Gettysburg: July1, 1863

The young man, hardly more
than a boy, who fired the shot
had looked at him with an air
not of anger but of concentration,
as if he were surveying a road,
or feeding a length of wood into a saw:
It had to be done just so.

The bullet passed through
his upper chest, below the collarbone.
The pain was not what he might
have feared. Strangely exhilarated
he staggered out of the pasture
and into a grove of trees.

He pressed and pressed
the wound, trying to stanch
the blood, but he could only press
what he could reach, and he could
not reach his back, where the bullet
had exited.
He lay on the earth
smelling the leaves and mosses,
musty and damp and cool
after the blaze of the open afternoon.

How good the earth smelled,
as it had when he was a boy
hiding from his father,
who was intent on strapping him
for doing his chores
late one time too many.

A cowbird razzed from a rail fence.
It isn’t mockery, he thought,
no malice in it … just a noise.
Stray bullets nicked the oaks
overhead. Leaves and splinters fell.

Someone near him groaned.
But it was his own voice he heard.
His fingers and feet tingled,
the roof of his mouth,
and the bridge of his nose….

He became dry, dry, and thought
of Christ, who said, I thirst.
His man-smell, the smell of his hair
and skin, his sweat, the salt smell
of his cock and the little ferny hairs
that two women had known

left him, and a sharp, almost sweet
smell began to rise from his open mouth
in the warm shade of the oaks.
A streak of sun climbed the rough
trunk of a tree, but he did not
see it with his open eye.

Jane Kenyon

I can’t remember where or when I first read this poem, only that it has haunted me ever since.

facing the thrower

Milarepahe : “When you run after your thoughts, you are like a dog chasing a stick: every time a stick is thrown, you run after it. Instead, be like a lion who, rather than chasing after the stick, turns to face the thrower. One only throws a stick at a lion once.”

The other night I had this really strong, sudden pain in my back, between my shoulders to the left.  It hit me like a brick thrown – left me gasping and gripping the counter.  I had just caught my breath when the pain changed into a band across my back from shoulder to shoulder.

Feeling lightheaded, breathing shallow and rapid, I sat down on the couch, pushing my back into the cushion, trying to slow my breathing.  As my breathing slowed, I noticed the tension in my body:  tight shoulders and neck, face a mask of tightness, hands gripping the couch, toes curled hard against the floor.  I realized I was overcome with resistance to the pain.  Then I recognized the fear.  I realized I’d been playing a video of dread in my mind. “What if this is a heart attack?  Women present symptoms not unlike this for a heart attack.  I don’t want to go to the hospital.  I don’t want to be having a heart attack.  I don’t want to be disabled.  I don’t want to die.”  The aversion was very strong.

That night of pain is trying to teach me about the uselessness of aversion, of resisting what is, of fear.  Being gripped by these strong feelings is like being tied to the railroad tracks.  The sense of impending doom, the vibration of the coming train, the melancholy moan of the train’s horn sounding like a death toll.

But am I being held by these strong thoughts and feelings or am I the one gripping them instead?  Isn’t it my own habitual fear and dread that is being grasped by my mind and body?  Without the extreme aversion to the pain, without the fear of the pain and the future and death, am I not left with just the physical sensation of pain?

All of this floated through my mind as I sat rigid on the couch.  Slowly, I calmed my breathing, slowed and deepened and became more aware of its in and out.  Slowly I breathed into my clenched fingers and toes, releasing my body first and then my mind from the iron grip of fear and dread.  Then I was left with the pain, simple and standing alone.  As I sat there breathing, I realized the pain had lessened, was now manageable.  After an hour or so, it had lifted to a dull ache.

All right.  This is the thing:  I don’t want to die.  I have a strong aversion to dying.  I have a deep fear of dying.  Yet, I will die.  I don’t want to feel pain.  Pain frightens me.  Yet I will feel pain – indeed, pain is a common visitor in my life now because of the Chrones.

The lesson of last night’s pain seems clear.  Resistance to “what is” is futile.  Not only that, it makes “what is” very much worse.  Can I let go of clinging to the ungraspable?  I will feel pain.  I will one day breathe my last.  Resisting pain increases pain.  Finding a place of acceptance brings an ease and a peace to my stormy mind when in pain.  Can I bring this awareness into other areas of habitual fear and dread?  Can I learn to breathe, to be here, now, with whatever “is” at the moment, without clinging to what I want or resisting what I don’t?

Maybe.  I can’t be fearless right now.  But I can be aware of the fear and see it for what it is:  a mind habit.  I can remember that the lie is that I am tied to the track.  The truth is that the mind habit of fear is more truly seen as me clinging to what is ungraspable.  If I can release my mental grip I can stop the video of disaster and catastrophe and loosen the emotions and body responses that accompany the video.  I can push the “stop” button and breathe.  I can choose to respond differently, to change my perception.  I can be like the lion.

 

hoping to hope

It’s been ages since I’ve sat down at the computer.  I just haven’t had the heart for it.  I seem to be in a bit of a funk.  I wish I were rich enough that I could have come home from the funeral and got into bed for a few weeks.  You know, be devastated in style.  This way sucks.  Having to cope, go to work, try to pay bills.  Try not to be such a downer for Tam.  I think if I could just take a few weeks and watch sad movies and eat cookies in bed I would be better sooner.

I don’t like being in the world without my dad.

My thoughts have been so dark lately.  Sometimes I wonder if this is all really worth it.  So much suffering in life.  So much pain and hardship.  Then you just get old and fade away and die.  What’s it all for?

Dad had a tough hand dealt to him.  He lost his leg at 15.  Broke it playing football with the college team.  Doctors set the cast too tight, gangrene set in.  His life was changed forever from that one afternoon.  No more sports, no sports scholarship.  No college.  He married, divorced and married again.  He had 9 children.  He also had a dream, a dream of living in the wild west.  Of living in the mountains in a log cabin.  He made it as far as a farm in Kansas. 

I wonder if he had regrets.  I guess we all do.  I wonder what his were.  Did he regret not going to college, finding a way?  He was brilliant, self-educated.  He read constantly.  My most prized possession is his list of books read over the last several years of his life.  He rated them.  Lovely.

Did he regret having so  many children, with the expense and sacrifice it cost him?  He never made it to the mountains, did he regret that? 

What things will I regret when I come to the end of my days?  Will I regret leaving home at 15 and becoming a mother at 16?  Will I regret not staying home, not going to college?  Will I regret the marriage to the abusive dick who made me run to Florida to escape his clutches?  Will I regret having more children, becoming trapped by poverty in the deep south?  Will I regret not coming out at 19, or at least not staying out?  Or will I regret staying in the closet in my late 20s out of fear of losing my children?  Will I regret the 2 decades I spent in a fundie church?  Will I regret the 4 marriages?  Will I regret the sacrifices I made for my kids, sacrifices that left my dreams in a dusty shoebox on the closet floor?

Ah, I have regrets, yes.  But I don’t regret my kids.  Any sacrifices I made for them I would make again.  So I’m guessing Dad didn’t regret us, even if it meant he never made it to that log cabin.  Still, it makes me sad to think of him sitting in his chair, reading about the west.  It makes me sad that that chair and that book were the closest he got to his dream.  And now his life is over.  No more chances. 

What about me?  Do I have any more chances?  Or am I too used up, too old, too poor, too defeated?  I don’t know the answer to that.  I don’t really have the strength to hope much right at the moment. 

Anyway, at least I have Tam.  She is my light, my laughter and everything good.  And I have my children, even though one of them is driving me crazy at the moment.  I’m not dead yet.  So I’ll hope for the day when I have hope.  I can do that.

death revisited – again and again and….

All This Egoby David Budbill

All this ego
all this drive
to get somewhere
when
at the finish line
death sits

one leg
over the other
hands folded
in his lap
a little smirk
on his face.

 

It’s Now or Never by David Budbill

Eat, drink, and be merry, for
tomorrow you will surely die.

Get together with your friends.
Enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.

I’m pretty sure this is all we get.
I can’t be absolutely certain, but

of all the people I have known who
have passed over to the other side

not one has sent back any news.

 

I’ve been thinking lately about my preoccupation with death.  It has gone on for months and months now.  I keep coming back to it.  This morning I was asking myself some questions:

• what does it mean to live a life that will stop?
• what am I here for?
• Am I living my life in a way that I can die without regrets?
• How much of what I do is compromise?  Do I keep postponing what I really want to do until a more favorable time?

Questions like these force me to examine my attachments to physical health, financial independence, friends and family.  These may all be easily lost.  Is there anything I can depend on?  Maybe all I can rely on is the integrity to keep asking questions like these and then act on them.

And how do I act on them?  Funny, meditating on death seems to jolt me into the sensuality of existence.  I begin to see the changing, transient nature of all things and it makes my relationships and experiences deeper, it evokes a sense of poignancy and pleasure. 

Time to dress for work at the Waffle House now.  I’ll share my morning gatha with you before I go.

 

Waking up this morning, I smile.

Twenty-four brand new hours are before me.

I vow to live fully in each moment

And to look at all beings with eyes of compassion.

Thich Nhat Hanh

On grieving

The Fool recommended that I choose one thing from my little list of things I want to get back into doing…and just try to do that one thing.  So I chose meditation, it being my strongest lifeline.  Several days over the last week I’ve sat for 10 or 15 minutes.  Not successfully, if having a peaceful mind is success.  But I DID sit.  So that is something. 

My mind is just so scattered right now.  I can’t seem to read much or write much or do much of anything except veg out in front of the tube.  That isn’t like me.  I’m usually only like that when I’m sick.  I can’t help but think this is part of the grieving process.  Another little gift from death that keeps on giving.  I find it hard to care about things I normally care very much about.  I feel listless, sluggish and endlessly sad.  Even my miraculous and wonderful sex life has been altered.  Tam and have gone from 5-6 fun times a week to 3-4.  Like I told her, that makes us damn near normal.  (Smile)  Still, I know if it was left to me it would be even less.  I just don’t have the energy for much of anything. 

I want to get back to myself, but I don’t know the way.  So, here I sit, waiting.  Maybe if I could cry a bit more it would help.  My beautiful picture of Dad and I that Tam framed for me still sits in the drawer, waiting for me to be able to bear looking at it.  I think for a few moments about Dad, remembering, then my mind shuts the door with a firmness that lets me know I need to leave it alone for just a bit longer.  It seems I can handle deep sadness only a little at a time. 

So I wait.  And wonder.  Am I normal?  Is this the way it’s supposed to go?  Should I force myself to grieve more quickly, force myself to look at pictures and cry and such until I can’t bear it any longer?  Or should I just wait and trust that this will work itself out in its own time and way?

Ah, Dad.  I miss you so much. 

The Guest House

 

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

    My father finished his time on earth just after Noon today.  My thoughts flip about, from memory to sadness to avoidance.  This is hard.  I feel alternately numb and shattered.  I flitter about nervously, straightening, doing things to ready myself for the long drive home, then collapse, exhausted, feeling drained of all strength or caring.

    I have had the luck and the honor of being a Daddy’s girl.  I’ve known strong arms around me in a hug that assured me that all would be well.  I’ve felt the gentle calming of rough fingertips across my forehead after a nightmare as a child.  I may have lost a lot in this life, had a host of struggles and anguish, but I have had the fierce, protective love of a father.  I’m so thankful for that. 

    There was never another man who equaled you, Dad.  In another world, you would have loved Tammy.  Can you see her now?  Can you feel my happiness and rejoice that I have her strong arms to hold me through this?  Do you see how much she loves me?  I’ll be okay, Dad.  Maybe it’s silly, but I hope something of you still exists.  And that you are whole again.  And free.

 

facing death

Recently, I spent the morning in a lovely old graveyard.I love to stroll through historic graveyards, reading the markers, imagining the lives.  I grew up next door to graveyard, maybe that’s why I love it so. 

But, like so many things lately, this got me thinking about death.  Its certainty.  I see it in my mind.  Like I’m standing on a cliff, ahead of me a vast unknown.  Death.  Between where I stand and this great unknown likes a huge chasm.  An abyss.  I look behind me.  The land, the Path.  Life.

I wonder why I seem to be obsessed with death of late.  Am I being foolish?  Or am I staying with my fear, trying to face death honestly?

It seems to be surrounding me.  Over and over…in the paper, TV, conversations, everywhere I look.  Death.  I begin to see it in the living.  This one will die.  This one as well.  I see a wrinkled, bent shape and consider how they are dealing with the impending nature of death.  I see a child and think of how incomprehensible death is to them.  How tragic when death steals their innocence or their years.

I think of that path towards the cliff.  Every living thing walks this path.  We all march toward the abyss.  This fills me with great sadness.  And something else.  Something besides sadness or fear.

Resistance.  Do I think I can wrestle with Death?  Some part of me refuses to acknowledge that death has already won.  I will grow old.  This body will experience illness.  I will die.  This is certain.

But.  I don’t want to die.  And I don’t want to make friends with death.  I don’t want to play nice.  I don’t want to come to a place of acceptance.

Yet, I know resistance is futile.  I know I make it harder on myself by stubbornly digging in my heels.  Let go, I tell myself.  Let go.  Unclench your fists.  See how your hands are empty.  They grasp air.  Open them.  See the emptiness.  Hold them like bowls.  Watch to see what life may fill them with if only you let go.

death

Lately, I have become obsessed with death.  It is never far from my thoughts.  I am paralyzed by fear when considering my own death. 

It started about a week ago.  I was considering the inconsistencies, the changeableness of life.  I was thinking about how the only certainty is that I will die.  I don’t know when.  Only that I will.  I read this:

Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do?

Thinking on this sentence started all the trouble.  I began to question myself.  What am I here for?  Am I living in such a way that I can die without regrets? 

Then a few days ago I had a very strong pain episode. (from Crohnes)  I smoked some medicinal herb, the only thing that will help with the pain.  The pain was too strong, the pot didn’t take the edge off.  I was lying in bed, trying to breathe slowly and deeply, when I felt like an elephant sat on my chest.  I rose up, feeling nauseous and dizzy.  I went to the bathroom and became overwhelmed with shivers, sweats, pounding heart, pain.  I rushed back to Tammy at the computer in the bedroom.  Help me, I’m freezing and I can’t find my breath.  She got into the bed with me, piling blankets on me and wrapping her strong arms around me.  Still, I struggled to find my breath.  I thought I might be dying.  It felt like it might be the end.  I finally found my breath but lay in agony for awhile longer.

The combination of this experience and the direction of my thoughts has me obsessed with death.  The thing is, I have never before felt like this was a bad thing.  I’ve often thought that living with an awareness of death can jolt us into a more sensual and authentic awareness of life.

Part of it may be because I am learning to think of death from an agnostic point of view, as opposed to a believer’s.  I spent the first 15 years of my adult life as an Atheist, when suddenly my heart somehow softened and opened.  I then spent the next almost 20 years as a Believer, certain of my place in the world and equally certain of life beyond death.  Now I think of myself as Agnostic.  Beyond the rigidity and certainty of both Atheism and Theism, I float on oceans of ideas and thoughts and methods and forks and fingers and springs and geysers and philosophies and expressions.

Still, I’m not convinced there is anything at all about me that will exist in any form at all past death.  I’m also not convinced that there isn’t.  It is something I cannot know for certain.  But this uncertainty forces me to face both.  Death is the great unknown.  So, how am I to live, with this knowing, with this unknowing?  How does this knowing/unknowing inform me, right now, in this moment?

In the end, beyond my rational mind, beyond my emotions and intuitions, is there anything that gives meaning to life?  I don’t know.  So my first order of business in my morning reflection/inquiry this week is to come to some kind of an agreement with the state of my unknowing.  There must be a way to live in the middle ground between  hope and despair. 

———-

addendum:  just read this quote in a book by Natalie Goldberg….it helps…

Suzuki Roshi once said about questioning our life, our purpose, “It’s like putting a horse on top of a horse and then climbing on and trying to ride.  Riding a horse by itself is hard enough.  Why add another horse?  Then it’s impossible.”  We add that extra horse when we constantly question ourselves rather than just live out our lives, and be who we are at every moment.