Judi B's Blog

Dairy 1/31/19

I am listening to my dear friend Cathie Malach’s album. (https://cathiemalach.bandcamp.com/releases) 

It is a wonder of heartful spirited original piano creations titled Heartland. One of the tunes entitled February, is dedicated to me and Richard. Cathie’s father died shortly after Richard, and we shared the intimacy of mutually mourning our losses. After I moved to Ohio, she also moved from Woodstock to the mid-west, to Indiana, sharing yet another major displacement to be near dear family/friends. We have resettled into our respective new homes, where we are busy rediscovering ourselves.

Unofficially, Cathie was a death doula for me and Richard. She simply stepped deeper into our lives the minute she knew Richard had begun his journey in Cancerland. Being as skilled a massage therapist as she is a talented musician, she knew precisely how compromised I was in the body she had tended so well. Less and less able to manage my daily life, I had to climb up and out into a level of worldly interaction I never expected. Cathie helped with every decision on the journey of dismantling our home and moving to a more accessible rental closer to town where we had to set up temporary residence. That rental house became Richard’s temple for dying. His ashes joined with the same nearby stream where I grew up, where he and I played together as young lovers, and where our children also joyfully splashed when they were small. It flows on without us during this deep freeze. I picture it frozen white with only a hint of movement within the dark flowing depths below.

(More detailed stories of the past are in the Caring Bridge section of the blog. I have entries from there still left to transfer, but at least half the material is available. At a certain point I needed a break from rereading what was so recently raw. I think I am almost ready to complete the task.)

Cathie’s music soothes and awakens me, stirring my own creative juices. Now that I am well enough to breathe a healthy lungful of air, it calls me to open my inner ears to unborn songs that need my help to be heard. I have had a quirky reaction to listening to music by myself. I don’t even litsen to the radio, or watch a DVD since Richard is gone. I just- pull away from it. It isn’t as if he and I always shared these things together. His taste in movies was not always mine, and if I didn’t get involved right away in the plot, characters, or documentary subject he chose, I left to go read a book on my own. I still mosly read a lot. We loved the same music and I used to enjoy riding in the car with him, listening to his vast array on Pandora. Preferring our news in other media forms, we hadn’t had a TV hooked up for years. I can easily listen to or watch just about anything with others present. I have heard other widows and widowers say they also had a hard time with former beloved entertainment. Grief is not meant to be rational.

Now I have a regular date to listen to NPR’s program, Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me every Saturday morning with my friend Lynn down the hall. As she says, “Laughing together with someone is the best way to kick off a weekend.” I agree. The “listening to music alone” ice is now broken with Cathie’s gifts pouring through me. My older daughter Emilia was just here, hanging up a few more pictures for me. Her husband, Zoran, comes with her tomorrow and his royal tallness will be our handy ally in finishing the decorating job. We will have dinner, and enjoy my sparkling new home. Though I am not talented with technology, I will endeavor to get some pictures up when it is completed.

There are memories and stories to attend each piece of art. There is a curious delight to see them now, some of which have traveled with me, literally, since my chlldhood. Somehow, they all arrived here safely in my own temple of living and dying, housed inside my sunshine yellow room.

Diary 1/27/19

Inevitably, I think of my childhood illnesses while stricken with an upper respiratory virus that has kept me totally in bed for a couple of days. This helpless misery of feeling so ill that nothing can take you away from the experience of suffering, reminds me of being sick in my bed as a child. My mom was a sporadically nurturing type. I do remember Campbell’s canned cream of tomato soup with buttered Pepperidge Farm bread sliced into small squares floating on top. Or soft boiled eggs with crumbled Saltine crackers and ginger ale if it was tummy trouble. After the nursing mother role wore off, she just hoped I would get better already so she could get back to her life. Apparently I always did.

When I was six, I was stricken with Rubella measles that lasted three weeks. For that bout, I stayed with my baby sitter’s family which I had often done in the past. One afternoon, I heard weird moaning sounds that frightened me. The family was going on about their business downstairs and I had no idea what to do. Finally, I realized that I was the one making those noises. I had a high fever and must have been a bit delirious.The shades had been drawn the whole time as it was feared my eyes would be damaged by exposure to the light.

As a young adult, I was stricken with a severe case of chicken pox. I taught nursery and kindergarten classes in a private Montessori school. Though it was rampant in the public school system, I was the only one in our whole school who came down with the illness. The itchy white blisters covered every inch of my skin both outside and some inside. It was torturous. When my older daughter had a moderately bad case of it when she was eight, she said through her tears, “Mommy, the only good thing about having chicken pox is that it will be over soon.” The only good thing about being in bed with an upper respiratory ailment is that it will be over; sooner or later. Most of the folks I know who have had this say it took at least three weeks just to stop coughing, let alone regain their energy.

The other good thing is that right now I am in lying on my bed in my new room full of painted yellow sunshine. It is much more spacious than my old dwelling, with distance enough to see across to my living room area. I am taken care of by nurse mommies, checking my temperature (no fever), bringing me menus for meals, (soups, salads, and tea), and distributing Robitussin and an albuterol nebulizer in a face mask so I can breathe better. They have decided it is not bronchitis or any other dastardly disease; so no antibiotics. That is also good news.

I do sound like several croaking bullfrogs fighting over a lily pad. It may well interfere with reading my poem at a sharing with my Writer’s Bloc group this Thursday. It would be distracting for an audience to interpret frog ribbets. Ah well, that is what happens when you are ill. All those plans lie fallow until you get back on your feet or reclaim your voice. Not a tragedy by any means. Just a delay.

Yesterday there was a misery moment of suffering such deep weakness, disorientation and pressure from overstuffed sinuses, and gasping, wracking coughs, that I knew that only Richard could understand just how badly I felt. Since he wasn’t here…poor me. Daughters and friends near and far check in and I actually am not lonely. Plus, I feel a bit better today and was very bored with lying around: a good sign that my body is moving in the right direction.

My inner mommy, who is also a body centered psychotherapist, thinks perhaps this woman is carrying more unshed grief in her chest. I think she is right but I cannot press a cathartic ‘deep weep’ button to deliver on command. Grief has her own ways and timing of expression and I am confident that once I can breathe freely and not burst into gut wrenching coughs, she will emerge for a thorough cleansing. In case I needed a catalyst, Richard’s one year death anniversary is coming up in less than three weeks.

It is still unbelievable to me. His death, our almost fifty years together, our entire history of life accomplishments, have drifted far from my everyday reality. He is ever present; not as he was, as ‘that man, Richard’, but as the presence he radiated from within all those years. His unique attitudes or opinions about my current earthly life sneak into my ear from time to time, and I chuckle when they do. I know they are my thoughts offering a different perspective cloaked in his speech patterns. His internal essence is quietly there in any moment I choose the awareness of being. How can he ever be far away from me?

I can turn my head on my pillow and look into his eyes in my favorite photograph of him. Hanging on the wall beside me, he is slightly squinting into the sun wearing his Hudson Valley Draft Horse Association cap. My Dutch friend Daphne snapped this when we were together on Mount Blanc. I love it because his eyes are looking directly forward at me. The vast distances beyond the observation deck peering into Switzerland or Italy or France inform his gaze. His eyes reflect the intensity of the man and his serious, playful nature captured in that one moment of our lives. It is but a thin disguise of Love I am seeing there, and it nurtures me.

Diary 1/10/19

My creative muse has quieted down from the upwelling riotous mode I arrived with at Kendal. I am less urgent about the need to express myself in any medium. Today, I managed to pen a celebratory drinking song (wine, beer, or water?) as a birthday salute to the talented singer that hosts the activity we call Song Swap, every other Wednesday evening. She knows by heart, hundreds of songs from many genres, though is an expert on Civil War era songs. Performing all over the world, she and her husband have based themselves here for several years now. We are so lucky to have them. He is our main AV man and recently rewired and digitized the entire auditorium’s sound and lighting system for any sort of presentation.

Other than drinking songs, I am rather quiet, matching the long awaited descent of snow and cold temperatures by hibernating. The too early spring-like weather we have had for so long, summoned sprouting plants that must now retreat back underground to reawaken in a few more months. The current overnight freezing temperatures will keep the recent snowfalls covering our world. I do not feel frozen, but rather, suspended. A Pathwork lecture* (number 224) that I remember from years past, was titled Creative Emptiness. For me, that is a description of the taste of Awareness in silence. I experience deep draughts from a plenum of emptiness that brims with unlimited potential. I am simmering things for the future but even a personal daily diary has been a stretch lately and my blog an inviting blank page.

I am still here, though. In lieu of anything more thoughtful, I will share that my move to a larger room is at long last actually in progress. Yesterday, the noise of ripping up old carpeting in there brought knowing glances from everybody I saw. Workmen installed the underlayment for the incoming laminated wood flooring I purchased, and they say, it will be done by Friday. The head of facilities for the Care Center and I both thought we should count on that as meaning that by Monday or Tuesday, I could be moving in. The empty boxes cluttering up my small room for the last month will now be filled. I get to change my mailing address from 514 to 602 Kendal Drive. Even though it is just a move down the hall twenty five feet or so, that means contacting the P.O., Social Security, the bank, my insurance, my tax man, my lawyer, etc.

I am not looking forward to the temporary chaos that will ensue over the next couple of weeks. But it is my final move and I am very much looking forward to being settled in my new space. It is a great location in terms of accessing the places at the Care Center I most utilize now, and it has the advantage of no longer being as close to the nurse’s station. That can be rather noisy with activity, both during the day, but also at night as the staff keep themselves entertained during the long quiet hours when most of us are sleeping. Besides having more needed space, the loveliest advantage is that I have a kitchenette, ensuring that I can fix healthy supplemental meal additions for myself. Then, right outside my door, is the Country Kitchen, the make-to-order breakfast spot for the Care Center. It was originally designed solely for families to make their own food or to share take-out meals with loved ones who were ensconced here in recovery, or in their final days.

That kitchen has a communal stove, (I am only allowed a microwave) double sinks, dinnerware, pots and pans, etc. as well as a large fridge with a freezer drawer. My personal tiny fridge freezer can harbor flat ice packs,, but not much else. I am the queen of ice packs around here, using them on my back all day long. If I like, I can sweep out of my room wearing my bathrobe directly across the hall to break my fast with friends. The space is active from about 7:00 to 10:00 in the mornings (closed on Sundays) and sporadically with occasional families and other small gatherings. I am awake early anyway, so the pleasant chattering and delicious morning food smells will not bother me. They arise from friends and immediate neighbors and the small kitchen staff are the best friendly waitress/cooks imaginable. They know each of our ‘usuals’, and the right coffee or tea or particular juice and muffin appears at your place the minute you show up.

My new room is painted “Veranda Sunshine” yellow and I am happy to know it awaits me, glowing cheerfully, even on a dark January day like today. And it will be complete with new “Butterscotch oak” flooring. Moving into my last home while informed by stillness, is my little heart’s desire.

* The Pathwork is a psycho/spiritual practice my husband and I studied for many years. https://pathwork.org/the-lectures/

Diary 1/2/19

2019 is here. Whether you celebrated that fact or not, the new calendar year has begun. We have officially agreed that our planet is starting a new cycle of 365 days. Our birthdays are a more personal 365 day kickoff with best wishes and many happy returns of the day (with hope it was not an unhappy day). Time is invisible and yet it rules our daily lives.

As I have written before, the Greeks named the God of Time, Kronos, which we spell Chronos; from which we derive the words, chronology, chronicle, chronic, synchronous, etc. This god was a not exactly a nice entity in that he consumed his children, but he did have a grandson named Kairos. Kairos represents an entirely different sense of time, or actually, ‘no time.’ Kairos represents NOW, in which our sense of past and future is subsumed. He appears not as a moment in linear time, he just is; timeless.

Jesus used the word kairos as meaning “in God’s appointed time,” which is unbounded and unlimited by human thought. Hippocrates used kairos to mean “the right use of treatment at the right time by which healing occurs”, using intuition, not just the application of the science of his time. As a culture defined by space and time, we agree that time marches on in a linear fashion from the past, through the now point, and beyond into the infinite future. It is difficult to contemplate any other way of existence.

For me, as I delve into Silence, I experience the foundation of being in Kairos. There is no split between Kronos and Kairos; they more and more appear to me as one and the same. That is, my world- bound sense of time is created out of ‘no time’. In that way, they are not separate at all. This amazing universe baffles scientists as they have not yet pinpointed the reality of matter. The more quantum physicists name smaller and smaller molecules that comprise an atom, the more it appears they don’t actually exist as ‘things’, only as energy. We have known for a while that the observer affects whether we see a molecule as a particle or a wave. Niels Bohr, a Nobel prize winner in physics, said, “If quantum mechanics hasn’t primarily shocked you, you haven’t understood it yet. Everything we call real is made up of things that cannot be regarded as real.”

R.C. Henry, a professor of physics and anatomy at Johns Hopkins University said, “ The Universe begins to look more like a great thought rather than like a great machine. Mind no longer appears to be an accidental intruder into the realm of matter. Get over it, and accept the inarguable conclusion. The universe is immaterial- mental and spiritual.”

My own explorations in questing deeper are heartened by knowing that centuries of mystics are affirmed by modern scientists. By consenting beliefs, humans have largely ignored the ‘inarguable conclusion’ and insist that time and space are the inalterable foundations of our lives. Many believe in a singular god that a created it just that way. Scientists ignore what does not fit into their predetermined assumptions. The inexplicable mysteries and gaps are plugged in with the idea we just have to keep investigating everything from dark matter to the placebo effect until we find proof of what we have decided, must be so. This flies in the face of most scientific inquiry. Asking deeper questions threatens too much of life as we know it, rendering ‘getting over it’ very uncomfortable. That singular entity of God is also assigned responsibility for mysteries because His ways are unknowable. For me, an unknowable, limitless god is a religious name for awareness or consciousness.

It seems that time is, and is not. As I join my elders here at Kendal we all find that time seems more and more illusory. And we still pay our taxes ‘on time’. Aging naturally affords a slowing down of activity and invites more being. My meditation classes here are slowly expanding with people who find support for the benign process of the dissolution of who they were, for how their identities of ‘doing’ keep downshifting. They are atheists, Christians, Jews, Quakers, and a few Buddhists. We sit together, invoking stillness. We are finding, each in our own way, the taste of inherent love, peace, creativity, and quiet joy in plumbing Silence, a path to the effervescent foundation of being. Kairotic awareness does not shift and change. It is for me a refuge; an endless plenum of still spaciousness in the chaotic splendor of daily life.

Dairy 12/14/18 Dancing Again? Me?

My dance ‘debut’ at Oberlin last night was wonderful. My part of actually moving was maybe 3 minutes long but it was with a senior student who is finishing her second to last semester as a dance major. She and a class partner came to our Care Center to do Authentic Movement classes with compromised (or not) seniors. I was immediately certain I should go see what they were up to and was able to attend their first and last classes. In and of itself, the class was revelatory to see people who don’t talk much, or at all, responding to movement prompts the tag team offered. I loved seeing how using music and movements bypass the verbal confusion of those with dementia.

I connected with Martha, one of the teachers, after the first class and we spoke about how much I enjoyed their offerings, about dance, and my experiences over the years. She ended up asking if I would participate in a movement project with her. Because it was short, with me sitting on a chair in a movement improv style conversation with one another, I agreed. She made a recording of sounds walking around Kendal and she filmed our first ‘conversation’ in the room where she had taught, which is also the room where I lead my meditation classes. Last night with the audience of others in her class and lots of friends, she played the soundscape along with the first video of us moving together, as we did it live once more. She sent me a video that a friend took and it was fascinating to see how we moved in the moment against moving in the same time frame as in the simultaneously running film. She was pleased and grateful for my participation and I am so grateful to her.

For many years, losing my body feedback was a very gradual decline. Just choreographng my daily life of self care to house care with MS, was all I could manage. It seemed that orchestrating the nuances of physical demands of functional living took up all my creative energies. I exercised every day for years, no matter how limited I was, and worked with a PT every week. But the joy of self initiated movement for my own self reflection was too hard to summon. Now that Kendal takes care of so many of my daily needs, I have been a little creative fountain spewing out songs, poems, essays and now- some subtle inner dancing arises once more.

The byproduct of this inner listening and spontaneously breathing, sounding and moving is very healing. Now it is time to embrace my body as I am recommitting to living as fully as I can. The pleasure I am rediscovering is quiet, more evocative of allowing, and much less of any doing. It mirrors what my friend, Maiya, calls Body Wisdom. Deeply entering through the body leads to Silence with no body. This kind of self introspection has always been a doorway for me. Martha has agreed to learn some Contiuum tools from me; Continuum being the name of my last set of teachings in this arena of bio-spiritual work. I believe my current physical needs/limitations/knowings will open new doorways for discovery and I am so grateful to Martha for coming into my life at this juncture. A mutual delight.

Besides sharing our piece last night, I got to watch three others before it was our turn. One was created with a program of an articulated stick figure on the computer screen that mimicked the performer’s every move. Every time she took action, it also triggered elctronic sounds that she had preprogrammed. The potential for such a piece was staggering (and jumping, waving, stepping, and crouching) and riveting to watch. The audience itself was wonderful. These young people are full of the self authority of taking on the world, on the cutting edges, and because it is Oberlin, a hugely diverse group. The excitement of finals week buzzed and hummed and I am ready to pass on the baton to them. Please.

Part of Kendal’s gift is to have this exchange of elders and youngers. I have seen many other concerts here, but on this Sunday, an annual marimba concert from the Oberlin Conservatory comes to us and that is our buzz of our anticipation. It is the musical highlight of the year according to some. Can’t wait.

Diary 12/5/18

The following is used as part of the 12-Step program of recovery in Al-Anon that my friend printed out for me. “Acceptance…I must always remember: Life is 10% of what happens to me and 90% how I choose to react to life….How can I treat others with acceptance, tolerance, and love? Am I accepting myself and others as we are? How?”

Acceptance is right up there with forgiveness as a most basic, difficult practice of the human condition.

You can’t have one without the other. It is also foundational to growth. Unless I know the chemical nature of my soil (highly acidic in the Catskills where I did many years of gardening) I shouldn’t be surprised when plants requiring a more alkaline environment wither and die on me. If I insist they should and do not accept the reality, I will experience a distressing loss every time. Accepting what I deem unacceptable requires a lot of introspection. Once the ranting, blaming, self -pitying, temper tantrum subsides, I am left with what is, and how to accept it. It may be that much harder if I experience painful unjust results caused by someone other than myself. I have often told the following story to past clients.

Good friends once invited Richard and me over for a late afternoon of extended appetizer nibbles. Their son, who used to be in the nursery school I ran, came home from public school, sobbing. He rushed through the door and flung himself into his father’s lap. I knew him as a very bright, sensitive, and charismatic child. He also insisted on finding the one disruptive thing he could do in my classroom almost every day and because he was a natural leader, he could throw our small community into an uproar in minutes. He had a cherubic innocent face with twinkling blue eyes and by the time he went on to kindergarten, we had learned to resolve these incidents with greater finesse on both sides.

When he had calmed down enough to speak, his father asked him what had happened. “ The teacher said,” he gulped out, “that if one more person spoke out of turn there would be no outdoor recess today. And somebody did, and it wasn’t me!” His father held him some more and then said softly, “ Yes, well, sometimes life isn’t fair.” His son pulled back with eyes wide open in astonishment. “ If life isn’t fair, then I don’t want to be here!” he wailed.

I have never forgotten that moment. He was me, and is all of us, recognizing for the first time, that life is not run on our personal rules of fairness. I have experienced this truth countless times and it always requires serious introspection. “Am I accepting myself and others as we are? How?” Those are the questions that lead to resolution. That is the way to acceptance and the peace that arises when we see our way clear past the immediate distress. It is easy to write these words, even to know for sure it is the only choice, yet for me, I still require rehashing a well worn cycle before I find rest in this new circumstance and do the inner work.

The first question goes further, “How can I treat others with acceptance, tolerance, and love?”

Starting with acceptance, that next step is how can I also tolerate the ongoing problem? How might I need to shift my own participation in this interaction? Do I need to find new healthy boundaries? Do I need to speak out in a way to promote better understanding with positive criticism? Do I see how this may be a familiar pattern from my past? Can I lower my demanding expectations of how it should be? Can I allow others their differences in good grace? Can I see the human beings beneath the drama?

Finally, can I treat others with love? Ultimately, following this inquiry to its inevitable conclusion leads to love. Loving ourselves for being in this unacceptable predicament, no matter how we ended up there, is paramount. Once we find we are always lovable, love naturally flows out again towards others.

It is fierce work but Love is always the unending recovered treasure that awaits us.

The last month of the year of 2018 has begun. It is strangely difficult to imagine letting it go, because Richard was still alive in this year. He was in the process of dying, but in December of 2017 he read “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” to me and Len and Marion after Christmas dinner. He insisted he wanted to even though he was nearly blind. He did OK speaking the lush language. With forty years of repetition he could step into the well worn footprints of the Welsh snow. Those he could summon in his clouded brain. Marion and I glanced at one another when he missed key sentences but we listened intently as well. It was clear to us this would be his last reading. I briefly thought of recording him, wishing we had thought to record him when he was fully present. I dismissed the idea knowing that preserving this phase of his decline was not something we wanted to keep for the future.

By January 2018 he was in the hospital more than he was home. We were hoping that by allowing the doctors to administer full brain radiation this would slow down the cancer cells flowing freely in his cerebral spinal fluid. The lymphoma was busy finding more homes within the nooks and crannies of his brain. The oncologist thought mostly it would offer relief from spinal pain (it did) and that it would help to sustain more mental clarity (it didn’t). As I have written before, that man, Richard, that I loved so well, was no longer here, even though his fading body and mind still occupied the hospital bed of our rental house living room. Relating to his body, altered as it was, kept him anchored in our world with us for twelve more precious days once he was released from the hospital.

Through a psychic friend after his death, it was comforting to hear him ‘say’ to me, that “the bull needed to move aside so that my  lamb could step in.” We all have different aspects of our personality. Richard was so deeply loving and kind but he was also stubborn and willful. Naming the bull was very specific and it is true, that he was also an utterly sweet, endearing lamb the more the brain tumors eradicated his executive function. I watched him become wide open and without boundaries as the end drew near. His body would jerk if someone opened the door to the kitchen at the far end of the house. I could barely hear them entering but his sense of the change in atmosphere was instantaneous. That is why we were so blessed by his bevy of caretakers. If we had someone with an abrasive personality it would have troubled him greatly. Instead we got angels.

Music particularly ran through his body like wine. You could see his nervous system responding to the words or rhythm whenever someone sang to him, which we all did in our own way. We could feel the mutuality of exchange whether his body or voice was visibly or audibly participating or not. The psychic also reported he said the he had been hyper aware, with the left side of the brain diminishing as the right side opened up to where he was going. Whether that is truth that was channeled or not does not trouble me. I have no need to confirm the unknowable in rational terms. Articulating the omnipresent infinite cannot be accomplished, certainly not by me.

Again and again, I can say from my experience, I saw that Richard was Love itself and that I now know that we all are. It has nothing to do with our belief systems. I cannot ever un-know this perception of our human selves. It was a great gift that Richard bestowed on me. The loss of the bull is something we will all experience in unique ways. The presence of the lamb will step forward when we, too, move aside into Love. I know he is Love in 2019 and forever. The 2018 calendar is in *Kronos time. Kairos time offers me an additional perspective.

*Kronos: the Greek god of linear time

*Kairos: Kronos’ grandson of the eternal now

11/29/18

Yesterday was another ‘first’ of tough days because it was Emilia’s birthday. We both missed Richard fiercely; me, the co-parent of this first-born daughter; her, the father of her life. Emilia looked up his birthday email to her from last year, when he was already very compromised in comprehension and focus. He was in denial about the reality of his losses and wasn’t able to process in rational ways. He didn’t know that he was three months away from death. But his email was crystal clear about how much he loved her on so many levels. It made us both weepy to reread his sweet words of love.

I slept better last night after a day that became too busy for me to handle gracefully. I got 6 hours in a row! which was a minor miracle after a week of choppy dozing that passed for a night’s sleep. Pushing myself onto a hamster wheel of unending practical accomplishments, I felt pressed for time yesterday, determining that I had to race endlessly on. Which of course, I cannot do well. I summoned old habits that have apparently not died off from lack of use, as my body/energy continues to fail. I easily summoned that anxious, pushy Judi who I have not revisited for some time. I claim her as my little sister, giving her loving boundaries. She was dragging me along behind her on a long rope of fear, afraid to stop and feel sorrow. Finally, her exhausted little fists unclenched, letting the burden go.

I am learning to tolerate my breaking heart though I still construct sturdy dams against the pain. The pressure builds, my defenses collapse, and finally I overflow with tears. Great emotion pours out. I find myself open to more love both entering in and shining out. I am awash in love. This is a gift of grief. Death and loss break our hearts open over and over again until we accept that this is essential to living the fullness of human experience. No wonder we fear death. Each piece of defense crumbles away until our very identity is subsumed, while our hearts remain wide open. Recognizing this cycle, and allowing it to run its course, is something I am gaining some conscious control over; death defies any control.

If I insist that there must be a way to cut off this painful half of being human, I create more suffering. I suffer “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” as a woman who is cleaved from her real being. This role eventually becomes too heavy to hold; the burden unbearable. I crave the refuge and relief that comes from being whole again. I see more clearly that this is a drama co-authored by me.

There are more and more times when I know I am the author, the actor, and the unchanging stage upon which the play is enacted. There is a new self-abiding that I repeatedly lose, but find, and am found by, in intimate moments of awareness. It arises not because I am trying to escape the pain, but because I am learning to unlock the door and put out a welcome mat for it instead.

Many upcoming rituals and holidays will celebrate the return of light to our corner of the darkening earth. The vast cosmic dance toward and away from the sun echoes the drama of humanity. We swing towards and away from the light we crave and the black empty space we so fear. Seven billion of us co-create and co-author this miracle of the world we inhabit. Seven billion of us long for “the peace that surpasses all understanding.”* May we find the wholeness that we already are, in seven billion moments of the infinite now.

*Philippians 4:7