A Bucket Full of Hope

I spent the last weekend volunteering at a local hospice event for adults who had lost a beloved - a parent, a spouse, a child or grandchild, a sibling... This was the parent camp. Some of their children were at a nearby location having the kids camp. Two camps, one common purpose, and lots and lots of healing.

What touched me most deeply was watching the transformation of these adults from closed, sad, pained strangers to open, laughing, relaxed friends who were willing to give life another chance. Yes, they had all experienced heart-breaking loss in their lives, yet here they were - courageously allowing themselves to share, connect and grieve together - some of them for the first time.

My role was to help them settle in and put their bags down (yes, they stayed the night in bunk rooms), to offer support to anyone who wanted it, to hold space for them as they moved through their activities, and to share with them during the meetings.

There are so many unanswered questions to this journey, and so many unresolved feelings that arise for those walking it. The hardest parts were the "What if..." and "If I had only..." and "If I just hadn't...." things that arose. Such regrets create deep pain in the Human heart, and yet, we can never know how or when death will happen; we only know that for all of us, it will.

I watched these beautiful parents reach out to each other in understanding and compassion. I saw them openly witness each others anguish. I cried as they held each other through their distress. And I laughed as they hugged each other goodbye with gratitude and love.

There are no words for what I felt when I left them on Sunday. I believe that this was one of the most touching life experiences I've ever had. I can't wait for next year's camp!

[My deepest gratitude to Hope Hospice, a non-profit organization based in New Braunfels, TX, for the opportunity to be a part of such a beautiful and loving experience: 1-800-499-7501. For more information and support through loss and grief, contact your local hospice services, or check out my "Ask Dr. Z" article series on how to support yourself and children through a death by clicking here.]

You Can't Cheat Death

Maia's ashes.

When death visits, her touch is swift, unquestionable, unyielding and unavoidable. Even if there's a process to go through before we take our final breaths, there is no escaping the power of death's ultimate touch. One touch - however gentle, however harsh - and death happens...

The body goes cold and lifeless when its soul leaves. Stephen Levine describes death as "the shaking loose of the body." It's the mysterious soul that animates the body, gives it life and vibrancy. Without the soul, the body is as an empty vase from which all the flowers have been plucked and the water poured out.

But it's not necessarily death itself that is unsettling or even disturbing. It's all the fallout that comes after death. And I'm clear that aside from my emotional state of grief around losing my beloved companion Maia, my mind is the instigator of any suffering over it that I'm experiencing.

I hit the wall of anger yesterday. After feeling fairly numb for two weeks, yesterday I got mad. I awoke from an early morning dream about Maia. She'd been resurrected from death by a dear friend who brought her to me with joy in his heart. Maia came trotting over to me, bright-eyed and tail-wagging.

I was stunned! I squatted down to hug and love on her, happy to feel her touch again yet deeply aware that something was wrong: This is wrong; she's not supposed to be here. I'll have to go through all of this again; I don't want to go through this again! There was an interesting mix of emotions at her return: I was so happy to see her yet so confused by it too; it wasn't meant to be and some part of me knew that.

In the dream, it was moments before Maia coughed a couple of times (just as she'd done in this reality), took her few last breaths and died...again. You can't cheat death.

Now I have to do this all over again! The thought of restarting my grief was annoying and made me mad. The anger I felt was not at my dear friend for resurrecting my beloved dog; it was at myself for all the things I felt guilty for in relation to my dog: for forgetting to salt her food that morning; for thinking I should wait a few hours to give her a treat with salt on it instead of giving it to her immediately; for banning her from my home office space as I worked all day; for the way she laid herself against the outside of my office door, waiting sweetly, silently, patiently for me to come out; for not doing more research on her condition and how we were handling it; for not letting her eat whatever she wanted; for being gone with busyness so much of the time and leaving her behind at home... These things tear at my heart now.

And I know I cannot change them. To suffer over them is pointless, really, in the biggest sense of things. And yet I suffer; I'm not yet able to hold all of my human experiences within the biggest container possible. I'm allowing myself that; it's part of my growing and grieving process - the untangling of all my human emotions around our relationship and her death: Could I have done more? Should I have done more? Why didn't I (fill in the blank)? I wish I hadn't (fill in the blank)... 

If I could rewind our time together, what would I do differently? I ask myself this question over and over again, and yet the answer is always the same: Nothing. It wouldn't matter; you can't cheat death.

If I could bring my beloved back, would I? I ask myself this question, too, and the answer is always the same: No, I wouldn't; you can't cheat death.

At some point in our relationships, we say goodbye. This is inevitable. Death touches all things ultimately. Bringing back the dead doesn't change death; it just delays it. You can't cheat death. Death happens how and when it happens because it does. We can't change it, avoid it or control it. We can't even really completely understand it but we don't have to. All we need to know is that death happens.

And as we hold this reality close in our hearts, life deepens into something more precious than anything else. Love takes the lead. We open... and in our opening, death becomes our ally rather than our enemy. How? How is death our ally? Death (of something) is the only way to clear space for what's next. Without death, our lives and our Beings would be bursting open with old stuff that is no longer serving us to the fullest. And that's what I believe we all grow toward: our fullest be-ing. This is the greatest expression of the divine moving through us that we can offer: our fullest be-ing, which to me means living from a deep sense of love...

Death brings the ultimate transformation. Ultimately, it is the gateway to return to pure essence. Not every single death we experience (death of people, pets, ideas, dreams, thoughts, etc.) offers a return to our pure essence; I believe this is reserved for our physical death. But every death offers us the opportunity to take a tiny step toward connecting even more deeply with our pure essence... the vibration of Love.

We can fear death, hate death or love death but ultimately, we have death. Can I embrace even death with love in my heart? I'm still learning that yes I can, but I must honor my humanity and allow myself to grieve the letting go of my beloveds, too. It's a fine balance between being Human and being an expression of the Divine. By honoring my very human feelings - my grief - I clear the way for love to re-enter my wounded heart and refill it with light. The other option is to close, which doesn't appeal to me. In opening, I step even closer to what I believe is all of our divine essence - that of pure love.

So I grieve, and heal, and grow, and open in the face of death, which is ultimately all about love...

Sacred Spaciousness

It's been a week since my sweet dog Maia died. I'm doing my best to carry on in her absence. There is a noticeable void in my world without her, an emptiness that can't be filled with just anything. The spaciousness that her death created feels sacred to me, like a holding tank of all the love and memories we shared. I don't want to fill it with anything else right now; I just want to feel the beauty of it.

I'm aware that her sudden death was just another one of her loving gifts to me. It's as if she said "It's time for me to go. It is not my intent or my purpose to burden you with slowly declining health, incontinence or neediness. It was my job to support you through some rough times, help you heal your heart and get you to the place where you could shine again. I've done that; my job with you is complete. And so I can go now so that you can go now too. My presence in your life was not about draining your energy; it was about helping you shine. So shine on..."

I sometimes wonder about some of the things she heard me talking about: "We can get her some doggy diapers and I can just take them off when she goes outside. It'll just mean that I won't sleep as much and she'll take more of my time and energy. I'll check on what other things we can do to deal with it. I'll feed her the vegetarian food she likes and give her the more expensive meat in between meals for a snack so it won't cost as much. She loves that meat! I'll make time to walk her every day. No, I don't want another dog; I love Maia but she has pushed me to my limits; I'm full-up..."

Sometimes I feel bad about these things. Did she take them to heart? Did she knowingly and lovingly spare me all the added stress by dying so suddenly? Was she ready to go or was she serving me yet again through even her death? I wonder...

I may never know for certain, yet I do feel that her death was a necessary part of what's next in my life. It's as if I couldn't take my next step forward and deal with her in the ways I wanted to. It would have created too much stress for us both. Wherever my life path is taking me, she couldn't go with me; that much feels clear.

I miss her every day and every night. I know the missing will soften, yet it's with me strongly now. I hear her noises all the time; I feel her presence. I mistakenly believe - just for a second - that she'll be in all her usual spots at the house as I move about it. I yearn for the touch of her soft fur and cold nose, and the way she pawed at me for attention. Oh what I'd give to feel that paw brushing against my leg now!

I miss looking into her eyes. It sounds like a lover, I know, but it's true! Her eyes were incredibly expressive with a depth and a sweetness to them that held sensitivity, compassion and raging love. They were forgiving, accepting, willing and allowing... What an incredible teacher she was; everything I strive to be as a person in this world was held and reflected in her eyes. She was a gift and a teacher. And I am truly blessed to have held such a gift and known such a teacher.

I've realized that she is the first death to me that was such an intimate part of my life. My grief around her death is more profound than it has been for other beloveds in my life who have died. But I've learned that my reaction to death has little to do with how long I've known someone or even how much I've loved them; it has to do with the nature of my relationship to them. The nature of my relationship to my dog Maia was deep, honest and unconditional. She was a big part of my daily life, and held a large part of my attention and energy. The void left in her absence is unmistakable. She is the first death I've experienced of this nature. I guess I can consider myself fortunate for that...

As I make my way through my grief at her death, I find myself feeling quiet, emotional, vulnerable and maybe even a bit empty outside of my typical busyness. I enjoy what I do but I enjoy the quiet of night even more now than before, so I can sit in the spaciousness of her love and memories, and honor the amazing beauty of the gift and the teacher she was to me, the extent of which are just barely beginning to sink in...

May my life become a more clear reflection of all the beauty she brought into it.

The Sacredness of Each Breath

I had more than a year to love; I had almost 10. I knew one day I would say "Goodbye" to my sweet companion; I just didn't know it would be today. But then, we often don't have the privilege of knowing when we're having our last moments with our loved ones.

My dog Maia died suddenly about an hour and a half ago. I heard her coughing on her bed, went immediately to her side and knew she was dying. Helplessness. I could do nothing but talk to her and hold her in love while she took her last breaths.

I wonder when she knew she was dying? I wonder if she knew I was there, and if she wondered why I didn't make it better like I usually can. I wonder if she slipped easily and freely into expansiveness, despite the panic and tears in my voice: "Maia? Maia? What's happening? What's happening... Oh Maia, it's ok Baby, it's ok..." I wonder if she was just as surprised as I was, or if she was ready.

Can we ever be ready for Death?

This morning my Sweetie and I took Maia for a walk with our friend and her two Great Danes, Maia's best buddies. They had fun and I even commented on how good she looked, running about with her eyes bright, ears perked and tail high - sure signs of happiness. She looked good and felt stable and healthy.

What happened? My mind churns over this pointless question, wanting to know an answer. Blood clot; I bet she threw a blood clot.  But it doesn't matter what it was. The real dilemma is grasping the notion that something can go from such joyful vibrancy to death in a matter of hours or even seconds. One minute, she's resting comfortably on her bed; the next minute, she's gasping for breath... and in a matter of seconds, cold, lifeless, empty, vacant, dead...

At least she was comfortable and content when she died. At least I was with her. At least she didn't suffer... I try to comfort myself with these thoughts, but they don't really matter. My heart is still heavy.  Lady Death leaves a hole in the heart no matter how graciously She passes.

Ironically, in two days I'm hosting a Circle Call about dealing with the body after we die. And I just spent over an hour trying to get my dog's body dealt with on a Sunday when no one wants to deal. We finally connected with a vet who has a heart and agreed to meet us at his clinic to freeze the body for pick up and cremation next week. What an Angel. After many calls to unyielding souls, this man opened his heart to humanity and took responsibility... and I don't even use his clinic! This man gave me a sense of hope for humanity; thank God for such Beings...

So here I sit, heavy-hearted, shocked, grief-stricken and empty. I'm grateful to my Sweetie and our dear friend Christine who came immediately at our call, and is helping deal with the body as well as my heart.

Ironically, today is the 10th anniversary of 9-11. We were having friends over to honor what we'd carried forward from the 9-11 experience 10 years ago, to share loving community in its shadow and to recognize that each moment is truly precious and fragile, no matter how stable it may feel.

Today, I deepen into a new level of gratitude for life... all life, and the love that flows through it every day. May we hold this precious gift in grace, recognizing that each breath is truly sacred.

Death Visits

Tonight I learned of a friend's sudden death yesterday in a car accident. This was not someone I knew intimately, but someone I consider a beautiful friend. She was one of those people I met and I knew right away there was something special - something a bit different - about her. I didn't have to know what it was; it just was.

When I reflect on this special friend, her face appears clearly in my mind's eye and her energy appears fully in my field. My heart smiles for knowing her. She was a bright light in this world, someone who brought a smile to those around her. Tonight I noticed that she is still bringing smiles to those she knew. Her wisdom, grace and humor resonate here even in her physical absence.

Yes, there is grief. It's the grief of knowing I will not be able to physically touch her again - hug her in greeting, say "Hey, good to see you!" and hear her "Hey! You too." back, look in her eyes, laugh and hear her laugh... all those ways we connect with people. And it's grief for those who had intimate relationships with her who will miss her in their own lives now. She's left a tangible hole she once filled.


It brings to the forefront once again for me just how important our relationship with death is.



Any moment could be our last, or the last of a loved one. This is not to be slighted; it is a part of our reality.

 And as that moment arrives, have you said what you want to the people in your life? Have you cleaned up any heaviness in your heart? Have you planned for your service, your belongings and your body? Have you resolved your fear around dying and death? Can you die in this moment with ease in your Being? Are you ready?

The Native Americans have a saying: "Today is a good day to die for all the things of my life are present." I'm beginning to understand just how powerful this saying is. For me, "present" doesn't just mean "here." It also means that I've truly brought presence to all the pieces of my life: I hold them with love and honor, respecting them as a gift in every moment; I am current in my relationships with myself and with life; I am in my integrity; I am living with presence: all the things of my life are present. Then, any day is a good day to die.

As I prepare for my tele-conference series about conscious living through conscious dying, I am given a new opportunity to deepen into my relationship with death and to remember with more intensity why I embarked on this A Year To Love journey... which is to hold every moment of my life as a precious and temporary gift...

Love and Ego

So, this is my year to really, really pull love into my being as the foundation of my interactions with the world around me. I'm keeping a close eye on it, as they say. I'm opening my awareness to all the places in my life where my heart closes and I separate myself from love.

In her book A Return To Love, Marianne Williamson says "Any situation that pushes our buttons is a situation where we don't yet have the capacity to be unconditionally loving." Hmmmm - that's powerful food for thought! In the past week, I found two places where I shut myself down to love:

The first was around a phone call I received from an ex of mine. Having no active relationship with this person today, I had a reaction to the call that was inviting me to an art opening in which they had four new pieces. My ego got angry and said "What - I don't hear from you EVER and now you just call to invite me to see your new art? No 'Hey, how are you? What'cha been up to? etc...' Just 'Come see my new art!'" 

 Oh boy, did my ego want to run away with that one! I heard a resounding "F--- you!" in my head, and it surprised me. How strange it felt to hear my mind scream this out about someone that I love, because the truth is that I do love this person, despite years of separation and limited communication. When I explored what was beneath the "F--- you!" I found that the truth is I miss this person; I miss sharing life with them, connecting about what's going on in our lives, and there's a part of me that still grieves the loss of that closeness and my "importance" in their life. This is not about anger or hatred; it's love... It may not look like love on the surface expression of it, but it is love.

So my question became: "What keeps me from responding from my deeper truth of love rather than the surface reactions of anger, blame, resentment or whatever else?" The truth is, it's only my ego and my ego's attachment to things other than love that keep me from being able to open to love in all of its expressions. And the reality is that this ex who called to invite me to the art opening was inspired by love - love of the art pieces, of the inspiration to create them, of the show itself, and of me. It wasn't their closure, but mine that kept me from responding from a place of love in that situation.

The second place I shut myself down to love was with my partner during an interaction we had this weekend. When I was called on to listen, I jumped in and took the first opportunity to "speak my mind" instead. I didn't allow the space they needed to feel complete before I launched into my own perspective... which, when I'm radically honest with myself, was about some unconscious part of me that felt right and wanted to make my point so that my partner "would understand; would get it; would agree with me; blah blah blah...."

 Whew - that was hard to admit to myself and even harder to admit to my partner! But I did: I told myself first and then told them that it was not my intent to shut them down, that I would explore this more deeply within myself, work to be more aware of it, and that I loved them. In essence, I opened to love and was able to reconnect to myself from a place of self-love and acceptance, and then express myself from that place of honesty, which allowed me to reconnect to them. My closure was actually to myself because I felt guilty and ashamed for shutting them down (however unintentionally it was done...). It was only after shutting down to myself that I shut down to them. What a beautiful mirror for me to learn and grow from! 

 Today I sit on the other side of these discoveries, determined to shift the dynamics that led to them. And that is the beauty of this journey: endless opportunities to open my heart to love even more!

Priscilla & The Way

Meet "Priscilla." Priscilla is a beautiful garden spider that set up house on the back  of my office wall outside. She has been there (to my noticing) for about a month. When I first saw her, she was big and vibrant, sitting in the center of a large, intricate web design. When I introduced myself to her, she shared that her name was "Priscilla," adding quite clearly that she was in no way prissy.

Beneath the roof above her was a large round egg sack. A few days later, a second egg sack appeared. I figure she must be pretty stout to create not one but two egg sacks... Priscilla stayed just below the sacks for weeks, diligently rebuilding her web whenever it got damaged. Then about a week ago she relocated herself around the corner of the building, leaving her egg sacks well sheltered and protected.

This week, I watched her slowly fade. Her body went from full and vibrant to shriveled, dull, and dark. Knowing that she was dying, I spoke to her daily, reassuring her that her egg sacks were healthy and safe, and that I would make sure they survived until birth.

Yesterday when I visited Priscilla, she looked and felt very weak in her web. An hour later, she abandoned her web for a single thread which she hoisted herself up onto. She clung there, weakly, for maybe half an hour until she dropped to the ground, nearly lifeless. I took the liberty of picking her up, showing her the safe, healthy egg sacks one last time, and placing her among flowers and greenery in my garden beneath my office window for her final rest.

Priscilla reminded me of the beauty and power of The Way. All things arise from the infinite field of energy, exist for a period of time, and then dissolve away again, having left something behind for those remaining. Although we grieve the surrendering, it is a gift and an integral part of the cycle of all things. Without the shedding of what's served it's purpose and expired, there would be no space or nourishment for the new to arise.

I am reminded of my own tiny deaths each day - the parts of me that I surrender for new parts to be born. From Priscilla's death will come hundreds of baby spiders! I am watching anxiously and excitedly for them to appear from their healthy egg sacks, and am wondering with as much excitement about what will arise in my own life from my upcoming death.

For in just 11 days, another cycle of my life will unfold: I will die and be reborn, free of what no longer serves my highest good and my ability to be of service to the Divine. This is the end of a conscious year of living and life - the end of my A Year To Live adventure. What is beyond it, I don't  know. That's the mystery of the other side: we don't know until we're there.

If you want to take a peek to the other side, consider joining me for a fun and full Dia de los Muertos workshop (http://www.myinnerscapes.com/workshops/) on November 29th, perfectly timed when the veils are thinnest. Learn about the special energy of Day of the Dead, glimpse into the other realm through a psychic medium, make objects for your own altar, and leave with a fun goodies bag to get you in the spirit.

Death is not our enemy but our ally. Celebrate The Way!

A Song For The Dying

These days I'm not sure what's related to what. Am I feeling physically tired and fatigued because of some nutritional or hormonal issue? Or because I'm busier with writing, teaching, and presenting? Or because I'm not sleeping very well? Or because my neck has been giving me grief so I haven't been able to exercise regularly? Or because of the energetic shifts that are happening Universally and within my being? Or because I'm coming close to my death date?


52 DAYS is a very short time that I have left in this experience. I'm contemplating the details of my death and how I want to approach it. Do I want to have a big celebration or a quiet, intimate exit? How important is it that I finalize all the details of how to handle my body? Who do I want to contact and in what way before I die? How do I really want to spend this last 52 days?

Of all the questions flowing through, the one arising the most is What is my death chant? Somehow this one piece feels most important to my process. I feel that it would be comforting to have one rehearsed and intimately familiar when I die. There is something beautiful about the vibration of sound in and out of the body...

Levine describes the healing/death chant as "a familiar path into the unfamiliar - a sacred path." He writes: "A death chant can act as a refuge from the storm, or an open window to the sun. Whatever the chant is it will bring us closer to grace, our original nature, the Kingdom of Heaven that is within."

For all of those that I have death-walked, I've sung to them for hours as they transitioned. It is a beautiful thing to watch the spirit of a being rest into the sounds of a song. I don't know if there will be anyone by my side singing to me when I die, but I can be; I can sing to myself!

Aside from all the formal details of what will happen to me and my stuff, the death chant feels most significant as a bridge between this physical life and the ethereal one that I'll be shifting into. This is the piece to focus on; this is the way forward. The rest feels like looking back, which I've spent lots of time doing already, cleaning up and preparing things.

Yes - my death chant is calling...

The Gifts of Life & Death

I traveled to Houston last weekend to celebrate my Dad's 78th birthday. While I was there, I found myself sitting back and watching everyone - my parents, sisters, brother-in-laws, nieces and nephews, friends, dogs - sharing and laughing together. I was filled with so much love for everyone there.

And I realized that I've spent so much time during this year to live focused on cleaning up my own life in preparation to die that I'd nearly overlooked the fact that I'm also letting go of everyone else's lives. My nieces and nephews are all in high school and college now; exciting things are happening in their lives! My sisters are close to being "empty nesters" and embarking on new realms in their own lives, too. My parents are aging and in need of unconditional love and compassionate care. I will not be here to experience these beautiful phases and stages of any of their lives...

I found myself feeling an interesting mix of a heart full of joyous love and deep, intimate grief for the letting go of it all. I realized that as I am surrendering the details of my own life to death, so I am surrendering the details of theirs, too.

This morning I sat with the remembering of a car accident I was involved in nearly 12 years ago. It occurred to me that at that time as I was faced with the possibility of dying, I was fully ready and willing to go. My life was filled with struggle and distress; I used to call myself "the walking dead." Plus, the feeling of following the pull to the other side was so glorious that there was not one bit of hesitation; I would have let my entire life go for the beauty of the pull I felt "over there." In the end, it was simply not time for me to go...

Yet today as I am faced with the same death, I am filled with an emotional mix of love and grief. I love my entire life now; there is not one single part of it that I don't like or enjoy. And so I grieve the letting go of it all - every crazy bit of it....

 That's not to say that my life does not have any struggle or distress in it today. It simply means that I have found a new level of relationship with life and myself as a part of it. And this new relationship is one of  curiosity, discovery, experimentation, opening, love, acceptance, celebration and joy. I am a drop in an ocean of divine life. And as that drop I enjoy every bit of experience that I get to have here; and as a part of the ocean, I enjoy every bit of the sense of unity that I feel here within the wholeness and fullness of living.

I have 78 days left to live. There are so many places I have not seen, so many things I have not done, so many people I have not finished with - finished enjoying and loving. I guess that's just a part of dying: my life may not be all wrapped up in a nice, neat package when I die. It may just be the crazy mix that it is. And I will have to leave it all anyway...

Release. Surrender. Open... Can my relationship with death be the same as my relationship with life - one of  curiosity, discovery, experimentation, opening, love, acceptance, celebration and joy? I wonder...

A moment of panic

Wow - I'm at an even 100 days left to live...

I had an interesting drive the other day while pondering my approaching death. I looked up into the sky and was touched by the beauty of the clouds, and in particular, an open spot that went through the clouds and seemed to go off into infinity.

Suddenly I became aware that my feelings had shifted from a place of beauty and openness to sadness.  

When I looked more deeply inside, I realized that the sadness was around the idea of no longer being here - of no longer being a part of all the physical beauty here. I was thrown backwards into an old question that used to plague my mind: "What happens after we die? Where will I go? Will I be aware of any of this? Connected to any of it? How sad that I won't be able to feel things the way I do now."

I tried to calm my emotions and my mind by connecting to that sense of Oneness, interconnectedness and bliss that I've touched beyond this physical life, yet I was unable to. I could not find the feeling state in my body; I could not remember it or connect with it in that moment. I tried recalling an experience when I felt it strongly, but I struggled to hold on to it. My mind panicked then, almost shouting at me: "Oh no! You can't remember! You've lost it! And what if it's all just a lie? What then? You'll be nothing! You won't be able to feel anything, do anything, experience any of this! What if it's nothingness after death? And just what IS nothingness??"

I haven't gotten stuck in such a state in years, so the feeling of it was uncomfortable. I held it, knowing that it might surely be possible; that such an ending might be true because I don't know what the truth is. And then I went back to holding open the possibility that it's more than that; that there is something after  death, but I just don't know what.

Then I was able to drop out of the panic I had generated and return to the present moment of enjoying the beautiful clouds and the sky. I thought about all the things I love in my life - the people, the places, the work I do, my home and pets, so many things about my life that I love these days - and I felt deeply for the first time in a while how empty I might feel without access to them in the physical way that I have now. And I wondered if I will miss them when I die as much as I imagine that I will while I'm alive...

Celebrate - Part 4

“We are infinite, boundless, energetic somethings using a human body here. Oh the joy I will feel when I am free of this body!”

If you read Celebrate - Part 3, you recognize that quote. It is my hope that it is true. And now I see that it is also my attachment. It's what I'd like death to mean or be. And what if it's not? That is part of what I must surrender during what’s left of my Year to Live. It’s just an idea of what physical death may bring, yet I cannot know if it is the truth.

And what if it’s not? What if there’s something strange, uncomfortable, uncontrollable, or empty after this? Or what if there’s nothing after this? Then what? Will I know it? Will I have consciousness and know that what’s happening is not what I imagined or wanted or hoped for? Will I care? Will anyone care?

That's something to consider; not necessarily what comes next, but rather, my attachment to what comes next. Can I simply open to whatever it is without holding an idea of what I think it is or what I want it to be? Can I really get to a place of neutrality around what comes next?

How many days do I have left??????????

©2010 Cecilia L. Zúñiga. A Year To Live. All Rights Reserved. Reprints, copies or reproductions of any kind must be accompanied by copyright credit line.

Celebrate - Part 3

The grief we experience following a loved one’s death is for us, not them, because it is us who will miss them, not they who will miss us. We grieve because there’s a void we must fill now, where they once were in our hearts and lives; and because it’s sad and hard to say goodbye to someone we love so deeply and have held so closely for so long. It’s sad and it’s hard and it’s empty for a while, yet life goes on for all of us “poor schmucks” who remain behind…

Sometimes, I think they are the lucky ones; they are the ones with the expanded view – access to the mystery and the truth and the freedom. Yes, they – the dead ones – are the lucky ones, not us. They get to know in a way that we mere humans cannot. We are confined and restricted by these physical forms we wear like undersized coats for our essences. I love how Jill Bolte Taylor described this. She basically said that she wondered how she would ever fit her massive essence back into her tiny physical body as she shifted from “death” back to “life” following a stroke (See her book Stroke of Insight, and/or her TED conference presentation, which can be accessed at www.myinnerscapes.com).

That’s what I’m talking about; that’s the thing: I am – we are –  not these physical beings. We are infinite, boundless, energetic somethings using a human body here. Oh the joy I will feel when I am free of this body!

Celebrate my death, y’all; celebrate it!!

©2010 Cecilia L. Zúñiga. A Year To Live. All Rights Reserved. Reprints, copies or reproductions of any kind must be accompanied by copyright credit line.