It has GOT to get better than this.

New Year's Day brings mixed emotion, sadness about past loss, uncertainty of the unknown, hope for the future, and renewed resolutions. 32 years ago tomorrow, my friends +Marie Agosta and +Gary Stoy and I sat on a cliff where an artichoke field dropped off to the Pacific Ocean. We popped a bottle of champagne, and before the farmer chased us off, we toasted the new year with, "it's gotta be better than this" which became our mantra throughout the year.

  


Looking back, it did get better. Then worse. Then better, and so on. Life is always going to have its ups and downs, but it's what you make of these events that determine their impact on you.


Liz Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love wrote on her Facebook page today,

But see...here's the thing: They NEVER tell you what's coming. And even if you did see what was coming, you don't GET to dig a hole to hide in. Not while you're still lucky enough to be alive. 

What is coming shall come, and — as long as you live — you will have the enormous privilege and challenge of trying to figure out how to respond to destiny. 

Tomorrow, when you are gifted with a brand new year (and it IS a gift), nobody will sit you down and tell you what's going to happen in the next 12 months, and — as it unfolds — nobody will be able to tell you how to endure it, or how to enjoy it, or how to understand it.
That part will be up to you. 

Life will keep unfolding; you must keep manufacturing your own response. 

So yes, it will get better, and then it might get worse. I already know 2017 will come with its own special challenges, some personal, some global.  But I know, for me, I will not hashtag #fml but will use #17Blessings because it's all in how you manufacture your response. I choose to respond with gratitude, determination, compassion, resilience, hope and love. And love always wins.

"I want to go to heaven right now"

There is a grief so painful, so deep, that you just want to die. I've written about it before. If there is a heaven, I'd die and be with Jim there. And if there is no heaven, just blackness, well, that would be better than the darkness of my soul. I've felt it, and I'm not alone. How often we hear of spouses dying within hours of each other? And now, famously, Debbie Reynolds, grieving the sudden death of her daughter, Carrie Fisher, tells her son, "I want to be with Carrie" and hours later, she died. It's heartbreaking. And I totally get it.

When my grandniece was telling me that her beloved Elton, a yellow lab, had died and gone to heaven, she explained he wasn't tired anymore. And then she cried out in anguish, 'I want to go to heaven right now!'  I get it, Emmy.

Until you have lost someone dear, you may not understand. But once you do, you get it.  Anything, even death, seems preferable to the pain of grief. And I'd love to tell you it stops. But honestly I haven't found that to be true. What does change is your ability to function and live with the grief. In the beginning I could not imagine a day where I was not incapacitated by sadness. But time has passed and I have learned how to cope. I can sometimes get through a day without crying. And then other days I just crawl back into bed and cry for hours. But I'm choosing life. Despite my sadness I find joy in life, as well. Grief is like that. It comes in waves. Or maybe seasons.

My grandfather lived a long, healthy life. In his last year though his health declined and he asked me one day, "why am I still here?" I didn't think I was being overly wise, I just wasn't ready to let go, so I told him he clearly had something left to do... to love a child, to make someone laugh, to listen. But looking back, I think I was wise beyond my knowing. Around the same time, my friend Kurt was dying from AIDSs related complications. He taught me the reason we are here is to love and help each other.

So, I'm guessing there is something left to do, for as long as I can do it. And that is to love, laugh, listen and live. Right now.

I must be strong

And carry on

'Cause I know I don't belong

Here in heaven

I'll find my way

Through night and day

'Cause I know I just can't stay

Here in heaven

Time can bring you down

Time can bend your knees

Time can break your heart

Have you begging please, begging please

Beyond the door

There's peace I'm sure

And I know there'll be no more

Tears in heaven

~ Eric Clapton, Will Jennings

I am married to a dead man

It might sound callous to some, but I don't know how else to put it. I am married to a dead man.  I still feel, no, I still am, married. I promised to love Jim for the rest of my life, not his.  As Maddy Paxman writes, "In my head, I still consider myself to be his wife, not his widow. My grief has not yet moved into the past tense." For about six months after Jim died, I couldn't even use the word widow to refer to myself. I am an avid reader and bought stacks of books on grieving, but it took me a year before I could open a book that had Widow in the title.

I still wear my rings. Perhaps it is a form of denial, but it just feels right. And expect to hear me talk about my husband, Jim. I can't just block out the last 20 years of my life experiences. He was so much of my life, a part of me, and continues to be. He, and my grief, will forever be a part of who I am. I still consider myself lucky for loving Jim so much that I grieve him so deeply.

Someday I may write my own book about the lighter side of grief, those who think I am suddenly (well, it's been over a year, they say) in dire need of a man. The strange things that people (including me) say, think and do. But for now let me just say, in my heart, I am married. I am not available, looking or even wishing... for anyone but Jim.


So please don't ask, "have I met someone? Am I seeing someone? Is there someone special" I know it is hard for you to understand how much those questions hurt. I may be ready someday, to look, to feel, to open my heart to love again, but for now, and until I let you know otherwise, I am married...to a dead man.

Paxman writes about introductions at a party, and explains:

‘This is Michael Donaghy’s . . .  what should I call you? His widow? His ex?’ my host asked. I thought about it briefly and answered ‘His wife.’ 

After all, although Michael is dead, I am  not married to anyone else. And nor am I likely to be just yet. 

And we didn’t choose to end the marriage — he was just snatched away from it, and me, by dying suddenly at the age of 50. 

That was ten years ago. In my head, I still consider myself to be his wife, not his widow. My grief has not yet moved into the past tense. And, yes, while ten years may seem like a very long time to be in mourning, I can tell you that in the journey of grieving it really isn’t. 

And so I live in a world where I am still mourning, but those around me seem terribly confused by my emotions. Grief is openly discussed, portrayed regularly on television or in the papers, and now even tweeted about incessantly. 

But we still don’t know how to actually feel it, or to sit quietly with the experience of friends who are grieving. Saying that ‘Time will heal’ is no help at all. And, anyway, I’m not sure it’s true. 

Time moves on, life moves on, but grief, like love, becomes forever part of who you are

Read more: The Daily Mail: Why Can't We Cope with Grief...

A new binder

I had a dream. In the dream, a student came to me very agitated. He said he couldn't take anymore notes because the notebook he used for science was full. I told him simply to just get a new notebook from the supply cabinet. And then I woke me with a start, The dream was not scary, so I thought there must be something here.


So I thought about it. What about the full binder connected to my life?

My life with Jim was full... Full of love, laughter, passion, security and friendship. We had almost 20 years of love, laughter, tears, loss, challenges and joys. We traveled together and made a very comfortable home. We raised a kind, compassionate, hard working son. We had a good life And that notebook got full. It doesn't mean my life is over. It just means I need to get another notebook, and start filling it with adventures. 

Every day unfolds the next step in my journey

Today's meditation centering thought was, every day unfolds the next step in my journey. It's about getting unstuck. This message was about intention and seeking awareness. So I was thinking what is my intention? What do I want? What I want most is Jim. And obviously I know I can't have that. So then, what do I want next most? I think what I want most is peace.

I want to not worry about what was, and what will never be. I want to enjoy the blessings of the present moment.

Merriam Webster defines peace as follows:
Full Definition of peace
1:  a state of tranquility or quiet: as
a :  freedom from civil disturbance
b :  a state of security or order within a community provided for by law or custom <a breach of the peace>
2:  freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions
3:  harmony in personal relations
4a :  a state or period of mutual concord between governments
b :  a pact or agreement to end hostilities between those who have been at war or in a state of enmity

Peace, then, is the absence of tension, freedom from disquieting thoughts. A state of quiet calm.


One of my walking meditation mantras is "why worry if there is something you can do? If there is nothing you can do, why worry?"

I cannot change the fact that Jim is gone. Yet, it continues for disturb my sense of tranquility. When I leave my awareness of the present moment, when I replay the past. or worry about the future, is when I go out of peace.

There was a song I grew up with, "Let There Be Peace on Earth"  written by Jill Jackson Miller and Sy Miller in 1955. In part, the lyrics go like this:

Let this be the moment now;

...

To take each moment and live each moment

In peace eternally.

Let there be peace on earth

And let it begin with me

So how can I work to stay peaceful? Meditation helps.  Allowing space for happy memories and not dwelling in the sad. By allowing the turmoil to go on around me, but to not let it own me or overtake me. By connecting with people, places and activities that help me find a sense of peace... walking on the beach, enjoying the sunset, sitting by the fire chatitng with friends, petting my dog... all done mindfully and with intention. I can create peace making new memories, finding new ways to be content, to feel loved and safe. By making a commitment every day to live more peacefully. And to let it begin with me.

Getting Unstuck. Part 1

Today's meditation mantra or centering thought was "I embrace the newness of each day". The mantra was the wholeness of the universe is my true self. So I've been meditating on getting unstuck with Deepak and Oprah. The thing that I feel stuck in is my grief. It's not that I don't believe that I'm going to grieve forever. I am. I can't help it, it's part of who I am and always will be. Jim will always be a part of who I am and the loss of Jim that was always a part of who I am, as well. And I am okay with that.

But what I do need to figure out is how I go on living with that grief being a part of who I am. I've been putting a pretty good show. I've been keeping busy and doing interesting things and even doing a little bit of traveling. But in my heart I still feel like a charlatan. I feel like I am going through the motions and at some point everybody's going to see through that and see that really I'm just a sad, sad person who's pretending to be happy. So what I have been trying to figure out is: how I move beyond the sadness of grief, and move into the living with grief and eventually the thriving with/despite grief.

What I'm working on now is the revelation that I had today that the wholeness of the universe includes Jim's spirit. I absolutely do not believe that our spirit dies. I don't know what happens after death, I don't know if there's heaven. I don't know if there's reincarnation. But I do believe our spirit lives on.

So if our spirit lives on, then our spirit is part of the universe, And the wholeness of the universe is part of my true self. So Jim will always be a part of me and that's never going to go away! Maybe I am not stuck at all and I am just continuing to integrate this new reality into my consciousness.

It is, I am, A work in progress.

Each day is an opportunity to accept my grief as part of my new normal, and embrace the life that I still have left to live.

The Best Company to Work For

Jim and I met at work. We had one date that didn't start out as a date, and I told him, "I don't date guys from work (anymore)." He came in the following Monday and gave his notice! He left to work at Coopers and Lybrand, which later became PriceWaterhouseCoopers, +PwC and thus began his career as a consultant. He was really, really good at it. His clients loved him and mostly his bosses 'got him', notably Shirley Bogan and Marc Gallo. He could be, in my observation, arrogant and indignant, but the arrogance came from his drive to do his best, for him, his company and his clients. And he did.  And he had integrity. The thing that would set him off more than any other was someone questioning his integrity. Jim was a good man and a dedicated employee and strove to do right for his company and clients (not always in that order).

At the age of 50, Jim wanted to scale back a bit. His career had him travelling a lot and carried with it inherently a great deal of pressure, which was beginning to take a toll.  One of his colleagues, +Ted Van Huisen had gone to +Slalom Consulting, and he convinced Jim to join their team in 2011.

As much as Jim loved working with Shirley, Marc and the team at C&L all those years ago, I never saw him more content that he was at Slalom.  He was able to take gigs close to home. He was probably one of the oldest employees they had but he was well loved. They respected his experience and wisdom that came with his grey beard and valued his expertise. He loved being able to contribute, do his best, and come home every night. The company treated their employees incredibly well. Every year they hosted a retreat, or Escape, weekend, and I still smile when I use the commemorative wine glass from one of these escapes.

At Escape weekend, Dan and his wife in the background.

When Jim had to go on medical leave, Dan Biaggi (who had been at C&L and was now Jim's manager) and the whole team at Slalom SF, rallied around and supported both of us in every way possible. Becky in HR was just, literally, a godsend.  She walked us through everything we needed to do to ensure benefits and we felt so incredibly supported

At Jim's funeral, his friend and colleague, Ted, gave the eulogy and spoke of Jim's selfless generosity and compassion. He finished with these words: 

So today, I am not here today to say goodbye to Jim, only “see you later.” I will continue to bring him to every tough client meeting that I have, every coaching session, and every long commute. He will always be my comrade, my mentor, and my friend. And some day when I see him on the other side, the first beer is on me.

After Jim died, Becky continued to work with me and help me navigate through some of the process.  I don't think I ever met her but she treated me like a friend.

I still follow Slalom's facebook page and often when people share their "why I work here" stories, I have felt compelled to write in, so I am finally sharing our "why I love Slalom' story.  I hope no one has to experience the end aspects of what we did with the folks at Slalom, but I am so grateful they were there for us. But I am more grateful for the balance they restored to our lives in those last several years of Jim's career. Slalom truly is  one of the best companies to work for, and I don't need Forbes, Fortune or glassdoor to tell me that.

I can live, and I do

Recently, a friend of mine posted lyrics from the Harry Nilsson song, "I can't live if living is without you" and it got me thinking. My first response it, yes, damn it, you can, and you will, even when you don't want to.

There were many days and nights when I wished I could die too, after Jim died.  I never was suicidal, I just did not want to be alive. But I didn't die 

I was, for many months, doing the zombie walk. Getting through the necessities of life but not living. 

Eventually I would surprise myself by smiling or even laughing at something. I was able to find hints, slivers of joy peeking through like sunlight through the edge of a curtain. 

Once I realized I wasn't going to die I had to think about how I wanted to live. My husband Jim lived life to the fullest. He was brave and he was vulnerable. He was strong yet soft. He had dreams and sadly, many those dreams would never be realized because his life was cut short by cancer. I honor Jim by living my life, by striving for my dreams, by showing gratitude and compassion every day. By living in the moment. By finding the joy in life. 

I'm not yet ready to say that I can find the gift in my loss. However I can say my grief and loss have made me stronger,more compassionate and yes, more joyful.

Moments

http://www.goluputtar.com/best/life-quotes/

About 20 years ago this month there was a moment when I sat across from the conference table and was introduced to a new colleague named Jim McConnell. What I didn't realize at the time was that we had actually spoken on the phone about a year before. Back then he was an irate customer and my impression of him then was that he was arrogant and annoying. As we started working together, we realized we had a lot in common. We had both relocated to the East Coast from far away for reasons that were similar. And we forged a friendship out of that common bond. Jim's client base was in New York where I was located . One night a group of us were planning to go to a movie and everybody canceled except for Jim. I really didn't want to go to a movie with just this one guy so I agreed to meet for a drink. I figured we'd grab a drink next-door to my office at Bryant Park and then I would quickly get on my train, making my excuses. Funny how life has other plans. That quick drink after work became dinner, dinner became kind of a date. That moment after work turned into a very special evening. He called on Friday to see if he could drive down from Boston and I met his son Bobby and the three of us connected really quickly. We had a  fun weekend in the beautiful Hudson Valley. But at the end of the weekend, I informed him that I was not interested in dating someone from work. Less than 48 hours later he showed up at the office and gave his two  week notice. Jim said "OK I don't work here anymore we can date," so we did.

Six months later I got an offer to move back to California. It was a great job offer that I couldn't refuse so I didn't. I moved and three months after that Jim announced that his boss agreed to transfer Jim to California. He proposed to me at Christmas. Ten months later we were married on a beautiful day at the beach, surrounded by close family and friends, while dolphins played in the surf. I still can't believe how quickly everything progressed.

Seventeen short years later Jim was diagnosed with cancer. And two years ago  he died. What I never realized then, but do now is that what seemed to be seemingly insignificant moments became huge moments that would change my life forever and indeed define me.

I wouldn't have changed one of those moments to give up the others. I'm blessed to have the moments that created our life together and the memories of our love. I'm also blessed by the friends and family that have stood with me and held me up during these extremely difficult last three years.

I have learned be mindful of each moment. To embrace the joy of now.The little things really do become the big things. And you just never know.

http://quotes.viralcreek.com/moments-take-breath-away/

The Ring Theory and Cats

When Jim was still alive and I was still going to work almost every day, I managed tough days with a little help from a little pill - Xanax. I am an elementary school teacher. I was worried about him when I was at school and worried about my students when I was away. Xanax helped just take the edge off my anxiety. When I mentioned this to a colleague, she said, "Oh don't worry about it. When my cat died I had to take Xanax to get through it."

Now, before I start on that, let me just say, when my pets died, I cried. When my current pet seems to be slowing down and I even think about her dying, I cry. So I am not heartless to the impact we feel when a furry member of our family dies. But did she really just compare my husband's terminal illness with her cat dying? Her cat?

Enter, the Ring Theory of Grief. Early in Jim's treatment my dear friend +Mary Thompson shared with me the Ring Theory of Grief and I have called upon it so many times, I decided I should write about it. Susan Silk, a clinical psychologist, developed this theory after dealing with people during her own battle with breast cancer.

The basic idea is that there are a series of concentric rings. When Jim was alive, he was in the center, smallest circle. The next circle out was me, our son, Bobby and,Jim's siblings. In the next larger ring were our closest friends, my parents and my siblings. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Less intimate friends in the larger rings. When you are done, you have what Silk calls the Kvetching order, I am a bit more crass and call it the bitching order.

Now that Jim is dead, I am at the center of my circle, just as Jim's siblings are at the center of theirs and Bobby is at the center of his. What was not helpful to me was when people in my circles would come to me overwhelmed by grief and telling me how they can't handle Jim being gone. I know this sounds ungrateful, perhaps I should enjoy sharing my grief and hearing how much he was loved. And as time has passed, I have mellowed on this, the rings lines have become more permeable. 

But in the beginning, it really was all about me. I had no space to consider the emotions of others. I remember the clarity I felt about a month after I died when I brought some of Jim/James' ashes home to Iowa where his family all live. It hit me that they were grieving the loss of a brother, and Bobby his father. I have not experienced those losses yet and my heart was suddenly filled with a deep compassion for them at that moment. I am a little embarrassed to admit that it took me a full month to get there. 

But when I learn more about the ring theory, this all makes sense. From Silk and Goldman:

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.
Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.
When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.
Comfort IN, dump OUT.

from LA Times How not to say the wrong thing: It's the 'Ring Theory' of kvetching. The first rule is comfort in, dump out April 07, 2013|Susan Silk and Barry Goldman

The authors point out that the theory applies in times of crisis, and as the crisis subsides, it has been my experience that I am more willing to "hold the space" for other people's feelings around Jim's death. But I still get impatient when people try to make sense of my loss by comparing it to theirs. There is no sense to be made.

In her powerful recent memoir The Great Below, Maddy Paxman writes about mourning the death, at age 50, of her husband, the poet Michael Donaghy, and of others' stumbling efforts to help. One well-wisher tried to find common ground by mentioning the death of a cat. What the ex-cat owner didn't grasp is that it's not your job, in such contexts, to try to make things less awful. To use the language of therapy, it's to help "hold the space" in which feeling awful is OK. And if you genuinely feel awful about your cat, and want to talk about it‚ sure. Just perhaps not right this minute. 

from The Guardian 

Death is not the end of love

When I was in my musically formative years, there was a group called Bread and they had a song called Everything I Own. It struck me then and still does now...the longing, the love, the gratitude. According to the book 1000 UK #1 Hits by Jon Kutner and Spencer Leigh, David Gates wrote the song  after his father's funeral, to honor him.

Today I was listening to reggae music while looking at our honeymoon pictures and the song came on, sung by Ken Boothe.

"I would give everything I own, just to have you back again."

This may seem obvious, but for some reason it took almost two years to hit me. On New Years Day, I had a melt down. I can only now write about it...maybe. For some reason, the beginning of a new year triggered in me the complete and profound understanding that my life will never, ever, be the same.

Life will never be the same. There is no going back. Ever. Never. 

It's not that I was in denial, like Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking.

...I knew I was in no way prepared to accept this news as final: there was a level on which I believed that what had happened remained reversible...I needed to be alone so he could come back.

It was in fact the ordinary nature of everything preceding the event that prevented me from truly believing it had happened, absorbing it, incorporating it, getting past it. I recognize now that there was nothing unusual in this: confronted with sudden disaster we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred...

For most of the first year after her husband, John Gregory Dunne, died, Didion thought at some level, he would come back. Unlike her, I never woke up and thought Jim was just "out of town." I knew Jim was dead and would never physically return. However, I do think I was in another form of denial. I'm not really sure my heart grasped that this new reality was forever. Life would never, ever go back to what it was like when I was with Jim.

I know each moment is unique and will never be the same. But there was something oh so comforting in the knowing-ness of our love and life together. 

I would give everything I own, but I can't. 

So I have to find a way to get along with this new normal... Life will never be the same. But I won't always be so consumed by grief. I know this to be true. Life will never be the same, but it can be good, maybe even great, just different. 

A. Powell Davies wrote, "Let us be honest with death. Let us not pretend that it is less than it is. It is separation. It is sorrow. It is grief. But let us neither pretend that death is more than it is. It is not annihilation. As long as memory endures, his influence will be felt. It is not an end to love—humanity’s need for love from each of us is boundless. It is not an end to joy and laughter—nothing would less honor one so vibrant than to make our lives drab in counterfeit respect!"

You sheltered me from harm

Kept me warm, kept me warm

You gave my life to me

Set me free, set me free

The finest years I ever knew

Were all the years I had with you

Is there someone you know

You're loving them so

But taking them all for granted

You may lose them one day

Someone takes them away

And they don't hear the words you long to say

I would give anything I own

Give up my life, my heart, my home

I would give everything I own

Just to have you back again

Just to touch you once again

What, me worry?

I come by my worrying honestly. My mom is a worrier and I am too. But I am working on it. One
of my favorite walking mantras is,

Why worry if there's nothing I can do?

If there's something I can do, why worry?

Worrying...regret over the past or anxiety about the future, only takes us out of the now. And now is all there is.

For most of my life, I'd say almost 50 years, my biggest worry, also a gift from my mother, is 'what would people think?' I'm embarrassed to admit it has been a driving force in many of my (good and bad) decisions. The truth, I know now, is that most people don't notice or care what I do, and even if they do, it doesn't matter, as long as I am true to myself and not intentionally hurting anyone.

Why the switch? I guess I'd have to say it was a gift from grief. When Jim was dying, I really could care less who saw or heard me cry. At one point I was in the hallway outside Jim's hospital room, alone and crouched in a little ball, crying my eyes out. A nurse came up to me and offered the privacy of an empty room. I declined. I wanted to stay close and I was oblivious to how my sobbing might be affecting the other patients in the middle of that darkest night.

That night it was like a switch went off. I really didn't worry about what anyone thought about me. If I wanted to cry, I cried. And I cried a lot. In the middle of the shampoo aisle, in restaurants, in the faculty room. Who was going to judge me? I was a grieving widow!

Blogger Grant Leishman wrote a great post on the silent killer, Worry. He cites the work of self-help 'guru' Andy Shaw.  Leishman writes:

Why do we worry about what others think? You have to ask yourself a simple question. How can what someone thinks about me help me in reaching my goals and dreams in life?
If you are looking for acceptance from your father, mother, partner, friends, or acquaintances, why are you doing it? Just love yourself; don’t ‘try’ to make others give you what you think you want. They can only give you what you allow them to and they can only take from you that which you allow them; others have no power over you unless you give it to them.
If you love yourself, you don't need to seek acceptance, validation or love from others. You can't control other people's thoughts, so don't try - just be the person you need to be...

It has been extremely liberating to stop worrying so much about well - everything! I worry less about what people think. I make choices that are the best for me in this moment. I worry less about the future. There are no guarantees, so I try to make every moment count.  I don't worry about my health or even death. I try to make healthy choices and when my time comes, it comes. I strive for peace, consciousness, mindfulness, gratitude, grace and bliss, for myself and the world.  Worry changes nothing and only takes me out of now.

And now is all there is.

No Death, No Fear

I finally decided I was ready to read the last chapter of No death, No fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life by Thich Nhat Hanh. 

The chapter is entitled accompanying the dying. When I was reading this book a year ago, I knew I didn't have the strength to tackle that yet. As I now read the words, I cry, but am able to understand and accept the teachings. I was so glad to know that much of what my bother-in-law, Mike and I intuitively knew was aligned with a compassionate death. Mike especially sowed seeds of happiness by recounting stories of the life he shared with Jim. I fell asleep, for the first time in days, with the sounds of Mike telling stories of their adventures. Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "Those who are unconscious have a way to hear us if we are truly present and peaceful as we sit at their bedside." I believe this to be true.

The morning Jim died, I read to him a Buddhist prayer for the dead and dying:

Oh Buddhas and Bodhisattvas,...

Oh Compassionate Ones, you who possess
The wisdom of understanding,
The love of compassion,...
James is passing from this world to the next,
He is taking a great leap,
The light of this world has faded for him,
He has entered solitude with their karmic forces,
He has gone into a vast silence,
He is borne away by the great ocean of birth and death ..…

I also read him the 23rd Psalm from The Bible.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

In No Fear, No Death, I especially like the image of birth and death as a game of hide and seek, take my hand and wave goodbye. Death is not permanent.

My friend, Tanya, a budding Buddhist, writes in her blog,

We exist in the soil, in the light and warmth of the sun, in the animals and in each other. …and this isn’t a flowery story. This is science.
I think science would agree that our bodies are made up of elements that are non-specific to being human. ... Those elements will still be here when our bodies are gone. They will become another form, giving life to something else.
When this form is gone, our bodies will be the rich soil, and water feeding the tree, and the fruit that grows from it. We will be the energy given to the life of an animal eating from it, and to its baby who drinks it’s milk. ...
So, we will never disappear into nothingness. Which also means that we haven’t come from nothing either. We have been the sun, and the minerals, and the soil, and the plants, the insects, and each animal, and person in this way. We have existed, and still do exist as every single thing.
We have lived countless lives in infinite connections. Even in this form, we are new from day to day, and from thought to thought.
And this is rebirth.
For me, I find this much more comforting than the idea of an eternal place where my soul will be stored.

I find comfort in this as well. Tomorrow we shall meet again. I have no fear.

Please speak his name

My friend +Peggy Wolf 's mother, Lorry Wolf, died at the age of 88, A few months later, Peggy shared with me something her sister had told her, She said that people die three deaths. The first is their physical death. The second is when they are "laid to rest" either lowered into the ground or, as in Jim's case, cremated. The third and final death is when no one speaks their name anymore. That was almost 9  years ago, but her words really stuck with me.

Recently I watched the movie Book of Life. It is a cute movie with a sweet message about facing your fears and being true to yourself. It also centers around of the celebration that is Dia de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. It is a time for remembering friends, family and ancestors. In the movie, in the afterlife the Day of the Dead is met with great joy, for they are being remembered. Victor Landa, who was raised in Mexico writes, 

In our tradition, people die three deaths. The first death is when our bodies cease to function; when our hearts no longer beat of their own accord, when our gaze no longer has depth or weight, when the space we occupy slowly loses its meaning.
The second death comes when the body is lowered into the ground, returned to mother earth, out of sight.
The third death, the most definitive death, is when there is no one left alive to remember us.

David Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives, writes similarly, “There are three deaths. ... The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”

As Riley's imaginary friend Bing Bong tells Joy in Inside Out, "When Riley doesn't care about memories, they fade." The movie reminds us that when memories that are not accessed, they die. 

People sometime seem taken aback when I use Jim's name so casually and freely in conversation. What they don't know is that it is a comfort to me to say his name, and to hear other's speak it. I love hearing new stories about something Jim did or said, or how he is remembered by others. It makes me feel less alone, more connected.

So please, don't be afraid that by speaking Jim's name, you will remind me he's gone. For heaven's sake, I know that with every cell of my being and couldn't forget if I tried. When you speak of Jim, you keep him alive in your heart and mine.

I am still here

I had a dream one night. I was about to cross a rope bridge over a deep chasm like you see in the movies. Jim was on the other side, waiting for me. I started across to join him but lost my footing and fell. As I fell in slow motion, I rolled onto my back so I could look back up at the bridge, at my connection to Jim. As long as I could see it, I knew I could get back to it. It might take some climbing, but it was still there.

As I fell further, the bridge and Jim appeared smaller and smaller. I kept calling out, "I know you're still there!" This reassurance, that as long as I knew the bridge was there, I could get back. Back to the bridge. Back to Jim. Finally, I fell so far that the bridge couldn't be seen any longer. Yet I still called out, "I know you're still there!" Just because I couldn't see the bridge, or Jim, didn't mean they were gone. My connection remained.

As I woke, I was reassured. My perspective had just changed. No different from turning a corner and looking back over your shoulder, you can't see around the corner, but you are sure, you know whatever was there is still there. Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh explains "Just because we do not perceive something, it is not correct to say it doesn’t exist."

In his book, no death, no fear, Thich Nhat Hanh explains how, after the death of his mother, he realized she lived on in him.

I opened the door and went outside. The entire hillside was bathed in moonlight. It was a hill covered with tea plants, and my hut was set behind the temple halfway up. Walking slowly in the moonlight through the rows of tea plants, I noticed my mother was still with me. She was the moonlight caressing me as she had done so often, very tenderly, very sweet... wonderful! Each time my feet touched the earth I knew my mother was there with me. I knew this body was not mine along but a living continuation of my mother and father and my grandparents and great-grandparents. Of all my ancestors. These feet that I saw as "my" feet were actually "our" feet. Together my mother and I were leaving footprints in the damp soil....

From that moment on the idea that I had lost my mother no longer existed. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time.When you lost a loved one, you suffer. but if you know how to look deeply, you have a chance to realize that his or her nature is truly the nature of no birth, no death.... 

It 's like when you look at a sheet of paper and look deeply, you can see that the paper is made of trees and sunshine and earth and clouds, and even before the manifestation of the sheet of paper in this present form, you can only see the sheet of paper in the non-paper elements that existed before....

Suppose you are impressed with a particular cloud in the sky. When it is time for that cloud to become the rain you won't see that cloud anymore and you will cry. But if you know that the cloud has been transformed into the rain and the rain is calling you, "Darling, I am here, I'm here," if you have that kind of capacity of recognizing the continuation of that manifestation, you don't have to live in despair and grief. That is why for those who have lost someone who is close to him or to her I advise that they look deeply within and see that the one who was close is still there, somehow, and with the practice of deep looking they can recognize his presence very close to her.
Read more at http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Buddhism/2002/09/Long-Live-Impermanence.aspx?p=3#cF9fSFKCUszLpWTA.99

I am grateful for the dream, and the grace and calm it brings me.