Answers Not Yet For The Knowing
What are you thinking while you lie there dying? Are you thinking those profound thoughts that only the healthy, the not terminal suppose that a dying man thinks? Things we cannot possibly comprehend, the meaning of life, was it all worth it, the summing up and evaluation of all that was said and done? Or is it more feeling the dying process? Does the mind slow down to allow one to truly feel, perhaps for the first time, the systematic rhythms of the body, the pumping of blood through the veins, the beating of ones heart, the tingling of the skin, the sound of ones breath, of all organs churning, pulsing, doing one last gig before the final curtain?
When you lie there so still, so quiet, gazing skyward, eyes fixed and glassy, and I walk into the room and you seem startled by the intrusion, what was happening for you? Do you think only of death? Of letting go? Of will it hurt, what will I see, is there anything afterward, will those I leave behind be okay? Or are you so far past that point that you see and feel only rocking; the primordial cradle of waves and warmth and darkness. Are you comforted? Are you okay? That is what I need to know.
Selfishly too, I want to know more than that. I want to know what you are just beginning to know. What I will not know until I, like you, lie dying. Is there a wonderful release when you finally let go? A warm blanket of freedom that suddenly caresses you once you've said, it is time? Does the brain, your thinking, resort to a place, a plane, that only functions as a home for acceptance, love, release, freedom from the prison of a dying body, of this world? Do you see things differently? Do you see different things? Do you see loved ones who have gone before you? Can you feel them, can you hear them, are they calling you to join them?
You didn't know if there was anything after death. You told me so. I wanted to believe that you believed there was something. "I'm not sure," you said, "I don't know." How could you? But you promised me you would let me know, somehow, someway. "Let me know," I whispered. You nodded that you would and gave me a look so foreign, so far from anything I have ever seen or understood, that I knew if you could, you would keep your promise. I think you were perhaps more surprised than I. You kept your promise. And while you gave me the gift of "knowing" that there is indeed life, a force, an energy, a spirit (what do you call this?) after the body is gone, you gave me an insight that not everyone has been given. Now I know. And perhaps the greatest gift of all is not being afraid. In the knowing, I am not as fearful. That, is one of the greatest gifts you gave to me.
Faraway
Toward the end and during the most difficult of days, daydreams and fantasies were the tiny secrets I kept in my pocket. So tired, so helpless, when all chores and responsibilities were done, for now, I would reach into my pocket and pull from my handful of polished stones that were my daydreams. If only for a moment, I could close my eyes and hold onto those little stones, and transport myself to someplace faraway where everything was easy and good.
By holding my lids tight, I could get just enough dream darkness to pretend that I was happy and hopeful, that I was suddenly young, beautiful, filled with life and endless possibility. I wanted to remember what it was like to be held, to hold, to let go of the weight of thought and process and just be. I would dream of making love again, sometimes with John, sometimes not, with anyone that could hold me and make me forget. Daydreams and fantasies are mostly to help us forget. They are our secrets, our safety nets, our crutches when the real world has failed us or crippled us of our options.
These journeys were safe and far enough away so not to harm. I was often on a beach, a lovely white beach, or in the African bush surrounded by the sounds of the wild and heady scent of flora and fauna. I would lie on my back, limp, looking skyward, into the clouds that we always hope will hold all answers to all questions. Drunk by the sun, bathed in the perfume of flowering trees and grasses, I would be made love to by a faceless stranger, whom I loved and loved me. I wanted to feel the strength and heaviness of a body on top of mine again, to remember what it felt like to feel the freedom of passivity, such abandon, such lightness of spirit. I wanted to feel, but only tactile feelings, my head aching from so much thinking and taking care. With my body neglected and my brain working overtime, I longed to be lulled into the softness and warmth of skin and waves and breath. And as quickly as those tiny stones were pulled out, they were tucked away, into their dark places, and as I opened my lids, the harsh light of my day would sting my eyes and for now, flood the oasis of beach and bushwillows.
One Last Dance
It was a night of full moon and blankets of snow. Past midnight, I looked outside onto the landscape bathed in moonlight and remembered how John loved these nights. Full moonlight would cast a bluish tint across an otherwise white landscape, a dreamscape of sorts, otherworldly, of the moon and stars, foreign, hushed, fleeting. And as I looked across the vastness of blue and shadow, I quietly sang to myself, "and dance by the light of the moon..." and wondered if when I turned around John would suddenly appear, out in the snow, beneath the full moon and bare birches, dancing, twirling, making snow angels beneath the stars. I hoped so. In my minds eye I could see it clearly. And the next morning when I awoke, I strained my neck to look out across the deep cover of snow, looking for footprints or angel wings beneath the crabapples. The snow pack was unblemished, but maybe his feather-light wings had not touched the ground.
What are you thinking while you lie there dying? Are you thinking those profound thoughts that only the healthy, the not terminal suppose that a dying man thinks? Things we cannot possibly comprehend, the meaning of life, was it all worth it, the summing up and evaluation of all that was said and done? Or is it more feeling the dying process? Does the mind slow down to allow one to truly feel, perhaps for the first time, the systematic rhythms of the body, the pumping of blood through the veins, the beating of ones heart, the tingling of the skin, the sound of ones breath, of all organs churning, pulsing, doing one last gig before the final curtain?
When you lie there so still, so quiet, gazing skyward, eyes fixed and glassy, and I walk into the room and you seem startled by the intrusion, what was happening for you? Do you think only of death? Of letting go? Of will it hurt, what will I see, is there anything afterward, will those I leave behind be okay? Or are you so far past that point that you see and feel only rocking; the primordial cradle of waves and warmth and darkness. Are you comforted? Are you okay? That is what I need to know.
Selfishly too, I want to know more than that. I want to know what you are just beginning to know. What I will not know until I, like you, lie dying. Is there a wonderful release when you finally let go? A warm blanket of freedom that suddenly caresses you once you've said, it is time? Does the brain, your thinking, resort to a place, a plane, that only functions as a home for acceptance, love, release, freedom from the prison of a dying body, of this world? Do you see things differently? Do you see different things? Do you see loved ones who have gone before you? Can you feel them, can you hear them, are they calling you to join them?
Faraway
Toward the end and during the most difficult of days, daydreams and fantasies were the tiny secrets I kept in my pocket. So tired, so helpless, when all chores and responsibilities were done, for now, I would reach into my pocket and pull from my handful of polished stones that were my daydreams. If only for a moment, I could close my eyes and hold onto those little stones, and transport myself to someplace faraway where everything was easy and good.
By holding my lids tight, I could get just enough dream darkness to pretend that I was happy and hopeful, that I was suddenly young, beautiful, filled with life and endless possibility. I wanted to remember what it was like to be held, to hold, to let go of the weight of thought and process and just be. I would dream of making love again, sometimes with John, sometimes not, with anyone that could hold me and make me forget. Daydreams and fantasies are mostly to help us forget. They are our secrets, our safety nets, our crutches when the real world has failed us or crippled us of our options.
These journeys were safe and far enough away so not to harm. I was often on a beach, a lovely white beach, or in the African bush surrounded by the sounds of the wild and heady scent of flora and fauna. I would lie on my back, limp, looking skyward, into the clouds that we always hope will hold all answers to all questions. Drunk by the sun, bathed in the perfume of flowering trees and grasses, I would be made love to by a faceless stranger, whom I loved and loved me. I wanted to feel the strength and heaviness of a body on top of mine again, to remember what it felt like to feel the freedom of passivity, such abandon, such lightness of spirit. I wanted to feel, but only tactile feelings, my head aching from so much thinking and taking care. With my body neglected and my brain working overtime, I longed to be lulled into the softness and warmth of skin and waves and breath. And as quickly as those tiny stones were pulled out, they were tucked away, into their dark places, and as I opened my lids, the harsh light of my day would sting my eyes and for now, flood the oasis of beach and bushwillows.
One Last Dance
It was a night of full moon and blankets of snow. Past midnight, I looked outside onto the landscape bathed in moonlight and remembered how John loved these nights. Full moonlight would cast a bluish tint across an otherwise white landscape, a dreamscape of sorts, otherworldly, of the moon and stars, foreign, hushed, fleeting. And as I looked across the vastness of blue and shadow, I quietly sang to myself, "and dance by the light of the moon..." and wondered if when I turned around John would suddenly appear, out in the snow, beneath the full moon and bare birches, dancing, twirling, making snow angels beneath the stars. I hoped so. In my minds eye I could see it clearly. And the next morning when I awoke, I strained my neck to look out across the deep cover of snow, looking for footprints or angel wings beneath the crabapples. The snow pack was unblemished, but maybe his feather-light wings had not touched the ground.
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