Raw and Tender

I've been a bit raw and tender lately; like an egg that has cracked and the yolk spread across the kitchen floor.

Yesterday, at the end of my shift, I put my headphones on and settled in to finish my medical records. The headphones serve to isolate me so that I will focus and get my work done. They served their purpose because I looked over and there were my co-workers, performing CPR. Our receptionist had barreled into the treatment area cradling a dying dog. The team had immediately mobilized. One person climbed up onto the table, straddled the dog and began chest compressions. Another placed an IV catheter. A third person set up the ecg. A fourth placed an endotracheal tube and began breathing for the patient. It was just like you'd see on tv. Only the efforts were for a dog rather than a person.

In my ears was Stevie Nicks. Landslide.

"What is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above

Can I sail through the changing ocean tides

Can I handle the seasons of my life

Well, I've been afraid of changin'

'Cause I built my life around you..."

And with that I stepped outside of my body. I floated somewhere to the side of the physical me and felt all the feels. Pride at my co-workers and their amazing dedication and ability. Sorrow for the people who were, in all likelihood, about to lose their dog. Confusion about the randomness of life. Helplessness as I watched it all unfold.

***

The world has been challenging as of late. All the bad things on the news. It's particularly difficult for someone like me. I internalize it. I feel, sometimes too much, for the people involved.

In the midst of all of this my husband and I have been attending a weekly class in Compassion Cultivation Training. These weekly meetings, with a group of strangers, have begun to feel like therapy. Tears have been shed. More than once.

Today we meditated. We inhaled darkness and expelled light. In and out. In and out. In with the darkness, take the darkness into your heart, and, like a furnace with coal, transform the darkness into light. Exhale the light.

We've learned some mantras. And one I now whisper to my patients; especially those that are being euthanized.

May you be safe.
May you be happy.
May you be free.

***

Wage peace with your breath.

 

Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds.

Breathe in terrorists 

and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.

 

Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.

 

Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.

 

Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.

 

Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.

 

Make soup.

Play music; memorize the words for thank you in three languages.

Learn to knit, and make a hat.

Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,

imagine grief 

as the out breath of beauty 

or the gesture of fish.

Swim for the other side.

Wage peace.

Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious:

Have a cup of tea and rejoice.

Act as if armistice has already arrived.

Celebrate today.

~Judith Hill

***

Tonight we were asked to make a commitment for this week. Give away one thing per day. Your time. Your heart. Your genuine attention. Money. A book. A poem. A gift.

I was reminded of something my daughters and I used to do when bad things happened. Something that has fallen by the wayside.  We used to buy coffee gift cards and write handwritten notes. Then we'd hand them out,  leave them in flower pots, and tuck them in library books. 

It may not make a difference. But I'd like to think we left a little light in the world. 

***

I've had this blog for ten years now. And haven't written much as of late. But the voice inside my head has been telling stories lately and I'm here to translate.

It's weird to go back and read old posts. I've grown a lot. I'm calmer now. Less angry. More understanding. We all have the capacity for change. 

Love and light. 

Life, Death and Autumn Leaves

My life revolves around death.  I live through the grief and trauma of death every day that I work. And on days I'm not working death still permeates my life. Death has seeped into my skin. It sits with me as I make coffee. It rests on my shoulder as browse Pinterest. It walks beside me as I feed the chickens. And it presses into me as I get the mail. I'm not dying (at least not any more than we all are) but I am constantly reminded that death waits for us all and no one is exempt.

I've done a lot of inner work around death. It's a necessary part of my being. This inner work keeps me living as I help others grieve. I meditate, study buddhism, and train in compassion. I'm not a particularly religious person but I do delve into fantasy about what happens after we die; I love the principles of universal energy and the idea of reincarnation.

Recently I euthanized a cat; a sweet creature whose kidneys had shut down after a monumental battle. This cat's owner was deeply religious and she had come to peace with her decision. Then she said something that startled me. She said that, though she loved her cat, she knew her cat did not have a soul. Thus euthanasia was okay.

I understand that these were the words of a grieving woman. And I hope her belief helps her to navigate life without her kitty. But I must respectfully disagree. If anything has a soul it is animals. Perhaps, though, she has never looked into the eyes of a great horned owl and seen the world inside. Perhaps, then, she'd change her mind.

But I digress. On Friday someone in our circle passed away. Someone we knew was ill but didn't expect to be gone so soon. Someone our age. My husband called me at work to break the news.

Now death follows me like a loyal dog; I can't even go to the bathroom alone. But for my husband it is different. Death stays sleeping in the corner and it's easy enough for him to forget that it's even there, lying quietly in wait. So when death showed up it was a shock and a surprise. My husband was bawling.

I had a long weekend of work ahead. Emotionally wrought cases. People with anxiety and fear. Lives to be pulled from the brink and lives to release to the ether. So I took the news and tucked it into my pocket. I shoved it deep and did my best to ignore the news.

But this morning? This morning was different. I had the day off and started by reading some poetry. Then I listened to music. And I cracked wide open. Because death remains random and impossible to understand. Why one person and not another? Is there a universal plan? And what about his family? How are they to cope with this grief?

Needless to say I spent some time crying in the shower, listening to music and singing through my tears. And the big question remained. How best can we honor those that have passed?

Here's what I've come up with. We need to live our best lives. This doesn't mean standing on a cliff wearing a perfectly coifed dress which romantically flutters during a highly manufactured instagram moment.  Rather it means finding the beauty in EVERY day. No matter what the day or where you are.

Let the sun shine brightly through the windows of the car during your commute. Watch the birds migrate through the sky. Pull over by your favorite trees and crunch through the fallen leaves. Stop and smell the flowers. Take a bath. Hug more and longer. Forgive. Hold hands. Tell people how truly beautiful they are. Do all these things and then some. Because only this day, this moment, is a given. And nothing else is guaranteed.

____________________________________________________

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world

- Mary Oliver