Today, Mother’s Day, let’s look at some issues of living and dying Several journalists wrote eloquently in today’s papers about missing their mothers who have died. They bring home the importance of living and loving to the fullest, each and every day.
Frank Bruni wrote “Muddling Through Mother’s Day” in the Sunday Review section of The New York Times. His mother died at the age of 61 in 1996, when he was still in his 30s. He’s now 47 and people make comments that assume his mother is still alive. Here are a few pithy paragraphs:
Mother’s Day, I quickly learned, was the feast of the assumptions. I say that without any rancor, but with some bafflement: in a world of so many broken and untraditional families and of so much heartache, why should there be a bouquet-primed mother in the picture? There’s no point to guessing as much.
IF I never knew exactly what to say to the people who guessed, I was even less sure how to mark the day, when I’d always had a meal with Mom if logistically possible, talked with her if not. Usually I just moped. And it’s wrong, the notion that feeling sorry for yourself is counterproductive. Sometimes it’s just the ticket.
But on this Mother’s Day, I’ll trade moping for a testimonial: I was — I am — one of the four luckiest children I know, my siblings being the other three. We had a mother who held us in esteem and held us to account; told us we were magnificent and told us we were miserable; exhorted us to please her but found ways to forgive us when, all too frequently, we didn’t; and made certain that we knew she was there for us until, unimaginably, she wasn’t.
Also in today’s New York Times is “Reading Together, Knowing the Ending” by Will Schwalbe. As his mother was dying of pancreatic cancer, he’d often go with her to chemo treatments and they would discuss books they were reading. They became a book group of two people.
Some great life lessons he offers in the opinion essay:
The book that got our club started, Stegner’s “Crossing to Safety,” prompted one of our most important discussions. When Mom said that she was pretty sure that the husband of a character who was dying of cancer would be O.K. after her death, she wasn’t just talking about that character’s husband — she was, I suspected, talking about my dad as well.
I privately dubbed our club “The End of Your Life Book Club,” not to remind myself that Mom was dying, but so I would remember that we all are — that you never know what book or conversation will be your last.
My sister and brother also took turns accompanying Mom to her various medical appointments and treatments. We all learned a huge amount from our mother. Some of the lessons I’ll be thinking about today are these: make your bed every day, even if you don’t feel like it; keep spare gifts in a “present drawer” so you’ll always have something on hand; write thank you notes within hours of receiving gifts; use shelf liner.
But this Mother’s Day, I’ll be thinking mostly of this: We all have a lot more to read than we can read and a lot more to do than we can do. But reading isn’t the opposite of doing; it’s the opposite of dying. I will never be able to read my mother’s favorite books without thinking of her — and when I pass them on or recommend them, I’ll know that some of what made her the person she was goes with them.
Which leads me to a suggestion: If you’re tempted to get a book for your mother today, why not buy or borrow a copy for yourself at the same time? That way, you can share the experience of reading it together. For me, there was no greater gift.
The mother asked her daughter to spread her cremated remains around a large boulder in rural southern Virginia that held special significance. Her mother would go there to contemplate, to meditate, to be alone and commune with the natural surroundings. While she tried hard to remember every detail of the description, she has yet to find with certitude this specific rock.
A few paragraphs from her story:
In her morphine-drip haze, my mother had penciled me a map to the rock. But in the chaos that surrounded her death, the map had disappeared. In our numbness, my brother and I searched for it, to no avail. I didn’t panic. I was secure, perhaps overly so, in my sense of direction. And my brother had the photo she had taken of the rock. Armed with that and a loose memory of the area, I felt certain I would find it.
***
A few days before the summer solstice — the anniversary of her death — my husband and I set out. I asked my brother if he wanted to join us, but the difficulties of Mum’s passing had proved too much for him. And I believed it was my responsibility, since my mother had asked me. We did some planning, having learned from the Park Service that spreading ashes is allowed in many national parks, some of which don’t even bother with the formality of issuing permits.
We headed down the long and curvy mountain roads of southern Virginia through old-growth forest and rustic farms, winding round mountainside pastures full of grazing cows and sheep. We talked little. Instead, I thought about my mother’s choice to be cremated. It made sense to me then, considering the practical person she was, not to mention her disdain for organized religion. I found a certain solace in a ceremony that emphasized our impermanence. But after her death, I also longed for a lasting memorial. Since she was reduced to ashes, I needed the permanence of her sacred rock.
As the afternoon sun faded, Curt and I found a quiet little campground near what we believed to be the right area, and set up camp. It was cool here for the time of year, and we stocked the wood pile for our evening fire. We were reminded just how isolating the mountains can be.
The next day, we set out early. But narrowing down the places to look proved tricky. Mum had said her rock was easy to get to from the road. We looked around every pull-off or place to park. When we didn’t find it, we broadened our search to all of the nearby roads and their pull-offs. We soon discovered there are many rocks of that shape and size in the area. I was disheartened, and by day’s end, we contemplated spreading her ashes in the general vicinity. But that didn’t feel right. Mum had been a perfectionist. She deserved better.
We decided to try again, but the next year proved as fruitless as the first. We broadened our search area and reached deeper off the beaten paths into the forest. After a long day of searching, all of the rocks resembled the one in the photo, but none was the right one. Ultimately, I began to look at the missing rock as her gift to us, pulling us there every year, promising us some time away from the summer heat to the cool and quiet of the mountains. The search itself became her memorial.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there. If yours is still here in the land of the living, give her a special hug and kiss. Appreciate every day with Mom.
This TED video featuring cinematographer Louie Schwartzberg gives us a number of reminders to live for today. Within this wonderful meditation on reasons to be grateful and thankful, there is this wonderful quote from an old man (not identified):
“Do you think this is just another day in your life? It’s not just another day. It’s the one day that is given to you. Today. It’s given to you. It’s a gift. It’s the only gift that you have right now. And the only appropriate response is gratefulness.”
“If you do nothing else but to cultivate that response to the great gift that this unique day is, if you learn to respond as if it were the first day of your life, and the very last day, then you will have spent this day very well.”
“Begin by opening your eyes and be surprised that you have eyes that you can open. The incredible array of colors that is constantly offered to us for our pure enjoyment. Look at the sky. We so rarely look at the sky. We so rarely note how different it is from moment to moment, with clouds coming and going…”
He continues his meditation on all the people you meet and all the amazing blessings our culture offers, from flick-of-a-switch electricity to clean, drinkable hot and cold running water. He concludes:
“Let the gratefulness overflow into blessing all around you. Then, it will really be a good day.”
While attending services for the Jewish high holiday Yom Kippur, my husband jotted down this meditation out of the prayer book. It’s worth pondering any day of the year.
“When we are dead, and people weep for us and grieve, let it be because we touched their lives with beauty and simplicity. Let it not be said that life was good to us, but rather, that we were good to life.” — Jacob P. Rudin
When in the midst of grieving, consider these words of wisdom from Khalil Gibran, Lebanese-American poet, writer, and artist, and author of The Prophet:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was often time filled with your tears…
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only
that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth
you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
_______________________________________________
Truly, joy and sorrow are bound together, like the opposite sides of a coin.
Enjoy this wonderfully poetic essay, words of wisdom about living and dying and funerals. It was written by someone who participated in the Celebrant training at ICCFA University who wishes to remain anonymous.
One day you will have a funeral.
Now, none of us want it to happen but we all know it will. Stuffed in a suit, buried in a box, you’ll burn to ashes, walk through pearly gates, chill underground, or maybe reincarnate. Point is your life as you know it will end with red eyes, wet tissues, and tearful speeches filling churches or homes or big grassy fields.
But wait — but wait, wait, wait — because before we get way out there let’s stop for a moment and look at your life. Look at gurgling babies in the bedroom, sultry glances late at night, and cracking high fives with friends… look at skinny dipping after dark, swinging under moonlight in the park, and coming home after school to your puppy’s little barks…
Yes, your life’s full of dirty inside jokes, laughing till it hurts, and smiling so hard till the end.
So one day you may have a funeral in a heavy room full of black clothes, somber glances, and heart-wrenching moments of gut-wrenching grief, but … maybe if you’re lucky there will also be some lighter moments too. Maybe there will be some little jokes, funny anecdotes, and silly smiles shining through the pain.
Laughs at a funeral cut the tension, bring us closer together, and remind us all of the big banging life we shared with you. They slice through the searing weight of your loss and swirl us into smiling about everything we had together while reminding us we’ll all be okay …
Today, December 7, is the 69th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Let us take a moment to remember the many deaths and sense of security lost when Imperial Japanese warplanes launched a Sunday morning attack on the U.S. Navy base in Hawaii. Other American and British bases in the Pacific were also attacked that day. The Japanese raids prompted the United States to enter World War II.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt said it best: “December 7, 1941 – a day that will live in infamy.”
Well before our modern day shock of September 11, 2001, before 24-hour television news, these breaking developments were shared over the radio. Military film cameras caught images of some of the bombing, but that footage was not immediately available.
As it was happening, all anyone on the U.S. mainland could see was in their mind’s eye – and we all know how imagination can make things seem worse than reality. But this attack was powerfully, incredibly destructive – so much more than 13 terrorists taking over three airliners. Watching September 11 unfold on television was shocking enough. Can you imagine only hearing developments described over the radio?
Let us light a candle as a memorial tribute to the lives lost on this Day of Infamy, and to all lives lost in war.
Here’s a lovely passage from the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu… a meditation on living and dying.
Empty yourself of everything.
Let the mind rest at peace.
The ten thousand things rise and fall while the Self watches their return.
They grow and flourish and then return to the source.
Returning to the source is stillness, which is the way of nature.
The way of nature is unchanging.
Knowing constancy is insight.
Not knowing constancy leads to disaster.
Knowing constancy, the mind is open.
With an open mind, you will be openhearted.
Being openhearted, you will act royally.
Being royal, you will attain the divine.
Being divine, you will be at one with the Tao.
Being at one with the Tao is eternal.
And though the body dies, the Tao will never pass away.
Today’s Dear Abby column is all about couples who find love after a long-term marriage ends with the death of one spouse. The letters were in response to “Just Wondering in the Bay Area” (July 26) who asked about proper protocol regarding dating after a spouse’s death. Our family has a great story to add to the conversation.
My husband’s father Norm died a year and a half ago, leaving his wife Myra a few months short of what would have been their 60th wedding anniversary. She went into deep grieving and lost a lot of weight. We were concerned that she just wanted to lay down and die.
Norm and Myra had been friends for 53 years with Al and Marcia. They met when my husband met Al and Marcia’s daughter in kindergarten, and have been fast friends all these years. Al’s wife Marcia died last year, on November 1, 2009. He also went into deep grief over the loss of his wife. He had Marcia’s name tattooed on both of his arms.
Then a funny thing happened in January of this year. Al came to visit Myra, and they discovered they had so much in common that they never knew. The two act like teenagers, thrilled to be in each others’ company. Al has moved in with Myra, and they are taking the trip of a lifetime on a Mediterranean cruise and a week in Florence Italy.
Both Myra and Al had spent the last few years caring for longtime spouses with serious medical conditions. They are both in their early 80s and healthy for people their age. We are thrilled to see them happy and enjoying life.
And still, they recognize the life that they each had with their longtime spouses. Both keep pictures on their nightstands — Myra with Norm’s picture on her side of the bed, and Al with Marcia’s picture. Life goes on, and it can continue with love and joy.
I had dinner the other night with B.L. Ochman, a legend in the blogosphere. She and I go back many years, and it was such a pleasure to see her and catch up.
She has a guest post on cartoonist Hugh Macleod’s website, GapingVoid.com. Titled “be yourself. remembering what’s important,” it has some great lessons for us all on life and death, living and dying, and family stories that may seem too fantastic but turn out to be true.
It starts: “Three times in the past 10 years, I have faced down death. Once from illness, once by being hit by a car, and once running through the cloud of debris as the Towers fell on 9/11. Shoulda been dead each of those times, but I’m still here. I figure there’s a reason. Even if I don’t know what it is yet.”
There’s a great blog post on Psychology Today‘s site, in The Mystery of Happiness written by T. Byram Karasu, M.D., Silverman Professor of Psychiatry at Albert Einstein College of Medicine. He has some very good observations about humans and their perceptions of death. Most importantly, he said, “One can fully live one’s life by recognizing its end, by focusing on death at the healthier times.”
Here’s the intro:
Freud said that we do not have a concept of death and dying until the age of eight. I think it is more likely that not until fifty do we begin to understand that this life is limited and we are running out of time. We may experience the death of parents, and even some friends, and begin to experience the failing of our own bodies-weakened vision and hearing, reduced physical rigor, and increased aches and pains, all of which forces us to wonder about ultimate loss. Sort of. What prevents us from fully experiencing the possibility of death is an indescribable dread of no longer being. This applies not only to people who are comfortable and healthy but also to those who are sick and miserable. By any objective criteria, those whose lives may be considered not worth living will dread dying.
The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying tells us that we should die peacefully, without grasping, especially if the cause of death is the exhaustion of our natural life span; a human being is like a lamp that has run out of oil. But when the need to prolong life is no longer warranted, we still make every effort to avert death. We make concessions, promises, and bargains with God, confess our wrongdoings, and ask for forgiveness. We still die. We die without full understanding of death, without truly experiencing it. Therefore, we forfeit this most powerful event of our lives, because we don’t want to face the inevitable. The process of dying also must be lived.
