Glad that I accidentally took the wrong road for Dillon Beach yesterday, because the road I ended up on (Rt. 116 W) winds through redwood groves with the Russian River to its mouth at the sea. There I sat on a bluff on one side of the river and watched a panorama on the other side that stunningly illustrates a permaculture principle, namely “the edges are where the action is.” (Plant, animal and mineral species congregate, communicate, commune with each other at edges of all kinds, to encourage diversity, integrity, stability).
I was at the EDGE of the ocean (the beach), at the EDGE where a river meets the sea, and there were obviously lots of fish present, because hundreds of grey pelicans and thousands of seagulls were on the other side of the river, peacefully intermingling. Most were resting/sleeping on the sand, but gobs of pelicans (and a few seagulls) were swirling in circles, looking down, and then suddenly diving into riffles (where stones create lots of EDGE with water) next to the shore.
Meanwhile, probably forty fat seals lay motionless, lining the EDGE where the water meets the river/sea. While I sat there one of them flopped his whole self into the water then flopped out again and, with a tremendous heave, flipped over onto his back to once again, lie supine. (His natural, unself-conscious manner in his body, plus the contours of his bodily form, reminded me of my late husband, Jeff. So many reminders, more than four years later!)
Then, of course, the tides were continuously creating and destroying EDGE in their relentless, mysterious synchronization with the Moon, and we humans (maybe 20 of us along a half-mile long beach) had also been drawn to the edge, full of longing yet mostly not knowing why, not realizing that we too, participate in the infinite panorama of life, and that our species, for all its current propensity for destruction, has its place in the whole.
We try to stay within the bounds of our cultural conditioning—to separate from our own bodies and ignore nature while achieving success, wealth, power; to “play it safe” in that unconscious structure—but something in us seeks to go beyond. The ocean symbolizes that mysterious Other that each of us feels within our own psyche, a dark, pregnant, inner cosmos where structures continuously form and dissolve in the vastness to which we are all surrendered.
I just about dissolved into the vastness myself yesterday. While peering closely at tiny, tide-created channels in the sand, a powerful rogue wave caught me from behind. Instantly, it rose to my armpits and, while just about jerking me off my feet, had the grace to not remove my car keys from the shallow pocket in my pants! What god did this? Who is responsible for this sudden awakening to the larger, mysterious presence that both knocks me down and holds me tenderly? Or was it the work of Jeff as trickster, laughing, calling— “Wake Up!”
And I had even read the sign: “This is one of the most dangerous beaches on the California coast. Do not stand at the shore with the ocean behind you”—or risk being caught by a rogue wave.
While I was peering into microscopic forms made by water’s EDGE with sand, the abyss nearly swallowed my form.
Inside me, too: at the EDGE between whatever I am paying attention to, and the awareness of the whole—what is attended to, the me that is paying attention, and the entire panorama within which I live and breathe—is where the action is. The creative edge, the place from which anything is possible, anything.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Grief as the Secret that Opens into Praise
When I tried to imagine last night's book event beforehand, I found it impossible. By this time I am quite used to the fact that somewhere between seven and fifteen people will show up (averaging ten to twelve, though a few have numbered as much as twenty-five), and that I will feel connected and supported by my local contact.
This person, usually a woman, is the one who, at my request, agrees to organize the event and contact her friends and others who might be interested in actually looking at and working with the deep wells of unexpressed and unprocessed grief that seem to live inside all of us, both individually and collectively. All along, I have felt that the key to this kind of independently operated tour is the network of local contacts, as well as the willingness of the person who is going on the tour to actually ask for help!
This was my biggest stumbling-block, as I am stubborn and proud, and prefer to do things on my own rather than risk rejection. Indeed, I think I said here in an earlier blog that during the two months that it took to organize the this ten-week tour there were a number of days when I felt paralyzed, unable to act. All my old voices would come up, especially the "Who do you think you are?" (said sarcastically) that I heard from my mother so long ago, and probably not even very often. But of course, that was the one remark from her that I remembered. As a typical Mom of her pre-feminist generation, she felt an unconscious need to make sure her daughters didn't stick out too much, less they be ruthlessly cut down— "by the patriarchy" I used to add, but now that phrase seems so hopelessly dated and angry and, even if true, unhelpful, in terms of my own personal healing.
At any rate, all along my intention for this tour felt strong and clear, and when those days would take me down I'd just notice the place in my body that the pain was constricting, breathe deeply into that place, and honor and embrace the pain for how it served me in the past. Finally, like a vise grip (or is that vice grip?), the pain would ease, let go. And the next day I could once again pick up the phone or write an email to some friend or acquaintance on the route I had chosen to ask if she would help me create an event in her town.
At this point, after seventeen of these events and ten more to go, I feel immensely grateful to all who have supported me in this quest, and indeed, I'd say that whereas during the first year of my grief I was intensely grateful for solitude, in this fifth year after Jeff's death I am learning, through this amazing journey, just how inextricably interdependent I am with all living beings. All the new and old friends who have surrounded me during this odyssey feel like a deeply-held, purposeful human matrix of caring that I am just barely beginning to tap into on a feeling level. So thank you all, so much!
Which brings me to last night's event, the only one for which I have NOT had a local contact. I arranged the reading/discussion event myself, by looking up bookstores in the Bay Area on the web, and contacting three of them. The Open Secret bookstore in San Rafael was the only one to agree to an event by this non-local author whom they didn't know beans about. Given the clamor for book events in California where I imagine most alternative people are either authors or in the process of becoming authors, I felt gratified—and actually somewhat amazed— that the door to the Open Secret Bookstore and Cultural Center actually opened for me.
But I didn't know anyone here. And would anyone show up?
Amazingly enough, nine people did—including an old friend whom I last knew in New York, and who had seen the poster on the door—and once again, we found ourselves circled up, talking intensely and deeply about various multidimensional and paradoxical aspects of the grieving process and how the layers upon layers of our grief, when processed as fully and with as much awareness as possible, can serve as a transformative agent for both ourselves and the culture at large.
Three of the people there mentioned with great praise a CD called "Grief and Praise," by Martin Prechtel, as well as books by Malidoma Some´—both aboriginal teachers who work to help us Americans who are unknowingly stuffed with and paralyzed by a mass of lifetimes and even generations of unprocessed grief. So once again, I feel the continuity of the work of this tour with the work of others, and I am full of appreciation for all those who both bear grief willingly and expressively and who work at ever deepening levels to access the wonder and awe that greet our recognition of grief's continuity with praise.
Next up: Dillon Beach for the afternoon. YES!
This person, usually a woman, is the one who, at my request, agrees to organize the event and contact her friends and others who might be interested in actually looking at and working with the deep wells of unexpressed and unprocessed grief that seem to live inside all of us, both individually and collectively. All along, I have felt that the key to this kind of independently operated tour is the network of local contacts, as well as the willingness of the person who is going on the tour to actually ask for help!
This was my biggest stumbling-block, as I am stubborn and proud, and prefer to do things on my own rather than risk rejection. Indeed, I think I said here in an earlier blog that during the two months that it took to organize the this ten-week tour there were a number of days when I felt paralyzed, unable to act. All my old voices would come up, especially the "Who do you think you are?" (said sarcastically) that I heard from my mother so long ago, and probably not even very often. But of course, that was the one remark from her that I remembered. As a typical Mom of her pre-feminist generation, she felt an unconscious need to make sure her daughters didn't stick out too much, less they be ruthlessly cut down— "by the patriarchy" I used to add, but now that phrase seems so hopelessly dated and angry and, even if true, unhelpful, in terms of my own personal healing.
At any rate, all along my intention for this tour felt strong and clear, and when those days would take me down I'd just notice the place in my body that the pain was constricting, breathe deeply into that place, and honor and embrace the pain for how it served me in the past. Finally, like a vise grip (or is that vice grip?), the pain would ease, let go. And the next day I could once again pick up the phone or write an email to some friend or acquaintance on the route I had chosen to ask if she would help me create an event in her town.
At this point, after seventeen of these events and ten more to go, I feel immensely grateful to all who have supported me in this quest, and indeed, I'd say that whereas during the first year of my grief I was intensely grateful for solitude, in this fifth year after Jeff's death I am learning, through this amazing journey, just how inextricably interdependent I am with all living beings. All the new and old friends who have surrounded me during this odyssey feel like a deeply-held, purposeful human matrix of caring that I am just barely beginning to tap into on a feeling level. So thank you all, so much!
Which brings me to last night's event, the only one for which I have NOT had a local contact. I arranged the reading/discussion event myself, by looking up bookstores in the Bay Area on the web, and contacting three of them. The Open Secret bookstore in San Rafael was the only one to agree to an event by this non-local author whom they didn't know beans about. Given the clamor for book events in California where I imagine most alternative people are either authors or in the process of becoming authors, I felt gratified—and actually somewhat amazed— that the door to the Open Secret Bookstore and Cultural Center actually opened for me.
But I didn't know anyone here. And would anyone show up?
Amazingly enough, nine people did—including an old friend whom I last knew in New York, and who had seen the poster on the door—and once again, we found ourselves circled up, talking intensely and deeply about various multidimensional and paradoxical aspects of the grieving process and how the layers upon layers of our grief, when processed as fully and with as much awareness as possible, can serve as a transformative agent for both ourselves and the culture at large.
Three of the people there mentioned with great praise a CD called "Grief and Praise," by Martin Prechtel, as well as books by Malidoma Some´—both aboriginal teachers who work to help us Americans who are unknowingly stuffed with and paralyzed by a mass of lifetimes and even generations of unprocessed grief. So once again, I feel the continuity of the work of this tour with the work of others, and I am full of appreciation for all those who both bear grief willingly and expressively and who work at ever deepening levels to access the wonder and awe that greet our recognition of grief's continuity with praise.
Next up: Dillon Beach for the afternoon. YES!
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Pot-holes, dial-up, violence and other primitive conditions
During the past four days, in both Ashland and Grants Pass I was reminded of the so-called “primitive” conditions that I lived in while a yurt-dweller in the Tetons— and with only “dial-up” available I decided to ignore the blog until now. So let’s see . . . I last wrote here on August 24th, the day after my dear body/energy worker friend Janet arrived at Mouna’s little forest compound up the Mount Ashland gravel road off I-5. She not only worked on me that night, but four more times in two days! An unheard of luxury that left my neck soft and my all-around condition firmly supported and purring with pleasure.
Meanwhile, two more events, on the 24th and 25th.
The first one, in Ashland, felt challenging at first, since the room held a temporary art exhibit on war, with violent images collaged on the walls and a gigantic photo of George Bush on the floor, meant, apparently, for visitors to walk on.
We folded up the floor photo and circled the chairs at the back of the long room, beyond the collages. The situation reminded me of my “peace activist” days in 1982-83 when thought I was working to make sure the MX missile didn’t come into Wyoming (it did), and I was shocked to discover that I was, in fact, a violent-peace-activist.
That stunning surprise plummeted me into my own inner world, and I spent the next four months staring into a fire of the stove in the yurt in the Tetons into which I had just moved, shuffling through turbulent scenes from memory that made me wince with pain, shame, remorse, and an absolute determination to learn how to never repeat.
I thought that would be it, that having taken this time to “integrate my own shadow” I would be free and clear, ready to go on without unconsciously spraying my own inner weirdness all over others. But NO. It took six more years of work, deep work with “Orphan Annie,” the one who felt abandoned and covered it up with arrogance, before I finally began to feel that I was hopefully conscious enough of how my own unpredictable nature can wreak havoc in the world.
So when I sat there in that room with those war images all around me I noticed the turbulence I still feel when even glancing at them. Obviously, I’m not yet at the point where I can say that my awareness remains as a calm, still pool no matter what.
A dozen women, mostly of crone age, were present, and I began by talking about the CRONE magazine that we’re about to launch. And when one of them (a very modest woman whom I later discovered is a sculptor of international renown) asked “how do you define crone?,” the images on the walls reminded me of my favorite definition, “She who eats her own shadow.”
“What’s the shadow?” Someone else asked.
“The parts of ourselves that we don’t like,” I answered, firmly, remembering—to the nods of many others.
Actually, I’m not sure if that question was asked then. It may have been at the other session, held in Grants Pass, again with about a dozen women mostly of crone age. T he Grants Pass event, was the first where I directed the entire conversation specifically to the magazine—and received lots of great feedback and suggestions for how we can make it even more relevant to women of crone-age.
The Ashland event, on the other hand, felt similar to most of the other 17 book events so far—intense, deep, focused on the multidimensional quality of our responses to death and loss and how allowing ourselves to process grief fully transforms us. Later, one woman who participated in the Ashland event heard about the more “informational” tone of the Grants Pass event, and how it was focused almost exclusively on the upcoming magazine, told me she was surprised that the second one was not like the first, and wondered why. (By which she apparently meant, “why didn’t the second group of women get to experience what we did?”) In fact, that was because my friend Jean Mountaingrove, the organizer for the Grants Pass event, had assumed that her group would want to focus on the magazine more than the book.
Besides the gravel road to Mouna’s yurt/dome compound, I got to negotiate a two-mile long pot-holed dirt road to Jean’s barn/hut/cabin compound north of Grants Pass. Tthis second road made me decidedly nervous, since the Prius (now called the Pius, thanks to Janet’s play on both her and my Catholic origins, and the “holier than thou” attitude of us who drive these hybrids) runs very low to the ground, and I did scrape its front fender on the one pothole that went clear across the road. Otherwise, the potholes felt like moguls on a ski run, fairly easily swerved around.
Jean and I spent a day at her place with the tape recorder running on and off again, as a first step for the “interview” with her that will run in the first issue of Crone magazine. She and her then-partner Ruth Mountaingrove ran the seminal—oops, I’d better say “ovular”— little magazine WomanSpirit, for ten years starting in 1974. This magazine initiated what one might call the spirituality arm of the second wave of the feminist movement. Jean’s now nearly 82 years old, and intrepid, despite her cane and a recent hip replacement. Her compound, called "Rootworks," now sports a compost toilet and electricity, both within the last three years, after nearly 20 years in truly primitive conditions. My yurt life was always luxurious by comparison.
Tonight, an event at the Open Secret Bookstore and Cultural Center in downtown San Rafael. This will be the first event where I was the contact person for it. In other words, no local contact! Yeeks! It will be interesting to see who (if any!) are drawn to the poster that they put on the door, and the books they placed on the table near their check-out stand. I was gratified and relieved to see their preparations for this event when I checked in with the store yesterday.
Then, on the 30th, my interview with Angeles Arrien in Sausalito, also for the launch issue of CRONE.
BTW: I decided to stay in a motel during these three days in Marin. Sudden strong craving for solitude.
draft
Meanwhile, two more events, on the 24th and 25th.
The first one, in Ashland, felt challenging at first, since the room held a temporary art exhibit on war, with violent images collaged on the walls and a gigantic photo of George Bush on the floor, meant, apparently, for visitors to walk on.
We folded up the floor photo and circled the chairs at the back of the long room, beyond the collages. The situation reminded me of my “peace activist” days in 1982-83 when thought I was working to make sure the MX missile didn’t come into Wyoming (it did), and I was shocked to discover that I was, in fact, a violent-peace-activist.
That stunning surprise plummeted me into my own inner world, and I spent the next four months staring into a fire of the stove in the yurt in the Tetons into which I had just moved, shuffling through turbulent scenes from memory that made me wince with pain, shame, remorse, and an absolute determination to learn how to never repeat.
I thought that would be it, that having taken this time to “integrate my own shadow” I would be free and clear, ready to go on without unconsciously spraying my own inner weirdness all over others. But NO. It took six more years of work, deep work with “Orphan Annie,” the one who felt abandoned and covered it up with arrogance, before I finally began to feel that I was hopefully conscious enough of how my own unpredictable nature can wreak havoc in the world.
So when I sat there in that room with those war images all around me I noticed the turbulence I still feel when even glancing at them. Obviously, I’m not yet at the point where I can say that my awareness remains as a calm, still pool no matter what.
A dozen women, mostly of crone age, were present, and I began by talking about the CRONE magazine that we’re about to launch. And when one of them (a very modest woman whom I later discovered is a sculptor of international renown) asked “how do you define crone?,” the images on the walls reminded me of my favorite definition, “She who eats her own shadow.”
“What’s the shadow?” Someone else asked.
“The parts of ourselves that we don’t like,” I answered, firmly, remembering—to the nods of many others.
Actually, I’m not sure if that question was asked then. It may have been at the other session, held in Grants Pass, again with about a dozen women mostly of crone age. T he Grants Pass event, was the first where I directed the entire conversation specifically to the magazine—and received lots of great feedback and suggestions for how we can make it even more relevant to women of crone-age.
The Ashland event, on the other hand, felt similar to most of the other 17 book events so far—intense, deep, focused on the multidimensional quality of our responses to death and loss and how allowing ourselves to process grief fully transforms us. Later, one woman who participated in the Ashland event heard about the more “informational” tone of the Grants Pass event, and how it was focused almost exclusively on the upcoming magazine, told me she was surprised that the second one was not like the first, and wondered why. (By which she apparently meant, “why didn’t the second group of women get to experience what we did?”) In fact, that was because my friend Jean Mountaingrove, the organizer for the Grants Pass event, had assumed that her group would want to focus on the magazine more than the book.
Besides the gravel road to Mouna’s yurt/dome compound, I got to negotiate a two-mile long pot-holed dirt road to Jean’s barn/hut/cabin compound north of Grants Pass. Tthis second road made me decidedly nervous, since the Prius (now called the Pius, thanks to Janet’s play on both her and my Catholic origins, and the “holier than thou” attitude of us who drive these hybrids) runs very low to the ground, and I did scrape its front fender on the one pothole that went clear across the road. Otherwise, the potholes felt like moguls on a ski run, fairly easily swerved around.
Jean and I spent a day at her place with the tape recorder running on and off again, as a first step for the “interview” with her that will run in the first issue of Crone magazine. She and her then-partner Ruth Mountaingrove ran the seminal—oops, I’d better say “ovular”— little magazine WomanSpirit, for ten years starting in 1974. This magazine initiated what one might call the spirituality arm of the second wave of the feminist movement. Jean’s now nearly 82 years old, and intrepid, despite her cane and a recent hip replacement. Her compound, called "Rootworks," now sports a compost toilet and electricity, both within the last three years, after nearly 20 years in truly primitive conditions. My yurt life was always luxurious by comparison.
Tonight, an event at the Open Secret Bookstore and Cultural Center in downtown San Rafael. This will be the first event where I was the contact person for it. In other words, no local contact! Yeeks! It will be interesting to see who (if any!) are drawn to the poster that they put on the door, and the books they placed on the table near their check-out stand. I was gratified and relieved to see their preparations for this event when I checked in with the store yesterday.
Then, on the 30th, my interview with Angeles Arrien in Sausalito, also for the launch issue of CRONE.
BTW: I decided to stay in a motel during these three days in Marin. Sudden strong craving for solitude.
draft
Friday, August 24, 2007
From forest to table, always Love
Take exit 6 off I-5, Mouna told me, and go three miles on the gravel road. I envisioned a dusty dirt road winding through small rolling hills. The actual road hugs the side of a cliff in the middle of a silent old growth fir and pine forest.
As soon as I felt the arms of the forest encircle my little car, I noticed a strong feeling of internal calm. Probably what always happens in a forest, though I had not ever before noticed it so instantaneously. Welcome relief in a day that had begun at 6 AM when I headed out from my old friend Clarissa's house in Portland west (after a raucous evening with her and another old friend Candice (both from Jackson, now in Portland) towards Forest Grove to meet with publisher Anne Niven and her husband Alan at Maggie's Buns for a face-to-face talk about the new CRONE mag that we are producing, to launch next spring.
I got lost on the way, and arrived 45 minutes late. That meant my driving day had been lengthened by that much, and I finally arrived at Mouna's beautiful forested property south of Ashland and deposited my things in her 24-foot diameter guest yurt around 5 p.m. Just then . . . my old friend Janet from Jackson drove up from Brookings Oregon, over 3 hours away, on the coast——with her table! Janet, an extraordinary body and energy worker, did two sessions with me before I went to bed, and I slept for ten hours. Incredible, how I seem to be given exactly what I need when I need it, since I was utterly fried and overloaded but the time I arrived here.
Today, an event in Ashland 2 to 4 p.m., and another one in Grants Pass tomorrow. Then I stay with Jean Mountaingrove (who produced WomanSpirit magazine in the 1970s). I wil interview her for CRONE over the weekend.
So glad to feel full and ready to meet this wide, wide world again, and so very very grateful for friends and family who cushion and support me on this long, strange, wondrous odyssey.
As soon as I felt the arms of the forest encircle my little car, I noticed a strong feeling of internal calm. Probably what always happens in a forest, though I had not ever before noticed it so instantaneously. Welcome relief in a day that had begun at 6 AM when I headed out from my old friend Clarissa's house in Portland west (after a raucous evening with her and another old friend Candice (both from Jackson, now in Portland) towards Forest Grove to meet with publisher Anne Niven and her husband Alan at Maggie's Buns for a face-to-face talk about the new CRONE mag that we are producing, to launch next spring.
I got lost on the way, and arrived 45 minutes late. That meant my driving day had been lengthened by that much, and I finally arrived at Mouna's beautiful forested property south of Ashland and deposited my things in her 24-foot diameter guest yurt around 5 p.m. Just then . . . my old friend Janet from Jackson drove up from Brookings Oregon, over 3 hours away, on the coast——with her table! Janet, an extraordinary body and energy worker, did two sessions with me before I went to bed, and I slept for ten hours. Incredible, how I seem to be given exactly what I need when I need it, since I was utterly fried and overloaded but the time I arrived here.
Today, an event in Ashland 2 to 4 p.m., and another one in Grants Pass tomorrow. Then I stay with Jean Mountaingrove (who produced WomanSpirit magazine in the 1970s). I wil interview her for CRONE over the weekend.
So glad to feel full and ready to meet this wide, wide world again, and so very very grateful for friends and family who cushion and support me on this long, strange, wondrous odyssey.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Juxtapositions
Sitting here on final morning of domestic arrangements, in rental home with my son Sean, daughter-in-law Sue, and my two delightful and strong-willed grandkids, currently whispering vociferously inside a fort of blankets and chairs. Grey day in Seattle, as usual (three days of sun this summer, so far). Sean just told kids not to bring pillows into the fort. They convinced him otherwise. Sue and Sean eating eggs and bagels.
So interesting, the juxtaposition among various realities. This "mundane," daily one vs. the quiet, high intensity of the book events. Last night, Sue, a niece, and two of my sisters were present, so another juxtaposition for me, whose life and work have basically occupied an alternate reality from that of my family.
One highlight from last night's book event: the woman, ten years a widow whose husband died of cancer at home, who told us she made sure that her children, ages three and ten, spent time with him in his bed before he died. "I wanted to make sure that they were with him at his death the same way that he was with them at their births," she stated matter-of-factly, and then added: "As a result, they are not a bit afraid of death, not a bit."
More and more, I notice that the book events move quickly into deep talk, rather than skimming the surface and then heading down. Having now facilitated 15 of these discussions, I notice that Death as the ultimate mystery seems to be blooming ever larger as an ineffable presence, palpable, larger than Life.
Last night's event, with about a dozen people, turned into a gourmet treat, with appetizers, a full meal, and, after our discussion, a fabulous date pudding with whipped cream, fruit and maple syrup. The discussion itself lasted not quite 90 minutes, perhaps too short, since four or five people came up to me afterwards to convey privately their own remarkable stories. We need to remember that our personal voyages into the archetypal domains of death and grief and loss have been sitting inside us for a long, long time, and sometimes can only be coaxed out. As we hear others' stories, so we gradually open to tell our own. I sense that, had the discussion been allowed another 30 minutes, there might have been a remarkable outpouring.
In any case, the evening was full and heartfelt, with my sister Mary and brother-in-law John exceedingly generous and caring hosts. And their friends! Such a caring, gentle, spiritually-inclined group of people who accurately mirror their own rapidly-expanding and multidimensional world-view. Thank you Mary and John!
Today, Portland, where I stay with my old friend Clarissa this evening.
So interesting, the juxtaposition among various realities. This "mundane," daily one vs. the quiet, high intensity of the book events. Last night, Sue, a niece, and two of my sisters were present, so another juxtaposition for me, whose life and work have basically occupied an alternate reality from that of my family.
One highlight from last night's book event: the woman, ten years a widow whose husband died of cancer at home, who told us she made sure that her children, ages three and ten, spent time with him in his bed before he died. "I wanted to make sure that they were with him at his death the same way that he was with them at their births," she stated matter-of-factly, and then added: "As a result, they are not a bit afraid of death, not a bit."
More and more, I notice that the book events move quickly into deep talk, rather than skimming the surface and then heading down. Having now facilitated 15 of these discussions, I notice that Death as the ultimate mystery seems to be blooming ever larger as an ineffable presence, palpable, larger than Life.
Last night's event, with about a dozen people, turned into a gourmet treat, with appetizers, a full meal, and, after our discussion, a fabulous date pudding with whipped cream, fruit and maple syrup. The discussion itself lasted not quite 90 minutes, perhaps too short, since four or five people came up to me afterwards to convey privately their own remarkable stories. We need to remember that our personal voyages into the archetypal domains of death and grief and loss have been sitting inside us for a long, long time, and sometimes can only be coaxed out. As we hear others' stories, so we gradually open to tell our own. I sense that, had the discussion been allowed another 30 minutes, there might have been a remarkable outpouring.
In any case, the evening was full and heartfelt, with my sister Mary and brother-in-law John exceedingly generous and caring hosts. And their friends! Such a caring, gentle, spiritually-inclined group of people who accurately mirror their own rapidly-expanding and multidimensional world-view. Thank you Mary and John!
Today, Portland, where I stay with my old friend Clarissa this evening.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Convergence and the needle's eye
Sitting atop a high stool at the kitchen couner in a lovely, large-enough rental home near the water in West Seattle, son Sean reading to 7-year-old Kiera and 4-year-old Drew upstairs while daughter-in-law Sue takes a shower. Feel full, contented, lazy, on this overcast, rainy northwest day. Yesterday's family meal here with my 91- and 90-year-old parents, four sisters and spouses, two other grandchildren (both grownups), and my dear friend Claudia was, as usual, rowdy, raucous, and high-spirited, all of us swirling around the folks as they sat in state, laughing at the jokes and joining in the merriment as well as can be expected, given that she has trouble understanding things that were, only one year ago, obvious to her, and he is doing his best to take on what may be his hardest role in life, despite his nearly 50 years of being a doctor: looking after, cooking and cleaning up after, his beloved wife who is slowly and subtly incandescing before our eyes.
Though being with family again was a shocking re-introduction into this old, familiar framework after another year away, and though I had just barely begun to process the intense book event on Vashon Island the night before, and had just driven up to the rental only two hours before the family started to arrive; though Sean, Sue and the kids had hardly slept the night before due to their 1 AM arrival from Boston, I, and I would say everyone else, somehow moved through the eye of a needle into a flow that felt delicious and warm and all those other fuzzy words that we use to try to describe the ineffable yet powerful connections we humans have for one another, especially those we have engaged with in one form or another all our lives, moving through crisis after crisis and somehow not only surviving but thriving.
The book event on Vashon held 15 people circled on comfortable couches and chairs inside a bookstore, talking deeply about various experiences related to death and grieving. More than any other of these evenings, this event focused on the mysterious connections we have to one another both pre- and post-death, especially as revealed in our dreams and other uncanny circumstances. Everyone very present. Though it did take some people a long time to open up, even their listening felt compelling, as they magnetically drew out the stories of others.
One of my favorites: the woman who talked about death as a part of living, illustrating it with a story of how her father (or was it brother/) was dying of some chronic disease in an upstairs bedroom, while downstairs everyone carried on their normal lives, though visiting him once in a while upstairs. Then, on one day, at the same moment, three family members all suddenly ran upstairs, to reach him just as he let go of his final breath.
Tomorrow, we visit with the folks at their new home, the Covenant Shores Retirement Community on Mercer Island, for lunch. Mom: "will hot dogs and potato chips be okay for the kids?"—trying so hard to be gracious in constantly deteriorating interior circumstances. Then tomorrow evening: a book event at my sister Mary's, to which sisters Kathy and Kristin also hope to attend. I notice that their evident interest makes me feel both grateful and hesitant: all my life I have kept my life and work separate from family origins. Are they about to converge? Are we about to take a new step in our family dynamic to ease the way for our parents as they are drawn through the needle's eye of death?
Though being with family again was a shocking re-introduction into this old, familiar framework after another year away, and though I had just barely begun to process the intense book event on Vashon Island the night before, and had just driven up to the rental only two hours before the family started to arrive; though Sean, Sue and the kids had hardly slept the night before due to their 1 AM arrival from Boston, I, and I would say everyone else, somehow moved through the eye of a needle into a flow that felt delicious and warm and all those other fuzzy words that we use to try to describe the ineffable yet powerful connections we humans have for one another, especially those we have engaged with in one form or another all our lives, moving through crisis after crisis and somehow not only surviving but thriving.
The book event on Vashon held 15 people circled on comfortable couches and chairs inside a bookstore, talking deeply about various experiences related to death and grieving. More than any other of these evenings, this event focused on the mysterious connections we have to one another both pre- and post-death, especially as revealed in our dreams and other uncanny circumstances. Everyone very present. Though it did take some people a long time to open up, even their listening felt compelling, as they magnetically drew out the stories of others.
One of my favorites: the woman who talked about death as a part of living, illustrating it with a story of how her father (or was it brother/) was dying of some chronic disease in an upstairs bedroom, while downstairs everyone carried on their normal lives, though visiting him once in a while upstairs. Then, on one day, at the same moment, three family members all suddenly ran upstairs, to reach him just as he let go of his final breath.
Tomorrow, we visit with the folks at their new home, the Covenant Shores Retirement Community on Mercer Island, for lunch. Mom: "will hot dogs and potato chips be okay for the kids?"—trying so hard to be gracious in constantly deteriorating interior circumstances. Then tomorrow evening: a book event at my sister Mary's, to which sisters Kathy and Kristin also hope to attend. I notice that their evident interest makes me feel both grateful and hesitant: all my life I have kept my life and work separate from family origins. Are they about to converge? Are we about to take a new step in our family dynamic to ease the way for our parents as they are drawn through the needle's eye of death?
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Stuck in traffic with the Dalai Lama
Arrived in Bend Oregon after a gorgeous drive through wild desert (where I kept scanning for wild horses, no luck!) from Boise at 3 p.m. only to find that Rita, my hostess, had just left for the emergency room with her husband in great pain. How fragile life is, how the "best-made plans" . . . ! (P.S., he's okay, the situation was not life-threatening, though had to be attended to immediately).
That evening's event, at the home of two women who have long opened their home to gatherings-of-heart, held a dozen women in a circle, most of them connected to each other through their work in the local hospital. Half young and the others of crone age, like me. Really a special time, the young ones blushing to have to speak at all and yet eagerly absorbing the stories of their elders. One of them said to me afterwards that after our discussion she no longer feels afraid of death.
Yesterday, driving north through old forests with sudden spectular views of Mount Hood, got stuck in an hour-long traffic jam while nearing Seattle and felt serene and grateful to be listening to an audio book describing a man's experience with the Dalai Lama over three decades.
Walked around Green Lake with my dear sister Mary and her husband to get the kinks out after near 8-hour drive, deep into discussion of global warming, peak oil, need for community . . . Then a wonderful dinner and full-hearted talk on their patio until dark joined by their friend Carol, whom they met at the Chartres Cathedral in Paris and who also seeks to serve.
Today, take the ferry to Vashon Island, for this evening's event at a bookstore there, hosted by my dearest sister-of-heart in the whole world, Claudia. So very grateful to be alive and mostly conscious and awake during this momentous, scary, exciting crossroads time of human transformation.
That evening's event, at the home of two women who have long opened their home to gatherings-of-heart, held a dozen women in a circle, most of them connected to each other through their work in the local hospital. Half young and the others of crone age, like me. Really a special time, the young ones blushing to have to speak at all and yet eagerly absorbing the stories of their elders. One of them said to me afterwards that after our discussion she no longer feels afraid of death.
Yesterday, driving north through old forests with sudden spectular views of Mount Hood, got stuck in an hour-long traffic jam while nearing Seattle and felt serene and grateful to be listening to an audio book describing a man's experience with the Dalai Lama over three decades.
Walked around Green Lake with my dear sister Mary and her husband to get the kinks out after near 8-hour drive, deep into discussion of global warming, peak oil, need for community . . . Then a wonderful dinner and full-hearted talk on their patio until dark joined by their friend Carol, whom they met at the Chartres Cathedral in Paris and who also seeks to serve.
Today, take the ferry to Vashon Island, for this evening's event at a bookstore there, hosted by my dearest sister-of-heart in the whole world, Claudia. So very grateful to be alive and mostly conscious and awake during this momentous, scary, exciting crossroads time of human transformation.
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