Day fifty-five - oh my! Counting days does make one very aware of time passing!
Brenda, I don't think you're odd at all [well, not because you meditate so naturally, anyway ;-) ] I can imagine, and I hope, that one day it will be that natural for me. Often it feels like that already, but I still also know it will only take a day or two missed to distance me from it. This 255 days is the longest period for which I've meditated almost every day, and I strongly hope and believe that with time...
Hey there, everyone. I spent over 14 hours in the car yesterday, getting slowed by traffic & construction on my way to Ohio. But I'm here now (with Reggie) for the next few weeks, so today's my first day of settling in.
Brenda, I don't think you're odd: I'm sure there are many people who naturally practice moments of quiet serenity which they may or may not call "meditation." I guess it's like dieting: there are some folks who are naturally skinny, and then there are people who have to pay conscious attention to their weight.
When it comes to meditation, I'm *NOT* a natural...if left to my own devices, I'd become the meditative equivalent of a severely obese person. :-) So I need the "diet" of a daily meditation practice to keep myself mentally & spiritually fit.
So, I guess I should stop procrastinating & go sit! :-)
I too was touched by Yves' comment about his mother, and wanted to tell you a little more about mine... this will be a rather long story and contains details about death, so be careful if that sort of thing upsets you.
My father, husband, and I had spent much of the previous day going into my mother's bedroom, lying with her, holding her hand, talking to her. She responded as much as she could but talking becamee an increasing effort. She couldn't drink or eat, so we gave her little chips of ice to keep her mouth from being so dry. When I wasn't weith her, I was just beyond, in the kitchen making meals, or fixing a cup of tea, or looking out the window at the lake, or talking to the friends who came by. It felt very natural. Was I praying? Meditating? Of course; it wasn't conscious all the time but that's what I was doing constantly. The next morning when I got up at 6:00, my father said she had been breathing in a rattle-y way since 2:00 am. He had spent the night trying to keep her warm. He didn't realize what this was, so I had to tell him, and tell him she was going. He looked at me and said, "No, she's not" which just about broke my heart. He was griefstricken, but did as well as he could. I gathered all my strength. I woke my husband and we all joined at my mother's side. Her eyes were open but I don't think she could see us; she did however know exactly who was there, and became a little agitated when any one of us left the room. She was really laboring to breathe through the throat secretions that create the "rattle", but the hospice nurse I spoke to on the phone told me this is more distressing to observers than to the dying person. I gave her a little more morphine and that seemed to help. We kept talking to her, holding her hand, and telling her we loved her; whenever I was alone with her I told her to relax and that it was all right to go, that I was all right and that I would take care fo my father. She could clearly hear us but couldn't communicate, though at times she tried to speak; once when my father left she seemed to say "H..", which is the sound of the beginning of his name. At 7:15, she missed a breath. We all noticed and looked at each other. That happened several more times. At 7:30 her breathing became shallower and irregular, and a minute or two later, she took her last breath.
We stayed with her for a while. Her body gradually grew colder, but not quickly. My father closed her eyes, and we arranged her head on the pillow. We were all crying softly. After a while - no more than twenty minutes - we began leaving the room and discussing what to do next. We decided to call the funeral home, who would take her body to be cremated, and while we waited for the hospice nurse who i had called aearlier to arrive, we made breakfast. From my seat at the table I could see my mother in bed, just as I had seen her all during the previous day, as if she was sleeping. We each went in several times to sit beside her, weeping, talking, stroking her head. But each time I felt more and mroe that this was not my mother, but merely her body, her shell. Death lost much of its power over me in those hours; I was not afraid of her dead body, which felt totally natural, and easy to touch and be near, nor did her death seem to be anything but transition. It had been intense and traumatic, but not frightening.
When the hospice nurse arrived, she and I washed my mother. i had onyl met this woman the previous day, but it felt right to do this with her, a woman's task, in which I was doign what felt right - but I was also glad not to be all alone, but with another woman. I hadn't anticipated doign this with great intention; I knew I wanted to but wasn't sure how it would feel. It felt easy, right, natural, and as if I were performing a ritual that respected my mother's body but also did something very important for me. The other woman and I talked softly while we did this; my father and husband never entered the room, maybe sensing that this was something for women? for me? I don't know. We each said goodbye in our own ways. Then the funeral home people arrived. I asked my husband if he could stay and tell them what we wanted done - my father wanted them to take her out a certain way, past the view of the lake she had most loved - and my father and I left the house and drove in our old 1952 jeep - bought the year I was born and a family icon - to the house of a neighbor who is like family to us. We told her, cried, and talked until we were sure my mother's body was gone, and then we went home.
I still felt my mother's presence in the house and around it. the nest morning when I woke, I was immediately in tears, and starting to sob: I had been so strong before, and now knew I could let down. My husband was holding me. After a couple of minutes, I suddenly "heard" a voice in my head. It said, firmly, "Beth, I am all right and you will be all right." I was so stunned by the strength of this impression that my tears immediately stopped. I went upstairs and was able to help my father, who was also crying. Although I never heard her voice again, this sense of presence and calm comfort continued for that day and into the next. i have no idea if i imagined it, or if it was real, but it doesn't really matter. But the strength of the inbreaking voice ranks with the few times I have had a distinct experience of the God's presence and voice - experiences I cannot explain or discount. And it's stayed with me every time I have started to be overcome with grief. I cry, and let the tears flow; I remember; I am sad, grateful, relieved -- many things. I'm not repressing it. But I don't feel lost, in fact I feel like I have learned a great deal, and I feel stronger and less afraid. ruth, please tell Yves I am sorry for his loss and grateful for what he said, and that I share his general sense of calmness and acceptance, across the world.
Sorry, I just sort of blurted out this story, into the middle of the ongoing conversation, typos and all. But I also wanted to say to Brenda that yes, I feel those moments too, it's very much a part of how I experience life and part of what I think meditation gives us.
Jean, and Lorianne, thank you both so much. Because meditating doesn't seem to be something I have to "do," or even think about doing, I wonder if I'm "doing it" properly. At the beginning there were lots of bells & whistles, but now it's just "moments of depth." Sometimes if my daughter is talking nonstop & I need to meditate I can get a little irritated, "I have to meditate now! Shhh." It's not always serene or peaceful, then (or at least I'm not). Meditation calls me in, and is akin to the creative process. If the need to write or draw arises & I don't, an inner pressure just increases & increases until I do; meditation is like that.
I recall during yoga teacher training in 1995 often sitting with my timer ticking going through mental hell trying to sustain 31 or 62 minute meditations and would do this for the 40 required days for each meditation. It helped that we kept a daily journal of our experiences and which we handed in after the 6 month course was over.
It was hard to learn how to still the mind.
Lorianne, yes, a lifestyle diet change for the mind, and Jean, yes, doing it until it became natural, that's surely what happened.
Beth, don't, please, be sorry! It's such a privilege to share this with you.
You have crystallised for me why meditation means so much to me - because it is about just this: practising being present, so that we can be present through the most difficult parts of life. Having grown up with the painful consequences of people not being able to be present to their lives and feelings, their not realising what was wrong, and their consequent bitterness, having lived much of my adult life feeling a similar absence in myself and not knowing what to do about it, I find this so precious. So precious to have found it, or at least to have found where to look for it. So precious to know people like you. Such a simple thing, and so all-encompassing. Not that I have any illusion that this makes loss or grief any less painful, but it's the pain of life, not the pain of being 'dead' inside.
Tried to post this earlier, obviously unsuccessfully.
Beth, thank you. I appreciate your story more than you will ever know.
i have no idea if i imagined it, or if it was real, but it doesn't really matter. I also had a profound experience of hearing my mother, feeling her touch, shortly after her death. It really doesn't matter if it was "real." Because it was real, to me, in the most valuable way.
Jean, thanks for what you said about being present. Brenda, I think you are lucky, not odd. Hi Dale & Lorianne.
9 Comments:
Day fifty-five - oh my! Counting days does make one very aware of time passing!
Brenda, I don't think you're odd at all [well, not because you meditate so naturally, anyway ;-) ]
I can imagine, and I hope, that one day it will be that natural for me. Often it feels like that already, but I still also know it will only take a day or two missed to distance me from it. This 255 days is the longest period for which I've meditated almost every day, and I strongly hope and believe that with time...
Hey there, everyone. I spent over 14 hours in the car yesterday, getting slowed by traffic & construction on my way to Ohio. But I'm here now (with Reggie) for the next few weeks, so today's my first day of settling in.
Brenda, I don't think you're odd: I'm sure there are many people who naturally practice moments of quiet serenity which they may or may not call "meditation." I guess it's like dieting: there are some folks who are naturally skinny, and then there are people who have to pay conscious attention to their weight.
When it comes to meditation, I'm *NOT* a natural...if left to my own devices, I'd become the meditative equivalent of a severely obese person. :-) So I need the "diet" of a daily meditation practice to keep myself mentally & spiritually fit.
So, I guess I should stop procrastinating & go sit! :-)
I too was touched by Yves' comment about his mother, and wanted to tell you a little more about mine... this will be a rather long story and contains details about death, so be careful if that sort of thing upsets you.
My father, husband, and I had spent much of the previous day going into my mother's bedroom, lying with her, holding her hand, talking to her. She responded as much as she could but talking becamee an increasing effort. She couldn't drink or eat, so we gave her little chips of ice to keep her mouth from being so dry. When I wasn't weith her, I was just beyond, in the kitchen making meals, or fixing a cup of tea, or looking out the window at the lake, or talking to the friends who came by. It felt very natural. Was I praying? Meditating? Of course; it wasn't conscious all the time but that's what I was doing constantly. The next morning when I got up at 6:00, my father said she had been breathing in a rattle-y way since 2:00 am. He had spent the night trying to keep her warm. He didn't realize what this was, so I had to tell him, and tell him she was going. He looked at me and said, "No, she's not" which just about broke my heart. He was griefstricken, but did as well as he could. I gathered all my strength. I woke my husband and we all joined at my mother's side. Her eyes were open but I don't think she could see us; she did however know exactly who was there, and became a little agitated when any one of us left the room. She was really laboring to breathe through the throat secretions that create the "rattle", but the hospice nurse I spoke to on the phone told me this is more distressing to observers than to the dying person. I gave her a little more morphine and that seemed to help. We kept talking to her, holding her hand, and telling her we loved her; whenever I was alone with her I told her to relax and that it was all right to go, that I was all right and that I would take care fo my father. She could clearly hear us but couldn't communicate, though at times she tried to speak; once when my father left she seemed to say "H..", which is the sound of the beginning of his name. At 7:15, she missed a breath. We all noticed and looked at each other. That happened several more times. At 7:30 her breathing became shallower and irregular, and a minute or two later, she took her last breath.
We stayed with her for a while. Her body gradually grew colder, but not quickly. My father closed her eyes, and we arranged her head on the pillow. We were all crying softly. After a while - no more than twenty minutes - we began leaving the room and discussing what to do next. We decided to call the funeral home, who would take her body to be cremated, and while we waited for the hospice nurse who i had called aearlier to arrive, we made breakfast. From my seat at the table I could see my mother in bed, just as I had seen her all during the previous day, as if she was sleeping. We each went in several times to sit beside her, weeping, talking, stroking her head. But each time I felt more and mroe that this was not my mother, but merely her body, her shell. Death lost much of its power over me in those hours; I was not afraid of her dead body, which felt totally natural, and easy to touch and be near, nor did her death seem to be anything but transition. It had been intense and traumatic, but not frightening.
When the hospice nurse arrived, she and I washed my mother. i had onyl met this woman the previous day, but it felt right to do this with her, a woman's task, in which I was doign what felt right - but I was also glad not to be all alone, but with another woman. I hadn't anticipated doign this with great intention; I knew I wanted to but wasn't sure how it would feel. It felt easy, right, natural, and as if I were performing a ritual that respected my mother's body but also did something very important for me. The other woman and I talked softly while we did this; my father and husband never entered the room, maybe sensing that this was something for women? for me? I don't know. We each said goodbye in our own ways. Then the funeral home people arrived. I asked my husband if he could stay and tell them what we wanted done - my father wanted them to take her out a certain way, past the view of the lake she had most loved - and my father and I left the house and drove in our old 1952 jeep - bought the year I was born and a family icon - to the house of a neighbor who is like family to us. We told her, cried, and talked until we were sure my mother's body was gone, and then we went home.
I still felt my mother's presence in the house and around it. the nest morning when I woke, I was immediately in tears, and starting to sob: I had been so strong before, and now knew I could let down. My husband was holding me. After a couple of minutes, I suddenly "heard" a voice in my head. It said, firmly, "Beth, I am all right and you will be all right." I was so stunned by the strength of this impression that my tears immediately stopped. I went upstairs and was able to help my father, who was also crying. Although I never heard her voice again, this sense of presence and calm comfort continued for that day and into the next. i have no idea if i imagined it, or if it was real, but it doesn't really matter. But the strength of the inbreaking voice ranks with the few times I have had a distinct experience of the God's presence and voice - experiences I cannot explain or discount. And it's stayed with me every time I have started to be overcome with grief. I cry, and let the tears flow; I remember; I am sad, grateful, relieved -- many things. I'm not repressing it. But I don't feel lost, in fact I feel like I have learned a great deal, and I feel stronger and less afraid. ruth, please tell Yves I am sorry for his loss and grateful for what he said, and that I share his general sense of calmness and acceptance, across the world.
Sorry, I just sort of blurted out this story, into the middle of the ongoing conversation, typos and all. But I also wanted to say to Brenda that yes, I feel those moments too, it's very much a part of how I experience life and part of what I think meditation gives us.
Jean, and Lorianne, thank you both so much. Because meditating doesn't seem to be something I have to "do," or even think about doing, I wonder if I'm "doing it" properly. At the beginning there were lots of bells & whistles, but now it's just "moments of depth." Sometimes if my daughter is talking nonstop & I need to meditate I can get a little irritated, "I have to meditate now! Shhh." It's not always serene or peaceful, then (or at least I'm not). Meditation calls me in, and is akin to the creative process. If the need to write or draw arises & I don't, an inner pressure just increases & increases until I do; meditation is like that.
I recall during yoga teacher training in 1995 often sitting with my timer ticking going through mental hell trying to sustain 31 or 62 minute meditations and would do this for the 40 required days for each meditation. It helped that we kept a daily journal of our experiences and which we handed in after the 6 month course was over.
It was hard to learn how to still the mind.
Lorianne, yes, a lifestyle diet change for the mind, and Jean, yes, doing it until it became natural, that's surely what happened.
Again, thank you so much...
Beth, oh, I love you so much.
Thank you for sharing these profound moments... of blessing.
Beth, don't, please, be sorry! It's such a privilege to share this with you.
You have crystallised for me why meditation means so much to me - because it is about just this: practising being present, so that we can be present through the most difficult parts of life. Having grown up with the painful consequences of people not being able to be present to their lives and feelings, their not realising what was wrong, and their consequent bitterness, having lived much of my adult life feeling a similar absence in myself and not knowing what to do about it, I find this so precious. So precious to have found it, or at least to have found where to look for it. So precious to know people like you. Such a simple thing, and so all-encompassing. Not that I have any illusion that this makes loss or grief any less painful, but it's the pain of life, not the pain of being 'dead' inside.
Thank you. And my love to you and you Dad, Beth.
Beth, you apologize for the oddest things.
Thank you. Thank you.
Tried to post this earlier, obviously unsuccessfully.
Beth, thank you. I appreciate your story more than you will ever know.
i have no idea if i imagined it, or if it was real, but it doesn't really matter.
I also had a profound experience of hearing my mother, feeling her touch, shortly after her death. It really doesn't matter if it was "real." Because it was real, to me, in the most valuable way.
Jean, thanks for what you said about being present.
Brenda, I think you are lucky, not odd.
Hi Dale & Lorianne.
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