Death

Death became a friend when I was fairly young and it is interesting to watch as our relationship changes. First, my grandfather died and this sent me reeling for years as I looked at how I lived my life and I wanted to change things based on the fact that anyone could die suddenly, including myself.

I spent many years telling people how I felt about them and making sure that I had no loose ends. I wrote the letters and made the calls that I wanted to make. I made peace. I let go. I didn't take things for granted.

Then my grandma died and it was sad, but I was able to work with that experience to look at how others reacted to death. I remember seeing the preacher smile. He didn't seem sad at all. That seemed odd for a second but then quickly seemed quite nice. It made sense based on what his religion said.

After many years I finally approached The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, one that I had seen for many many years.... and I felt compelled to be closer to those that were dying.

Then workshops that dealt with grief and loss. And I sobbed and felt cracked open. My walls fell and I was vulnerable to the world and loved everyone.

Now, I read about death and it is calmer. It is no longer an emotional experience. It is no longer something that makes me run to complete tasks left undone.

I lie in savasana and I, however briefly, am willing to let go of this personality, this ego, this body, to connect to something bigger than myself.

And I know that death does not have to be the only motivation to let go and surrender, but it is such a sweet one.

Where the words will take me, riding on the back of a silent scream, and a hug the size of the Milky Way

Here is the difference: Before when my heart was aching, there was usually drama in accompaniment. There would be weeping and anger. I would call everyone I knew, telling them my tale of woe until they felt sorry for me. My internal dialog vacillated between anger, depression and sorrow. I was the victim.

Right now, my heart hurts again. I still feel the urge to call my daddy or to change my status on facebook to let everyone know just how hard this moment is.... but I'm trying just to breathe and to notice.

The quality of light in my living room is beautiful right now. I have food. I can take a bath.

My heart hurts.

Much of what is happening right now is not my drama. It is the drama of Daniel and the people in El Salvador. The drama that I have comes from my reaction and from my pattern of wanting to play the victim.

I hear myself worrying about his safety and then exhausted with the process and then angry at him for not spending 24 hours a day locked in his room. Then I move to worried about what types of friends he might make here and how exhausting it could be to have him here.

And there is a silent reminder that all of this feeds into me wanting to play the victim... and all of this doesn't really show true Love directed at him... and that nothing has really changed from a few hours ago when I was brushing the cat and watching a movie.

And I remind myself that, yes, I am exhausted... but only because I am trying to do it all. I am not letting Grace do it.

And I listen... and Grace quietly suggests a bath, meditation, some writing, maybe some yoga... but just one small thing at a time. One moment... One second... One instant at a time.

And this conversation continues as I type. There is a desire to wail and cry and give up... to sleep until a day arrives when nothing difficult will happen. And there is an awareness that I am connected to something much greater than this room and this tiny little bump in the road.

Part of me wants to yell and scream and say, "Fuck you world, I haven't even had a real hug for three months!" And part of me quietly and calmly knows that this is just another thought to garner pity and rob energy... that I can connect to the whole universe and be hugged by all the stars....

And this dizzying vertigo as I dance around the addictive drama of my ego and feel the connection to something impossible to lose, this reminds me of the way I used to feel when the desire to write would become so strong that I would stop along the side of the road and let whatever came to me pour upon the page.... and I never knew where I was going or what the words might say or who they might want to speak to... and I never stopped them... and I just let them pour out...

And I wanted to be Jack Kerouac, taping the pieces of paper together so that I would never have to be distracted by putting a new piece into the typewriter....

And I wanted to be brave just because I didn't censor... and I used to think that meant that I would tell everyone in the whole world every secret I ever had. I wanted to be bold and dashing. I thought that meant the courage to write like Poppy Z. Brite about homosexual cannabilistic serial killers, but without a pen name. I thought that I had to be willing to be something that might not be accepted... and at full volume... screaming my braveness from the highest mountain top.

I wanted to suffer and plead upon the rocks... as long as my pain could stop one heart from aching... oh dear... dear Emily Dickinson.... And then I realized that I was completely fucking wrong.. maybe.

Honesty doesn't mean offensive and abrasive. It doesn't mean saying things that break your mother's heart. It can be quiet and calm and happy..... Honesty can be content and useful....

And here I am screaming the cry of a deaf-mute out onto a digital page... giving it all I got and I don't even know if anyone will ever read it... And it might not even matter... because here I am... brave enough to love, brave enough to not be the victim and not be the prince in shining armor... brave enough to just let go... to not be scared.... and to not run away from fear.....

To be the one that hugs my ego... as I do the back stroke in this pool of love....

Yes, even though I want to cry and even though I don't know what is coming in the next 10 seconds, let alone the rest of the week, month, day, year....

I am here. I am okay. I am calm. I am open.

Thank you.

This moment of silence is beautiful

It isn't because I'm busy that I don't feel like socializing. It isn't because my schedule is so packed with meetings and graduations, birthdays and celebrations, fiestas and paperwork. It isn't because I'm afraid or uncomfortable. It isn't because I can't carry the small talk or tell an entertaining story. It isn't because your event is draining or because I'm in a new town.

I can't explain that I just have no need to hear your little stories to get to know you. I don't need to know your favorite color, where you went to school or what type of music you like to see into your soul. We don't need to giggle over a little joke that we can reminisce over next week when are back at work.

I don't need that to feel a connection to you.

I don't need to bond over burgers and beer so as to not feel lonely.

I just like being alone. I just appreciate this time and place in my life. I cherish it but don't cling to it.

This is where I am at... this part of this retreat... this part of this life...

I hang out with the cats.... maybe we take a bath... or meditate... or stream a movie on netflix.

Oh, yes... I am here blogging to myself. Writing without a witness.... Witnessing only I....

And the sister was pretty and the son was funny and the deck was well-made, but that was then... 20 minutes ago... and now.... well, I'm here... in my quiet.

And, I don't know if I can explain it... or even if I want to, but I appreciate it and I love it... and this moment of silence is beautiful.

Staying in the present.....

When I step out of the present, I get tired. Too much thinking and I just want to go to bed.

I got a raise yesterday, and then part of me was thinking about the new amounts of work and how I could keep up while still taking care of myself... and how much more money I would make per month... and when the new pay checks would start..... and how there might be room for growth in this little non-profit.... And, then, oh the sleepiness. By 7pm I was ready to crawl into bed.

I kept listening to Grace, but the ego was shouting. I was calmer than I think I would have been just a few months before. There was less of an emotional roller-coaster, but I am just becoming more sensitive to these ups and downs. Even the few (dozen) stray thoughts that stayed longer than they were asked was tiring, but the good news is that I recognize this.

My anniversary was Sunday as well.... and I just couldn't cry and be sad because we weren't together. It just seemed to me that I had lived him the day before and the day before that and would continue to love him the next day... and why just this special day? Why just this day to build up expectations and be more likely to be let down?

Why remember the past that had good things but that also had problems, which are better now as we have continued to grow and become calmer? I didn't even need to look forward, yearning for the day when he will arrive. I was just comfortable as it was.

And when I did have those few moments of my heart aching... after listening to him and his bit of sorrow. Well, I listened to and paid attention to that tight pain in my heart, but I also listened to quiet Grace.

I took a bath. I read. I played with the cats. I meditated.

The more I just stay present, rather than drifting in dreams, the calmer and more content I feel.