I am . . . human, woman, white, German/Italian, tall…Texan, American…
I am my high school mascot, my religion, my political affiliation, my favorite football team, a drinker/teetotaller, vegan/carnivore…
Extroverted introvert, dog person/cat person…
We define and define…taking large pieces and chopping them down smaller and smaller…dicing our identity like an onion…
Labels..
We’re raised with them…asked to pick teams at an early age. Convinced to compete with the “other,” we learn to define ourselves not just by those we love, but also by our enemies. Layer upon layer of complications…We are like a work of art covered with Post-It pads, our beauty and truth hidden by haphazard arrays of colored sticky paper and attitude.
Labels trap us…labels of victimhood…labels of expectations…labels of history…
good daughter, winner, loser…
In the past few years so many of my labels have been ripped away, painfully. I was a runner until I wasn’t. I was a sister, a daughter, a leader, a helper…until death and circumstances took those away. And with each designation carved away, I felt like I was floundering until I could latch onto another purpose and identity. I’ve lived my life throwing myself into roles, becoming a caricature with obsessive chase for a title.
I recently participated in a guided meditation. Sitting in silence, I was lead through a stripping away..each label was removed….layer by layer…until there was only truth. And I imagined myself as a Rene Magritte painting of a window or door frame against a clear blue sky. I realized I was the sky…not paint or canvas or frame or images. I am the sky…without borders or boundaries, without labels. There is no opposite, no enemy, no reason to define the undefinable.
The most profound spiritual experience of my life was a feeling of complete oneness with “all that is.” I’ve shared it in my blog years ago. I was walking my dogs in the pasture and it started to rain. I began to ponder how I was more space than matter…and how my boundaries are temporary. My molecules…my atoms.. could disperse into the air around becoming one with the dogs, the rain.. returning to “all that is.”
I think about death a lot…probably more than what one would consider healthy. I don’t like the idea of a heaven where my ego lives on. I really want to lose that burdensome identity. What if death means we just dissipate and become one with everything…returning to our true state…no label, no role.
One of the most comforting works of wisdom in my opinion is Thich Nhat Hanh’s “A cloud never dies”
When the cloud is no longer in the sky, it doesn’t mean the cloud has died. The cloud is continued in other forms like rain or snow or ice. So you can recognize your cloud in her new forms. If you are very fond of a beautiful cloud and if your cloud is no longer there, you should not be sad. Your beloved cloud might have become the rain, calling on you, ‘darling, darling, don’t you see me in my new form?’ And then you will not be stuck with grief and despair. Your beloved one continues always. Meditation helps you recognize her continued presence in new forms. A cloud can never die. A cloud can become snow, or hail …or rain. But it is impossible for a cloud to pass from being into non-being. And that is true with your beloved one. She has not died. She is continued in many new forms. And you can look deeply and recognize herself in you and around you. – Thich Nhat Hanh.
When Freddie died, I ran. I’ve always been a runner, but never long distance. My longest run before he passed was ten miles and that only happened twice. But after he died, I had a lump in my throat and an invisible hand covering my mouth, keeping me from gasping and gulping in the grief that I feared would never end. So I ran… half marathons, 30Ks and then two marathons. I was training for an ultra when the arthritis in my feet and knees quit responding to steroid shots and sidelined me. But the act of running – breathing hard, gasping for breath, sweating profusely allowed my whole body – every cell of my being – to cry.
Then I threw myself into the formation of a local nonprofit. I took the love for my brother and carried it to people in my community, delivering groceries to families. The same way I pushed through 26 mile runs, I pushed through days of illness and sadness and family emergencies to deliver these goods. During seven years, I missed one event because I couldn’t get off work.
I spent my money, my time, my love on that project.
Sadly a series of unfortunate events and lack of communication convinced me that I needed to step away from the group. Then six months later the charity as I knew it, dissolved. My heart was broken. I felt lost. I’ve lived from mission to mission. Where do I go from here?
I ran to cry and carried food to love. But there is so much more…
The next step is to BE HERE NOW. Suddenly my world is inundated with reminders that my mission is just this…this breath, this step, this moment, this tear, this heart’s flutter.
“Take my hand. We will walk. We will only walk. We will enjoy our walk without thinking of arriving anywhere.”
“Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves” – Rabindranath Tagore
Christmas morning I walked my dogs in a dense fog and was enchanted by the hundreds of spiderwebs decorating the wintery landscape.
Spider webs symbolize so many things….the strength of fragility, the wisdom of nature, the patience of the spider and on that Christmas morning, as the world celebrated birth, the webs symbolized the nonduality of birth and death. I say “nonduality” because I realized that I could not honestly stand there, gasping at the beauty around me, and judge the spiders’ efforts to catch prey as “bad.” I only knew that at that moment, with my dogs on Christmas morning, nothing felt more important than admiring the glory of nature. Noticing every web seemed like a holy act.
Several years ago, my husband and I faced a series of deaths that spanned two years. The first loss was when our brilliant nephew decided to end his life. Then a few weeks later, my stepbrother died in a tragic trucking accident. My other nephew died. My husband’s mother died. His brother died. Then my baby brother died. There were others in between – close friends and family, averaging a death every 2-3 months.
Every loss and every birth changes us radically. I’ve never witnessed a birth, but the night I stood next to my brother’s hospice bed, holding his hand as he gently breathed his last breath, was as profound as any birth.
My brother died surrounded by family and friends. We stood in a circle around his bed, knowing it wouldn’t be long. One time he sat up and looked into the distance, pointing at a spot where nobody stood and asked “Who is that?” He smiled and relaxed. We talked and sang and even prayed around him. Then his breathing changed. The transition was so gentle…there were longer and longer pauses between breaths. Finally, as softly as a sigh, he was gone.
Symbols of life and death – the living spider, the rising sun, the dead foliage and web’s death trap.
But even with that final breath, I felt him there…his warmth and presence…the way you know somebody is in the room though you can’t see them. He “stayed” for a while…maybe 15 or 20 minutes and then the air changed and I knew that he moved on.
My brother could have possibly lived with a liver donation. I offered to share my liver with him but for a variety of reasons, that wasn’t going to work. After his death I wanted to do something to remember him and make a difference. So I worked to raise awareness for organ donations.
I would run a 30 kilometer race one year to the day he died…”running to remember.” The race was the culmination of a month-long campaign to sign up donors. Because the race’s location was a distance from my home, I stayed at a ranch closer to the event. On the eve of the race…and the eve of his death…several of us sat on the back porch when my phone beeped that I had a missed call. No number appeared but the phone indicated I had a voicemail. I want to mention here that my local cell phone carrier had made sweeping changes the year prior and all my saved voicemails had been lost. The robotic voice informed me that I had one new message. I played the message and felt the blood drain from my face. My brother’s voice brightly wished me a “Happy New Year.” He was sad to have missed me but went on to advise me not to try to call him back because he was going out to party. It was an old message from a few years prior. I played it again…and then I played it for my mother who cried with disbelief. But when I tried to play for the other people on the porch, the message was gone. And yet the MESSAGE itself was so clear. He’d moved on and wanted me to move on too.
One foggy morning in the back of the pasture near Lost Creek.
I have only shared that with a very few close friends but I feel compelled to share it on my blog. I know only two or three people will probably read this but I needed to write it.
His transition showed me how the cycle truly does continue…that spring turns to summer and summer to fall and then in the winter, we think everything is dead…but just under the surface, life is preparing to re-awaken. Yes, cliche and a little bit cheesy but such a profound truth that I still shudder a tiny bit. Death and life are the same. Bittersweet light and dark, blinding me and lighting the way simultaneously.
I rolled my forehead on the cool bathroom floor. I breathed, trying to calm the violent nausea. After throwing up for three hours, I decided I could do nothing more than wait. I knew that regardless of the ending, this would not go on forever.
Sometimes you have to accept that your body is in pain, but you don’t have to identify with that pain…accept your body is aging, but not identify with the aging body. Sometimes you just have to accept imperfections, but recognize you are more.
“You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.” ― Brené Brown
Seems more than coincidence that earlier that day, I’d lit my sage smudge and with a feeling of perfect peace, smudged myself. I still felt a barrier, an old resentment to which I kept returning. I knew it was time to move on but something around my heart felt like a burnt-out light bulb. So I smudged myself prayerfully and went to the kitchen to fix those delicious $2.49 mussels I’d found on sale along with a light gluten free pasta pesto dish. I watched a short segment on Gaia TV enjoying my delightfully inexpensive supper. A few hours later, I asked Barry to just bring a pillow to the bathroom for me.
That was Sunday night. I’m writing this Friday night and I still don’t feel 100% right physically. BUT throughout this whole thing, I’ve felt peace. I think I vomited up a piece of resentment.
Finally letting go of those things I cannot change..
So what is my point? There is always another obstacle. There is always a problem to overcome, a friendship that is lost, a body that ages…there’s always a resentment to release or a fear to face.
Life is like a sit-com series – it opens with laughs then a conflict arises. By the end of the show, the situation is resolved and more laughter erupts. A week later you do the whole thing all over again. Sometimes you get a break during re-run season but usually there’s always another episode. And it’s ok…because all that stuff happening is kinda the whole point.
A dear friend sent me the following meme after she patiently listened to my constant yammering for the past few months. I think this beautifully sums up the Lesson of the Mussels.
A neighbor gave us a watermelon after Barry put out a small fire for him. I should have photographed it. But I saw it and that memory is preserved. The watermelon existed for a moment the way we all do, I suppose. Art and beauty once created, are like truth. They can never be undone. And I think maybe like we and the watermelon are like art, beauty, and truth.
Anyway, I cut it up to put it in Tupperware (well Gladdware or whatever it’s called) and Winnie came begging. That dog will eat anything! Of course, Cupcake had to try it too but she immediately spit her piece on the floor. Don’t worry – nothing was wasted. Winnie swooped right in. I guess not everybody appreciates watermelon the same way.
I marveled at the smell and texture of the melon – the way the hard, thick rind housed such a delicate fruit that literally melts under pressure. Again I thought about how much I have in common with that melon.
I chopped the rind into small pieces. Before I sat down to enjoy my treat, I wanted to give the cows their treat. Pretty cow met me at the gate. She recognizes the grey bucket. She’s getting so old. She’s 23 now and actually calved last year. She has no teeth but she can gum up some watermelon rind. All the other girls came too, but Pretty Cow is Alpha Cow and gets the best of the best.
I have to brag – she’s so intelligent. A piece was on the ground and I pointed to it. Area 51 Cow and #68 both tried to bite my pointing finger but Pretty Cow actually looked at the place to which I pointed.
I came home, washed cow slobber off my hands and arms and sat down with my melon. I decided this was a chance to really practice mindfulness. I would sit in silence and savor my food. I don’t think I ever really tasted watermelon – not TRULY tasted. I tend to scarf food. Maybe it’s some primordial instinct – eat it all before the others come. But I settled into the safety of my couch and slowly savored each bit. I smelled it. I looked at it. I ate it. My hunger and thirst were both satiated, but something even deeper felt satisfied…I felt alive and safe. I felt unhurried. I didn’t have to think about anything but the melon. I think I felt “mindfulness.” So this was Lesson One. A simple lesson but it’s a good start for the journey.
I still walk with a limp. I had my knee surgery over a year ago and most of the time it doesn’t hurt me. There’s really no physical reason for it, but I still walk with a limp.
I think we all have limps. Some are more pronounced and affect our lives in crazier ways. Others are little things…
Like my feet (which aren’t little things at all…hell, they’re BIG things…size 10 or 10 1/2 things). Someone told me repeatedly when I was young that my feet were ugly and freakish things. And for almost 50 years I’ve been ashamed to wear sandals.
I told a friend about my “foot fetish” and she replied, “Think of the places those feet have carried you.” My feet have been good to me…they ran two full marathons, carried mail, marched in formation, danced in some wild nightclubs. My feet yearn to hang out of the end of my sheets, even on the coldest days. Cupcake likes to lick my feet. I have a reflexologist friend who can change my mood and open my sinuses, just by rubbing my feet. These feet are remarkable!
So recently I’ve decided to quit giving any more damns. I bought a pair of open toed sandals. I will allow my feet to frolic freely without inhibitions.
It’s amazing how a few thoughtless words from somebody 40-50 years ago can leave us with a limp. These old injuries keep us from singing aloud, wearing sandals, painting, dancing, loving and just plain old living! But it’s not too late to realize you really don’t HAVE to limp …it’s never too late to buy sandals and set your tootsies free!
Moses is 17 years old. He has chunks missing from his ears. His fur is less than luxurious. But he doesn’t let it stop him from believing he is King of the World!
I’ve been lost . . . for a long time, I think . . .
There is beauty wild messiness. . .
Sometime during the last few decades, pieces of me died. Things that once burned brightly, faded. I can still feel a tiny flicker under my ribs, but it’s just a faint warmth.
I got caught up in being accepted…being loved…being kind…being like everyone else…
(How honest should I be in this blog? If I share too much somebody might feel hurt…but isn’t that the attitude that got me here in the first place?)
I SOLD OUT.
I traded my spark for conformity. I traded freedom for safety. And I lost myself.
No audience is necessary for beauty to exist… no approval needed.
I learned something the other day as I walked/ran (wan or ralked) with the dogs. The aroma of trees in bloom was bewitching. I found myself inhaling more deeply than I usually do. I realized I was being beautifully seduced by these wise, wild arboreal beings…actually by all things green and fragrant. As I inhaled the air, I benefitted from the oxygen and the enchanting scent. When I exhaled, I returned the favor as carbon dioxide. I visualized ribbons of CO2 rising to meet imaginary nostrils on leaves.
Without effort…without sacrifice…without losing myself, I was able to be a part of the circle simply by BE-ing. With a simple breath I gave easily and easily received.
I still walk with a limp. I had my knee surgery over a year ago and most of the time it doesn’t hurt me. There’s really no physical reason for it, but I still walk with a limp.
AngyBoneHead 