Like a tree in a field
I like this phrase, this image. It's come up several times lately, in various unrelated contexts, most recently in this poem by one of my favorite poets:
A few years ago at a women's retreat I learned a meditation to calm and reground myself by working with trees. It's not mystical or profound: you just touch the tree, hold yourself to it with your whole body if you want, or just use your hands – and think of its roots going into the earth, and imagine yourself tapping into the energy of that connection – all the way to the center of the planet – and let the overwhelming emotions flow into that stream of energy and move through you, through the tree. For me, it's been amazingly comforting at times when I've felt close to losing it, and a source of pleasure and strength even when things are going well. If you think about it, there aren't many places you could find yourself where there are no trees at all to connect to – they live everywhere, even in the middle of huge cities, and they all live in the earth (I don't know how well this would work with potted plants).
I'm thinking of this right now because death has been on my mind again this week. My great-aunt is 101 years old today, and is also dying – she's been receiving hospice care for about a week already. Thinking of her and the life she's lived makes me feel so grateful to have had such a person in my life, and to know that soon she won't be here anymore is just ... kind of a strange feeling. The Jeeps, too, continues to ever so gradually fade a little more each day, sleeping most of the time now and having more trouble with all his bodily functions as time goes on. Then there are Mr. A's parents, who we saw on Christmas, and his sister, who just found out her breast cancer has come back just two years after a round of chemo and radiation for the first occurrence.
Getting back into yoga is one thing I'm doing to try to strengthen myself for what's ahead, and hopefully be able to be a source of comfort for Mr. A as well. It does feel good to be more connected to my own body, and I like being able to dedicate my practice to the people I'm thinking of every day, though I don't know if it really does anything for them ... for me, it seems to make me feel more accepting of things that are happening, and better able to maintain a helpful attitude and a positive perspective. Cleaning up after the Jeeps almost every day now, just as an example, is something I can't say I exactly enjoy doing – but on the other hand, it is only dog poop, and it's all washable, and really, at this time in his life what he needs more than anything is to be loved and petted and kept warm and safe and out of pain. And what I need, and will soon appreciate having given myself, is the comfort of knowing that I did everything I could to take the best possible care of him for as long as he's with us.
I know all this ... and I do try spend my time being grateful for life, rather than thinking about death. Sometimes though it does just seem to steal silently into the room and ask to be acknowledged. Last night I was getting everyone settled in for the night, Tater up on the bed under his little down sleeping bag and Jeeps on the floor with his new wool dog sweater and his special plaid fleece blanket, and as I was tucking him in he reached up and kissed me so sweetly on the cheek that I suddenly found myself weeping uncontrollably. For as long as I've known him he's been a beast, a wildman and a horrible curmudgeon, just as likely to bite your fingers as lick them and always more interested in Milkbones than in any kind of affection I've tried to give him ... and now, all of a sudden, he's turning into a snuggler, a sweetie pie, a dog that I actually love and am having a very hard time imagining Not being around anymore.
The thought of Tater not being around anymore – I will cross that bridge when I come to it.
I have been thinking though about why it hurts so much to think of people I love being gone. It doesn't feel exactly like being sad. It feels just very ... big. Too big. Like my heart can't contain it. I've been trying to study the physical sensations I feel when things happen that remind me ... it's sort of like burning, sort of like crushing and breaking. Heavy. Most of all I think it feels like movement – like something expanding inside my solar plexus. I get a sort of panicky feeling when it happens, sometimes. As if something inside me might be about to break.
Another thing: My mom has been having some alarming things happening with her blood pressure lately. With our family history of death from strokes, this is scary. It occurred to me tonight as I was talking with my sister about this that it's possible all my attention to various other people and dogs of late has been at least in part a way to distract myself from considering the possibility that there might be something serious going on with my mom. In fact, until tonight I had not considered that at all. If I thought of it at all, I told myself it was just a little blood pressure, that her doctor would make sure she's getting taken care of, that my brother (also a doctor, who lives only about a mile from my parents) would make sure everything that should happen does happen – basically, that she's going to be just fine.
Still, someday I will get a phone call.
I don't know if there's really anything I could be doing to get ready for that day, other than what I'm already doing. But there are two things I'm starting in January that I hope will help me get close enough to what scares me, that I'll be able to get more comfortable being there – close to it – since it's one of the only sure things in life, that someday pretty much everyone I know and love will either see me dead, or I'll see them dead. A cheery thought! As Wendell Berry says, "All that I serve will die." But is that really so horrible? Is it?
Anyway, the things I'm doing are 1) training to volunteer with hospice, and 2) joining a local women's choir that works with hospice and other caregivers and families, to sing at the bedsides of people who are dying. You can watch a little video about them here. Hospice training will be good when Mr. A's parents ... you know. I have an old friend who certified as a hospice chaplain last year and she's going to walk me through it. And the choir ... that's for service, too, but it's also practice for me. Singing is so powerful for me lately, and I want to sing with people, and to people. I want to learn how to sing out loud with other people without feeling startled at the sound of my own voice. I especially want to be able to sing with my father. My first rehearsal will be in two weeks.
The thing I have noticed, when things happen that I think I just can't bear, is that fighting, ignoring, resisting or resenting what's happening only makes it hurt even more. Sometimes, like in yoga, the thing to do is just to be still with it, let it sink in, stop trying to hard to "hold" yourself up and just let the weight of the situation support itself. If you can relax into it, yes, maybe it still hurts, but you find youself able somehow to maintain. And sometimes, once I've been able to stop struggling, I find if I can bring myself to look gently right into the heart of it, I'm able to stay – to re-enter and inhabit my own life. Which is all I really want to do with my life, anyway, when it comes right down to it. Just stay with it, whatever's happening.
P.S. On a lighter note – as requested, I will post the persimmon pudding recipe soon – just as soon as I find where I wrote it down! So stay tuned, and hold onto those persimmons.
All that I serve will die, my delights,This image of a tree in a field feels real to me, and is reassuring when life starts moving a little too quickly – I look at the trees in my own field, the way they stand and accept and endure everything – weather, seasons, light and dark, noise, disease, celebration, everything.
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass.
– Wendell Berry
A few years ago at a women's retreat I learned a meditation to calm and reground myself by working with trees. It's not mystical or profound: you just touch the tree, hold yourself to it with your whole body if you want, or just use your hands – and think of its roots going into the earth, and imagine yourself tapping into the energy of that connection – all the way to the center of the planet – and let the overwhelming emotions flow into that stream of energy and move through you, through the tree. For me, it's been amazingly comforting at times when I've felt close to losing it, and a source of pleasure and strength even when things are going well. If you think about it, there aren't many places you could find yourself where there are no trees at all to connect to – they live everywhere, even in the middle of huge cities, and they all live in the earth (I don't know how well this would work with potted plants).
I'm thinking of this right now because death has been on my mind again this week. My great-aunt is 101 years old today, and is also dying – she's been receiving hospice care for about a week already. Thinking of her and the life she's lived makes me feel so grateful to have had such a person in my life, and to know that soon she won't be here anymore is just ... kind of a strange feeling. The Jeeps, too, continues to ever so gradually fade a little more each day, sleeping most of the time now and having more trouble with all his bodily functions as time goes on. Then there are Mr. A's parents, who we saw on Christmas, and his sister, who just found out her breast cancer has come back just two years after a round of chemo and radiation for the first occurrence.
Getting back into yoga is one thing I'm doing to try to strengthen myself for what's ahead, and hopefully be able to be a source of comfort for Mr. A as well. It does feel good to be more connected to my own body, and I like being able to dedicate my practice to the people I'm thinking of every day, though I don't know if it really does anything for them ... for me, it seems to make me feel more accepting of things that are happening, and better able to maintain a helpful attitude and a positive perspective. Cleaning up after the Jeeps almost every day now, just as an example, is something I can't say I exactly enjoy doing – but on the other hand, it is only dog poop, and it's all washable, and really, at this time in his life what he needs more than anything is to be loved and petted and kept warm and safe and out of pain. And what I need, and will soon appreciate having given myself, is the comfort of knowing that I did everything I could to take the best possible care of him for as long as he's with us.
I know all this ... and I do try spend my time being grateful for life, rather than thinking about death. Sometimes though it does just seem to steal silently into the room and ask to be acknowledged. Last night I was getting everyone settled in for the night, Tater up on the bed under his little down sleeping bag and Jeeps on the floor with his new wool dog sweater and his special plaid fleece blanket, and as I was tucking him in he reached up and kissed me so sweetly on the cheek that I suddenly found myself weeping uncontrollably. For as long as I've known him he's been a beast, a wildman and a horrible curmudgeon, just as likely to bite your fingers as lick them and always more interested in Milkbones than in any kind of affection I've tried to give him ... and now, all of a sudden, he's turning into a snuggler, a sweetie pie, a dog that I actually love and am having a very hard time imagining Not being around anymore.
The thought of Tater not being around anymore – I will cross that bridge when I come to it.
I have been thinking though about why it hurts so much to think of people I love being gone. It doesn't feel exactly like being sad. It feels just very ... big. Too big. Like my heart can't contain it. I've been trying to study the physical sensations I feel when things happen that remind me ... it's sort of like burning, sort of like crushing and breaking. Heavy. Most of all I think it feels like movement – like something expanding inside my solar plexus. I get a sort of panicky feeling when it happens, sometimes. As if something inside me might be about to break.
Another thing: My mom has been having some alarming things happening with her blood pressure lately. With our family history of death from strokes, this is scary. It occurred to me tonight as I was talking with my sister about this that it's possible all my attention to various other people and dogs of late has been at least in part a way to distract myself from considering the possibility that there might be something serious going on with my mom. In fact, until tonight I had not considered that at all. If I thought of it at all, I told myself it was just a little blood pressure, that her doctor would make sure she's getting taken care of, that my brother (also a doctor, who lives only about a mile from my parents) would make sure everything that should happen does happen – basically, that she's going to be just fine.
Still, someday I will get a phone call.
I don't know if there's really anything I could be doing to get ready for that day, other than what I'm already doing. But there are two things I'm starting in January that I hope will help me get close enough to what scares me, that I'll be able to get more comfortable being there – close to it – since it's one of the only sure things in life, that someday pretty much everyone I know and love will either see me dead, or I'll see them dead. A cheery thought! As Wendell Berry says, "All that I serve will die." But is that really so horrible? Is it?
Anyway, the things I'm doing are 1) training to volunteer with hospice, and 2) joining a local women's choir that works with hospice and other caregivers and families, to sing at the bedsides of people who are dying. You can watch a little video about them here. Hospice training will be good when Mr. A's parents ... you know. I have an old friend who certified as a hospice chaplain last year and she's going to walk me through it. And the choir ... that's for service, too, but it's also practice for me. Singing is so powerful for me lately, and I want to sing with people, and to people. I want to learn how to sing out loud with other people without feeling startled at the sound of my own voice. I especially want to be able to sing with my father. My first rehearsal will be in two weeks.
The thing I have noticed, when things happen that I think I just can't bear, is that fighting, ignoring, resisting or resenting what's happening only makes it hurt even more. Sometimes, like in yoga, the thing to do is just to be still with it, let it sink in, stop trying to hard to "hold" yourself up and just let the weight of the situation support itself. If you can relax into it, yes, maybe it still hurts, but you find youself able somehow to maintain. And sometimes, once I've been able to stop struggling, I find if I can bring myself to look gently right into the heart of it, I'm able to stay – to re-enter and inhabit my own life. Which is all I really want to do with my life, anyway, when it comes right down to it. Just stay with it, whatever's happening.
P.S. On a lighter note – as requested, I will post the persimmon pudding recipe soon – just as soon as I find where I wrote it down! So stay tuned, and hold onto those persimmons.
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