Tag Archive | death is certain

Those Awful Little Monks

Jan16
Monks of the Drepung Loseling monastery visit our valley occasionally. Here is the opening ceremony of a sand mandala ritual from many years ago.

Aloka the Peace Dog, recovering well from surgery to repair an old injury from when he was a stray in India, was able to join his pack today for awhile before returning to rehab. I was grateful to see video of this joyful, tail-wagging, tearful reunion this morning, and also grateful to see that the Walk for Peace is finally showing up here and there on national newscasts.

The sand mandala begins with a string line…

Speaking of monks, let me tell you the story of the “awful little monks.” This happened about twenty-six and a half years ago. There’s a wealthy man here who sponsors semi-regular visits by a group of Buddhist monks from the Drepung Loseling monastery. Every few years since I moved here they come to the valley and offer teachings, home blessings, the occasional butter sculpture demonstration, or a sand mandala ritual for the wellbeing of the community.

Each year there are different monks in the touring group, who travel the country as cultural and spiritual ambassadors, similar to the Walk for Peace monks though not on foot. In each town they are fed and housed by community members and offer teachings and blessings. So the monks in this series of photographs are not the “awful little monks,” a judgy nickname I gave a different group, and maybe you’ll forgive me after you hear the story.

The sand mandala ritual takes days or even weeks to complete. I’ve had the good fortune to attend a few over the years, and dug up some photos today from one ritual where I attended the opening ceremony and initial laying out of the table, then came again a few days later, and also made it to the closing ceremony.

On the year in question the monks did something a little different. They offered personal consultations with either a Tibetan medicine group, or a Tibetan astrology group. Ever since my early twenties I’ve longed for the opportunity to consult with a Tibetan medical practitioner, after a friend told his tale of the little yellow pills that saved his life. Right before leaving Nepal he felt ill, and a Tibetan doctor gave him a packet of little yellow pills. Take one three times a day and you will be fine. He was pretty sure he could make it home and see a real doctor, so he tucked them in a pocket and didn’t take any. By the time he arrived in London he was delirious, was taken off the plane to hospital, and diagnosed with yellow fever. He heard them say it was touch and go. Somehow he managed to find the yellow pills in his clothes and he started taking them. He improved immediately. “You’ve made a miracle recovery,” the doctors said. 

I wanted some medical magic like that. But on an impulse I regret to this day, I chose to meet the astrology group. I don’t recall exactly what means they used, but after getting my birth date and perhaps location, and consulting something somehow, they placidly announced in broken English, “Lifespan twenty-seven.”

“WHAT?!” I screeched. “Twenty-seven years to live?!”

“Present lifestyle,” they calmly replied. I instantly wished I could leave the table and go upstairs where the Tibetan medicine group was, but I was too polite, or too shocked, to move. After that they told me a bunch of other things, including that Tuesday was my auspicious day for spiritual practice, but I didn’t retain much more.

As I walked to my car I met Liz who was glowing from her reading. I just couldn’t. “They told me I have twenty-seven years left to live!” I whined. “Oh they told me that too!” she said cheerfully. “Yeah, but you’re already, what, sixty-four?” I was forty. Liz celebrated her ninetieth birthday last year. I’ll be watching her…

So today I celebrated sixty-seven. It’s true that I’ve turned my lifestyle around about a hundred and eighty degrees, and that a Ute shaman had told me years before the monks’ prognostication that I will live to be eighty-eight, so I’m not terribly worried. But for the past twenty-seven years the words of those awful little monks have wormed their way into my psyche like a brain-eating parasite.

A few years ago, I finally mentioned this nagging anxiety to someone involved in facilitating that visit. She was tremendously reassuring. “Oh they said that to everyone!” she laughed. “A lot of people have complained about that.”

So what was their point? Were they just messing with us for fun? Or were they trying to scare us into a healthy transformation? Or… did they tell everyone that because this is the year that the End Times truly come, through divine intervention, collective karma, or the tantrums of a madman, and we’ll all be dead by January 15, 2027? That’s feeling more and more possible. Any which way, I don’t like it, I don’t feel it was appropriate, and it’s haunted me for nearly a third of my life. Yes, I am highly sensitive and tragically susceptible. Oh well. I share this story with you so that if I survive until my sixty-eighth birthday you’ll better understand my glee, and if I do not live through this year you may rethink your world view and your lifestyle.

The sand mandala is an exquisite and ephemeral art form. The images vary according to the particular intention of the blessing or lesson it invokes, but the process is always this meditative creation of a potent symbol from vibrantly colored sand, meticulously laid down a few grains at a time. The act of its creation is sacred. The necessary concentration and cooperation cultivate a meditative focus. It is absolutely mesmerizing to watch. Its overarching lesson is Impermanence.

On the Buddhist path, we are invited to learn something from everything that happens in our life. (Yes, Marion, everything always IS a lesson.) Because everything contains the opportunity to learn, we are encouraged to be grateful for everything that happens, so that we may grow in understanding and progress in our journey to awakening. I’ve learned the lesson of Impermanence over and over and over again, and no matter how many times I learn it in lessons big and small, it can still catch me off guard. It’s possible that I’m just now comprehending the gift those awful little monks gave me with their shocking pronouncement, just this minute finding gratitude for their influence in turning my life around, just this second letting go of that regret.

On the final day of the ceremony, the sand mandala is reverently swept to the center of the circle. Some of the sand is gathered in tiny plastic envelopes and given to anyone there who wants one. The rest of the sand is returned to the earth. At this particular ceremony, the sand was carried in a small urn by the monks, followed in procession by many of us from the Creamery Arts Center several blocks through town to the bank of the North Fork River, where it was gently poured into the river.

All things arise, exist for a time, and cease to exist. This is the truth of Impermanence. Death is certain, time of death uncertain. If I should cease to exist in this my sixty-eighth turn around the sun, I will pass on with a grateful heart for all the gifts and all the lessons that filled this life, as light and vibrant as colored sand slipping back into the flow.

A Little Light

Oct23

Our world lost a little light this week. Wren’s little buddy up the road was run over and killed. He had just celebrated his two years old birthday. It was instantaneous. He chased a car out the driveway into the county road and a tanker truck took him out, probably without even knowing it. His person had chased after him and found him. Barely a minute had elapsed. As she stood in shock, a cowboy stopped to offer help. She called a couple of friends, one of whom notified me; the other, whose car he had chased, returned with a third friend and began to dig a grave.

At our first meeting

We met him shortly after he came to live on the mesa, when he was not quite three months old (see Puppies). Most of my pictures of him then, and later whenever he came to visit, are blurry because he was always in motion when I saw him. He loved to run, to hunt, to chase, and in true terrier fashion once he set his mind on something he did not willingly stop.

Last month in his courtyard

I’ve loved dogs who have died in far worse ways, long slow agonizing deaths, from stomach cancer, or drinking anti-freeze, or even being struck by a truck and lingering long enough for their people to watch them suffer, unable to help. Oso’s untimely death, like any death that touches us personally, that wracks our own little world, is a poignant reminder that anything can happen at any time, that we’re given this one precious day as a gift each time we wake up alive. We don’t know if we will even have tomorrow, or if life will be the same for us tomorrow as it was today.

I had been making chicken broth when I got the text “Our sweet Oso is in doggie heaven…” I was ladling the broth into pint jars, and knew in my bones the right next thing to do was to drive up with a jar of nourishing broth, knowing she wouldn’t have had anything to drink or eat and may not remember to do either for hours. When I arrived they were putting the last rocks over the small grave under a juniper in the center of the driveway circle. After subdued and tender greetings, I handed off the broth and helped gather tools. Another friend arrived as I was leaving. Altogether five women showed up for our friend in her literal hour of grief.

Last winter playing with Wren

In the slow, mile drive home I felt the weight of the change in her world, the brutal empathy of knowing how I would feel going to bed suddenly bereft of Wren, waking the next morning without her. As I rounded the last corner it hit me how truly terrible I would feel if it had been Oso’s person instead, or any of us five friends who came to offer comfort: It could have been any one of us, on foot, or bike, or in our little metal bucket on wheels, getting smashed by an industrial truck. Or a train. And from there it was a small step to recall the suffering and grief that rocks millions of lives daily when a beloved dies, a pet, a child, a spouse, a parent, a friend, from illness or in unexpected ways, in wars, in famines, in all the ways. A sudden ache for everyone I love, a pre-grief, blossomed in my breast.

At almost one years old

We each respond to grief in our own unique way. I know more than one grown man who has sobbed at the loss of a dog and never shed a tear for a person’s death. I tend to get very quiet for a long time; some might call it shutting down. Oso’s person has been grieving with courage, grace and equanimity, holding the horror of what happened, the self-wounding if only‘s, the surrender of inevitable acceptance. She is grateful that it was mercifully instantaneous; he never saw it coming. She was helpless to stop it. And the cowboy was a gift from god there in her moment of need. It was a horrible accident, the kind of thing that just happens (all the time), nobody’s fault but simply a result of conditions beyond anyone’s control: cause and effect. Even in her grief she is able to express gratefulness for the mutual love in their short companionship together.

Just a week ago
A pine siskin snacks on sunflower seeds in the autumn garden yesterday.

Monday evening a junco smacked into the living room window and broke its neck. Grief took center stage early this week, in the smallest of deaths. And then there was Oso. And just this afternoon, after this blog was largely written, I learned of the sudden, surprising death of a pillar of the community. I barely knew her, but another dear friend was shocked to find her dead on the floor of her garage after she failed to show up at an event. She was a mother, a grandmother, a vibrant healthy elder, and now just like that she is not. Her family, her friends, rocked and grieving. It happens every day somewhere, 150,000 times: a person dies.

I’m reminded to hold my puppy extra close, and my people too.

A shattering twinge of knowing my own death takes my breath away sometimes. This is why we can’t remember it constantly. It’s just too shocking to contemplate our own death, or the fundamental truth that everyone we love will eventually be lost to us. And yet we must, at some point, consider it deeply. Any hospice worker will tell you that many people are filled with regret when they come to the end of their life without having done so. When we think about death (our own and others’) ahead of time we grow in wisdom and compassion. Awareness is a breath away. Death is certain, time of death uncertain. One thing we can know is that life will change after the death of a beloved, but we can’t know in what way: what further sorrows or antidotal joys will arise moment to moment. To live fully is to be present with whatever is, in each moment. Like gratitude, grief changes everything, for awhile.

Full Moon

Oct7

Tomatoes, onion and garlic from the garden, along with a few Penzeys spices, made a nice sauce for an impromptu chili relleno casserole for lunch yesterday.

The roasted poblano chilis came from the Delta farmers’ market where I stopped last week. Five dollars for a bag of roasted chilis and five more for four big fresh peppers and two tomatoes.

I based it on the Chili Pepper Madness recipe, and added a splash of milk to the eggs based on some other recipes. So simple, so delicious!

Last night I slipped out of a zoom meeting for a few minutes to catch the full moon rising. It occurred to me that this could be the last October full moon I’ll ever see. Not to be morbid, but just realistic. Anything can happen at any time. Age doesn’t guarantee longevity, nor does genetics, nor anything else.

It also occurred to me that grief is an equally valid response to life as gratitude. Gratitude and grief go hand in hand. I attended a webinar this afternoon on how to help grieving people. It was perfect timing. I’d been thinking about grief a lot this past week, after helping a dear friend navigate a sudden, freak death in her family.

There’s also the grief that I’ve felt since childhood about the madness of humans destroying the planet, and now the exacerbating grief of a regime that’s trying to turn back time in all the wrong ways while accelerating the unbridled pillaging of the natural world for corporate profit. I’m grateful for meditation, for mindful introspection, for compassionate and wise teachers from many traditions around the world available to any of us with a few keystrokes. I’m grateful for sleep, for friendships, for the moon and the sun, for water, wild birds, golden leaves, an open heart, for the ten thousand joys and the ten thousand sorrows of being human, and for this breath.

Staycation Album

Oct1
Wren helped get the yurt ready for our staycation guest.
Naturally, since it was Captain Amphibian who visited, we spent some time down at the pond to enjoy the big froglets.

It’s mind-boggling to realize that of the thousands of tadpoles who hatched, only about a dozen froglets remain visible around the pond. There could be many more I’m not seeing, deep in the rushes or out in the garden nearby, but most of them have dispersed or been eaten by snakes or birds. We counted three or four tadpoles remaining in the water, which may well overwinter there.

Much good food was enjoyed, including deep dish Dutch oven lasagna, waffles with blueberries, and tomato sandwiches.

We weren’t the only ones who dined well. Much nature was observed in rich and comfortable hours spent outside in the yarden, garden, and woods. As we repaired a garden gate we watched this praying mantis polish off a meal and then rest afterward on an old onion stalk.

One of the more fascinating occurrences was this Cooper’s hawk hunting the house sparrows who spend a lot of time in this fernbush just beyond the patio.

We walked daily, usually to the canyon rim, always with Wren, and often with Topaz along too.

Giving the Ancient One a hug, I spooked a couple of sagebrush lizards.

Two introverts conversing at a small cocktail party at the Black Canyon.
Wren napping on the warm rocks.

I was grateful for one cold, rainy day, so we could build a fire in the wood stove and pull out a puzzle. He chose one of the hardest, “The Hunt,” which kept us occupied off and on throughout the rest of the visit.

That little cold snap started the colors turning in earnest.

Poison Fish accompanied several sunsets on the deck, and some great movie nights. We enjoyed an Australian film fest all week, including “Priscilla Queen of the Desert” and several featuring aboriginal actor David Gulpilil: “Walkabout,” “Rabbit-Proof Fence,” and “The Tracker,” all extraordinary, thought provoking movies.

One afternoon we drove along the Black Canyon south to Blue Mesa Reservoir, the largest body of water in the state. Dramatic scenery all along the way no matter which way we looked, up down left right.

Of the many potential activities I had lined up, we managed to accomplish quite a few, including a stroll along the North Fork of the Gunnison River at the Paonia River Park, and lunch at Nido in town, where he enjoyed chicken quesadillas and I ate the best tacos ever, bubblegum plum carnitas.

We played with the GPS feature in Photos to mark and locate this special tree, so we could return and hide a little treasure inside.

It was a marvelous vacation and a most harmonious visit. I’m grateful that my friend made the trip, and adapted to all my conditions and particularities with ease and good cheer. It did me good to stretch a little. We were both a little melancholy to see it end. However, similar to when you return home from a wonderful vacation away you savor the coming home, after my staycation I am once again savoring the contentment of my routine solitude.

Vacation

Sep16

I’m tuning out the world at large for the next ten days, and tuning in close to home with a dear friend coming to visit tomorrow. No politics, no meetings, no work except for teaching the first two classes in Mindfulness Foundations Course; just eating, walking the woods, sitting by the pond, talking, laughing, maybe a short road trip or some other wilderness adventure, relaxing… and savoring this life on earth, one precious day at a time.

Meals and a few outings are mostly planned and subject to spontaneous revision, but tomorrow night is a birthday party! Not for me or for him, but for my new titanium hip which will be one years old. To celebrate I’ve baked this chocolate mayonnaise cake, slathered with chocolate cream cheese frosting. Utter decadence. I can’t find the recipe link for the frosting so here it is:

Chocolate Cream Cheese Frosting

Ingredients

  • 12 ounces (339g) full-fat brick cream cheese, softened to room temperature*
  • 3/4 cup (12 Tbsp; 170g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
  • 3 and 1/2 cups (420g) confectioners’ sugar
  • 2/3 cup (55g) unsweetened natural or dutch-process cocoa powder
  • 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 1–2 Tablespoons milk or heavy cream
  • pinch salt

Instructions

  • In a large bowl using a handheld or stand mixer fitted with a paddle or whisk attachment, beat the cream cheese for 1 minute on high speed until completely smooth and creamy. Beat in the butter until combined. Add the confectioners’ sugar, cocoa powder, vanilla extract, 1 Tablespoon milk, and salt and beat on medium-high speed until combined and creamy. Add 1 more Tablespoon of milk to slightly thin out, if desired. Taste, then add another pinch of salt if desired.

This is Topaz, refusing to come inside again last night at dusk. Since her long night out recently she’s been sure to be inside before dark, but last night she just sat there six feet from the door, looking defiantly at me holding it open, inviting her sweetly inside. When I took the photo I said, “This may be the last picture I ever get to take of you, if you don’t come in now.” It was true, it could have been, and I’m grateful that I have this awareness: death is certain, for everyone, and time of death is uncertain. And so I savored that moment of her stubborn determination, and loved her all the more for it. I was also grateful that she came in a couple hours later, and that she came inside tonight before dark.

There was another spectacular sunset this evening which distracted me from last minute preparations, but I paused my endeavors to savor it anyway; and the dishes still got done. It’s time now to lay down my sleepy head, my aching teeth, and my grateful heart.

May we all abide in equanimity, meeting each other as equals, free of bias, attachment, and anger…

May we all have genuine happiness and its causes, and open our hearts with loving kindness to all beings…

May we all be free from suffering, and grow in compassion for all beings…

And may we all remember to be grateful, every living moment of every day.

Cameras

Jun29

I’m perpetually amazed by having a camera in my pocket at all times, which also functions as a phone, a weather station, and an encyclopedia. I’m grateful for my Girlfriend camera who can capture a bee on a blossom this clearly.

I’m grateful for my Husband camera, too. Here he is poised to capture the bluebirds fledging this morning. Sadly, they had already flown, last evening, but we didn’t know that yet. Stay tuned for the two-day adventure of watching them slowly emerge: nothing like I expected.

After watching the nest for a couple hours after sunrise I was confident enough that it was empty that I asked Girlfriend camera if she could squeeze inside and take a look. The only thing we learned for certain was that it was definitely empty. What exactly we’re looking at remains a mystery. Is the actual nest down inside the wall space on one side or the other of the central platform? What various materials did they build it with? How many chicks were there? It’s been a great mindfulness exercise to observe the stories I’ve made up every step of the process, and realize how little I actually know.

Exquisite pastries from the North Fork Boardwalk chef

At noon I took both cameras to Zenzen Gardens in Paonia to document the celebration of life for a precious friend. It was a beautiful venue in a field of mown clover, with tasty snacks, talented musicians, and filled with my found family, and reminiscences from the wonderful community that had grown around our dear departed neighbor and his lovely wife. What happens when we die? Another mystery to consider. The cameras did a good job but, like me, overheated, so we left early.

I was grateful to rest in the cool house for awhile after so many hours outside in the heat of deep summer the past few days; and to then spend some deeply quiet time in the garden this evening.

No Buy New Year

Jan3

No Buy New Year got off to a rough start: I spent $500 at the vet yesterday. But that’s ok, veterinary and human health care is exempt, and so are absolute necessities. The goal of No Buy New Year is not deprivation, but it is a type of renunciation.

Now that I have this fine, manual bread (and other foods) slicer (bought in December), I can finally be happy!

Like many Americans, I have more stuff than I need. I’m getting older, death is certain, time of death uncertain, and I’ve been trying to pare nonessentials from all facets of my life for years with limited success. Why is it so hard to winnow things? Because our American culture (now, tragically exported to most of the world) insists that we need more things, and that having more things will make us happier.

Beautiful uniform slices without the effort or the danger of a dulling bread knife.

I know for certain that this is not true, after five years of dedicated mindfulness practice. If you want to know how you can also know this for certain, you’ll need to take the Mindfulness Foundations Course I teach online. It is so much more than can be summarized in a few paragraphs: but trust me, getting and having more things will not make you happier. Some things have uses, some carry important meaning, and many are not “just things”; but some of the things I have I don’t even remember where they are, and when I run across one I may not even be able to recall why I bought it.

This happened awhile ago with a kitchen tool. I couldn’t figure out what it was for, so I passed it on to another kitcheny friend, assuming she’d make some use of it. Only when I bought a new iteration of a corn cutter did I realize that was the purpose of the tool I had given away. I don’t cut that much corn off the cob, but on the rare occasions I do, I prefer to have the right tool for the job. This new one looks like it will be easier to use, but maybe I should label it anyway, summer corn is a long way off.

Listening to this marvelous podcast with Noelle Oxenhandler on the drive home from the vet added yet another layer of meaning to No Buy New Year. Partly, I just want a more streamlined space to dwell in, but I also want less to clean, less to care for, less to care about. So I’m trying to thin my things, and at the same time let go of attachments. Noelle’s interview gives some insight into the cultural conundrum of continually buying more things while at the same time contending with clutter. You don’t have to believe that everything is Buddha, but her discussion around the true nature of things might help me let go of more of them.

I will, of course, still be buying flour.

Here are my No Buy New Year Rules:

1. Keep a box for things to take to the thrift store, and put something in it every day: clothing, kitchen tools, pantry items I’ll never eat or use, knickknacks frippery and ornaments I can bring myself to part with, anything I can let go of.

2. Letting go also includes cleaning out the three spice locations (turntable, rack, and drawer) and composting everything I haven’t used in two years; same rule applies to the pantry. I’ll check the freezer first before I make a grocery list, and buy groceries only twice a month, making sure to use up or compost as much as possible before buying more groceries.

Tonight’s zoom cooking with Amy is a great example of this strategy: instead of buying new onions or tomatoes, I dug through the freezer to find a bag of frozen roasted homegrown tomatoes and some of last year’s onions, and some pesto. We threw together a simple and delicious puréed tomato soup with white beans.

There was also puff pastry in the freezer, cheese in the fridge, and spices on the shelf. We each created our own version of a pull-apart flower. Mine was filled with pesto, cheddar, and Parmesan cheese, and brushed with egg white which I had in the fridge leftover from a custard I made the other day.

A simple supper with ingredients on hand that will provide several more meals.

3. No new clothes. I have enough clothes. I buy more because I covet a certain color or texture of sweater or pants, or style of shirt. I have enough clothes, enough hats, jackets, coats, gloves. Other people don’t. I have too many clothes. Unless an essential clothing item becomes unwearable from age I won’t replace it; and no succumbing to tactile temptations.

4. No new tools. I have enough tools. Any kitchen, household, or garden tool I ever imagined a use for, I have already. If a new use arises, I will make do with an inventive application of tools I already own.

Full disclosure, I did prepare in advance for No Buy New Year. I bought a couple of high-value items after the election. I don’t think the president-elect will be able to enact all his nefarious plans that will bolster the billionaires and create suffering for the rest of us, but I do think he’ll succeed with some of them. I certainly don’t expect the price of imports (or groceries, or gas, or taxes, or anything else) to go down in the coming year, and I personally prefer not to support whatever economic agenda comes out of the incoming regime.

I think that about covers it. At the moment, I can’t think of anything else I’d be liable to buy this year — oh wait! Plants! Seeds! But I firmly believe that I either have all the seeds and stock of plants to propagate any more plants I could desire or need, or I’ll be able to trade for them. So, I’m ready for No Buy New Year. Wish me luck!

A laugh for the day: the doe is fascinated by Wren pooping. Wren is wearing the donut of comfort to help her recover from an infected scratch.

Rainbow Season

Jul5

Though we are just entering a dry spell, Rainbow Season has officially begun in the valley. I’ve lost count of how many have graced our skies in the past few weeks. A full double rainbow is rare, and was a lovely sight a few evenings ago. There is much to be grateful for, even as another dear friend lies on his deathbed. I’m grateful that he is being well and tenderly cared for, and that his partner has such a supportive community. I’m grateful to have met the inspiring Hospice chaplain who was sitting with him this morning when I arrived, and took her precious time to converse with and comfort me.

I’m grateful Wren was allowed to visit him with me, and that even though she had some trepidation she rose to the occasion.

I’m grateful I’ve been able to spend some time with him these past few days, witnessing his strong heart beating, his tired lungs breathing, the body’s ferocious will to live; and reassuring him softly about how much he gave to this life, how he will now discover the answers to all the questions we used to ponder over lunch, how he will slip into the stream of pure consciousness. I’ve told him how grateful I am for knowing him these many years, for all the good he has done in this community, for the friendship he’s given me. I’ve told him we will know him in the song of the meadowlark, in the blue of the mountain bluebird, in the summer breeze; in the river cascading over rocks, in the tilth of garden soil, in the warmth of burning firewood, and in the bright taste of sour cherries.

In the midst of big things, I’m grateful for this tiny predator guarding the tattered strawberry plant, and I wish her as many grasshoppers as she can eat.

I’m grateful for my own will to survive, and to continue the daily rituals required to sustain the life of this body and soul. Chief among these is the weekly baking of the bread loaf, this time using a quarter local rye flour for a light rye; and the daily cheese sandwich, now packing as many vegetables as possible, including seared red bell peppers and pickled red onions.

I’m grateful for learning to forgive my own missteps and mistakes. I’m grateful for learning to return again and again to the truth of the present moment, allowing beauty and joy, sorrow and suffering, all that life contains in equal measure.

Desperate S’More

Jun16
Native bees and tiny beetles enjoy the uncommon native thistle, Cirsium perplexans.
I’m grateful for my neighbor who came down this morning with cake and coffee to give me a hug.

Deb brought Prosecco to go with my Aperol, and we sat in the garden this evening with Aperol Spritzes while the two little dogs snoofed around together getting better acquainted. A perfect summer evening beverage, as we shared tender grieving about lost mentors. My dear Cindy died on Thursday, after a rapid decline over the past two weeks. I am just coming to terms with the felt sense of the loss, a loss that will resonate for a long time. I’m grateful that she was surrounded by love and support throughout her cancer journey, and especially well-cared for in her last weeks. Though I couldn’t be there, I’m grateful I was able to help and support in many ways from afar. As I find my way into this new life without her, I will eventually share more about this amazing person I’m so grateful to have known.

After Deb left, it felt right to finally sit down and burn some of the yard trimmings and scrap wood, starting to clear clutter inside and out. The wind had settled down, and the sprinkler moistened the downwind garden, with a hose ready to turn on any sparks.

Burning dross with Prosecco… in my special mourning glass.

I let the fire burn down, saving some scraps for another evening. Why, I wondered, do I not do this every night, sit out with the stars and moon, crickets, nighthawks, a little fire to keep mosquitoes at bay? I don’t have an answer. In the nights since Cindy’s death I have stayed out late and only come in when the mosquitoes begin to buzz. I’ve always thought that if I knew this would be my last day, I’d spend every possible minute outside; maybe it’s the reminder of mortality nudging me out of complacent habits.

Suddenly, the coals were perfect for marshmallows. I went inside to scavenge supplies: I found a few desiccated marshmallows leftover from a Christmas package Garden Buddy gave me (not last Christmas!) and an open package of stale and anyway second-rate graham crackers, along with a fine dark chocolate bar and an extendable fork (the right tool for the job). The first marshmallow shattered when I speared it with the fork. The second melted just enough on the outside to squish onto the chocolate which I sandwiched between two broken bits of graham cracker, but the center was like chewing gum. The final marshmallow I toasted farther away from the coals, for much longer, and it was almost restored to perfect S’more texture by the time I put it between two bits of chocolate and squeezed until everything was just melty enough. It was better than nothing, and as I nibbled I imagined how Cindy would have laughed at my desperate S’more.

Mortali-Tea

Jun27

I’m grateful to have hosted today the first live event at my little retreat since 2019. The vision collapsed with the Covid lockdown and beyond, and is testing its wings this summer as it morphs into whatever it will become. Speaking of wings, because there were going to be six extra people here all afternoon, I cordoned off a Phoebe Zone to protect the nestlings but mostly to reassure their spooky mother who flees when anyone other than I walks under the nest. It was effective in reassuring her as she continued to fly in and out even as we filled plates with goodies and glasses with iced beverages from the buffet just beyond the ‘police tape,’ then walked the long way around to the shady seating in the fairy grove.

After making the rounds and sniffing for handouts, Wren settled herself for the duration under Ellie’s chair.

“Touching the truth of our finite lives in community,” was the theme of the three-hour workshop facilitated by Meg O’Shaughnessy, which included sharing thoughts and experiences, some short writing exercises, a few poems, and a provocative card game, as well as The Three Thoughts meditation which I was grateful to lead. The Three Thoughts, which can be a valuable daily practice upon waking, can be distilled into three words: Gratitude, Impermanence, and Meaning.

Some of the questions discussed by the seven women present included among other topics: why we came to this event, aging and diminishment, how we feel about deaths we have attended, how we would least and most prefer to die (while understanding we have very little control in most cases), where we are in end-of-life planning, advance medical directive and DNR, death with dignity, and all our STUFF!

Our last exercise of the afternoon, which we spent braving ninety-degree heat in 20 mph winds, was a game of Go Wish. Meg dealt each of us a hand of five cards, and we chose which we wanted to keep and which didn’t speak to us, and passed those to the person to our right. After several rounds, some snickering and bickering, the passing ended and we each shared one or more of the cards we had kept, sometimes elaborating on why and how these things mattered to us. Above is the hand I ended up choosing to keep: things that I think at this moment would matter at the end of my life.

I’m grateful to have had this time connecting with friends old and new, in this meaningful conversation about the inevitable trajectory of our human lives; indeed of the lives of all beings on this fragile, spinning globe.