particular, is 88 and not well. He's actually miserable. He wants to die. And I want him to go. He's not happy, he's in pain and this is not what he bargained for. And it kills me inside.
Nobody prepares you for this part of life. You grow up fantasizing about becoming an adult, maybe getting married, maybe having kids, etc. But nobody tells you, "And THEN life is gonna really start to suck."
It's fantastic that you're talking about this so openly. I think more people have death on their minds than we think. I for instance think about losing my parents someday and it makes me sick to my stomack - especially since II live 6000 miles from them and dont 'get to see them very often.
You're a brave, brave person.
ups. I meant "stomach", of course.
I came back to read the comments and it reminded me of something I had forgotten. Which is, I think it may be easier to be the one going through the illness or the death than it is to be the one watching and living on. I hope no one will read that as being callous about anyone's dying process. More a recognition of the grief, which transforms but never really ends.
gwen, this is big. thank you for talking about something that too many people consider taboo, preferring to play ostrich when it comes to talk of death. precious few have the talent, the intelligence, the willingness, the fortitude to do as you've done here and reframe death as a reason to live.
Dealing with the raw pain that loss of love is - is so many things for so many people. I only know this - don't ignore it, don't rush through it, don't pretend it isn't happening, don't get lost in the details - get lost in the love. The time you have together, the time that they are with you, the memories you have of each other - get lost in that and love every freaking minute that they are there with you. Be brave, we are all dealing the very best we can with this tenacious place that is life.
Dear Gwen,
I recently read this from a blog: "In order for our lives to have meaning, we need to die" (Happy Days blog). I thought this is true, but somehow, I'm terrified of death cuz I love my life so much. It's tough for me to even think about death of just anyone around me.
But since my grandmom passed away, I know she had a meaningful life, and now she is deserved to rest peacefully.
Hope you all the best
Gwen,
In my family there were once six. One brother left before I was born = 5. The next brother left after 28 short years here (I was 12) = 4. Then, my Dad, 5 years later (I was 17) = 3. Then Mom, 2 months after I married (I was 25) = 2.
2 of 6. My sister and I, still thankfully here.
This is with me every day, yet, I am a surprisingly optimistic gal. You seem to be too (from abbreviated history I have read).
It's lovely that you post about grief. It's also lovely that you post about Metallica, parties and unfortunate family photos!
Life goes on and we are prime examples...
I too have had experience with death and dying from a very young age. I deeply appreciate this post because it is an affirmation of a way I've felt for years, beautifully stated by you:
"Being aware of my own mortality lets me keep my fingers on the pulse of life. Two fingers. Square on the throbbing bit. Knowing we're going to die puts us right up against the unflinching edge of life." YES!
I try to keep this Emily Dickinson poem in my mind whenever I'm starting to get whiney... Helps me to change my tune.
"We do not know the time we lose. The awful moment is, and takes its fundamental place among the certainties. A firm appearance still inflates the card, the chance, the friend. The specter of solidities whose substances are sand."
Thank you for your openness and vulnerability in sharing this, Gwen. You are a brave woman.
Peace to you, Gwen, & lots of love.
Great post....I have been thinking on this a lot recently- just read Joan Halifax's book "Being with Dying" - great - and not depressing - as everyone thought and commented as I was reading. love to you. allison