Tag Archives: death

Day Thirty-Three, An answer

Back on day Twenty-Seven I told you about a course I was taking through Going With Grace called The Living Practice. Each day you’re given something to think about, write about, and enrich your living experience by thinking about your death.

Yes, I know that sounds counter-intuitive, but it really isn’t. Every day you do things, whether you realize it or not, you’re building your legacy. Your life is your message to others about what kind of a person you are externally, and to some extent even to yourself. But the juicy part, as Alua Arthur, founder of Going With Grace, likes to say, is that who you think you are may not actually be who you are.

We all have to go through the every day life stuff. We have to survive. We have to pay bills. We make time for social interaction or hobbies or adventure. But, who are we really? Without anything external, who are you?

I’m still pondering that one, but the question I’ve come to the answer for is:

Who or what was your most impactful death?

Of all the people I have loved and lost in this lifetime (part of the reason I became a Death Doula), the most impactful death would have to be my best friend L3 aka Bean. I lived with her and she with me for the majority of our adult lives. She was so freaking quirky, weird, and resentful of being pulled out of her comfort zone. A little secret I never told her, she MADE me braver than I felt.

I was friends with her for 37 years. She and I fought, laughed, created, sang, played, roadtripped, went to concerts, went on vacations together. She was my secret keeper. She was the fastest typer I’ve ever seen. I think they clocked her at like 125 wpm without errors. She was happier in a world of fantasy than in real life where disappointments followed her around like a rabid dog.

When she died, I got fucked up in the head. The person who was always there was gone. Who did that make me then? It took me about five years before I could think of her without crying or feeling devastatingly sad. Which, when you love someone like I loved her and know that you’re loved back, that loss is going to do exactly that.

Okay, so why was it the most impactful? I was 49, she was a month past 50 when she died. I suppose it’s a trick of my own disbelief or even a naivete’ but who the freak dies at 50? I was looking down that barrel myself and it freaked me out.

It made me really look at my life. I was unhappy. I was deeply depressed. I was so ridden with anxiety I couldn’t handle even missing a bus. Did I want to live the rest of my life like that? What could I change to make my life a better place to live?

She was the most impactful because I decided I wanted to live after she died. I mean live like we had intended to do together. She made me braver than I ever thought possible. She gave me the gift of life by leaving hers.

And now, here I am in freaking France getting ready to head to Portugal. The things I’ve seen would have made her laugh. The food would have blown her mind. The atmosphere would be right up her alley. She, although not physically, is still with me. She’s still here next to me,

I wear Bean in this.

(Well technically around my neck since I wear some of her ashes always) cheering me on to the best life I can live, for the both of us.

May peace be with you wherever you are or go. You are loved!

Day Twenty-Eight, Nostalgic Contemporary

Yesterday I went rip-tearing about town on my happy feet. I shared a bit of my experience as well as promising to share more of what I saw and enjoyed. I have not forgotten, but I wanted to share a couple of things that happened today before we dive into nostalgia.

That’s the white horse from the place near my client’s home. She ran over to where we were and posed the question of our existence. I told her she was a lovely horse and she posed in the second picture. Bored because we gave her nothing but praise, she munched on the grass.

The stand in the tree is too small to be a treehouse and has blotchy type camoflauge on it. I’m guessing it’s a hunting stand. The people who own the house behind that stand have a large fenced in yard with a solid black gate to their driveway. It was open enough today to see a little dog, about the same size as my Porkie (Pomeranian/Yorkie mix). It was mostly white with brown on the ears and boy did it have a voice!

The last pictures are what I had for dinner. It was kind of set up like a Salsarita’s or a Moe’s in that you started with the dish size, then added sauce of your choice, then meat (or not), then you could add a side. I chose plantains. (They also offered vegetarian and vegan options as well). The man spoke a little English, but we mostly laughed and pointed. Laughing was because of my atrocious pronunciation of the menu words. I’m getting better though!

Now let’s do some timey-whimey stuff and go back to the yesterday.

Eglise Saint-Pierre de Caen
The construction took place
between the 13 and 16th century.

Until around the mid-19th century, the eastern end of the church faced onto a canal that was then covered and replaced by a road. It’s spire is seen in several pictures that I took from the Chateau de Caen which is practically across the road from this ornate tribute to Saint Peter.

This is what I saw as I approached the Chateau de Caen. I wasn’t really aware that’s what it was. These sights are what grabbed my attention and pushed me to explore.

As I approached the former palace of William the Conqueror, I was filled with wonder. I breathed in the fresh air, observed the many textures of plantlife around me, and allowed my curiousity to lead me forward.
The castle is being renovated and excavated. A garden is being put in the courtyard. The paths are lined with fencing which guides you to the places you’re allowed to visit. This next video is what I came to first.

For 3Euro50 you can explore the permanent exhibits of fine art. I’m not particularly fond of the period that used black as the predominant color. I find them to be off-putting, but I did find some I like as well as a little joke.

That painting! It was practically hyper-realistic.
Saint George’s chapel was a bit surreal. The tombs that are in the video are more than likely out of order since I couldn’t read the thumbnails. But, they’re all there and accounted for as best as I could do. The tombs were covered over in plexi-glass which I thought a might bit odd. But, that’s what they do for the famously rich, I suppose.

There is so much more to show you, but I’m late in posting. I forgot how much I love the hyper-focus of production. I’m still learning how to use the tools I have, so bear with me. For a newbie, I don’t think I’m doing so bad at it.

May peace be with you wherever you are or go. You are loved!

Day Fourteen, Blisters and Unusual

I know what the cow is, but I don’t know what the object in the crook of the tree might be or what purpose it serves. Any ideas?

Yesterday I did so much walking that I got blisters on the bottoms of my foot. I followed what the Mayo Clinic says to do and am keeping it clean, dry, and covered. It’s pretty tender to walk on, not too much, but with the distance I’ve been putting on my hoofs lately, it’s a challenge.

When I went to the museum yesterday, there was a lot to see. There is a video presentation that depicts footage from that time in history. I expected to see bombs. I expected to see guns. I expected to see violence. I mean, it’s a museum about D-Day for heck’s sake.

As a Death Doula, my calling is to make sure that people die on their terms. The setting as ideal as I can create it to be at their request. Each person I’ve helped through the transition from the breathing life has died on their back. Sometimes with loved ones nearby, sometimes a solo flier, but they died peacefully while laying in a bed.

The video I watched progressed pretty much as I’d expected until the part where the American, English, Canadian, and French soldiers marched through a mountain of rubble from destroyed buildings. On the ground, in the forefront of this footage, was a dead body laying face down in the mud.

The soldiers continued past the body as if it were a brick, or a twisted monument of violence. I couldn’t tell by the brief (maybe 5 second view) if the man who died was a soldier, a civilian, or a casualty of mistaken identity. It disturbed me enough that I’ve had to take over 24 hours to process that.

What I also didn’t expect was the immensity of the tanks, guns, transports, and even the bulldozers. I, for whatever reason, thought they were smaller. Maybe because I’ve only ever seen them in films (not documentaries) or in TV shows depicting the era. I stood next to a bulldozer on display and felt like a kid staring up at dad working as I did when I was like nine years old.

Caen was occupied by Nazi’s. On the very streets I’ve been walking and enjoying there were horrors committed against these people’s elders (then young folk). It snapped a sharp picture in my head that the history I’ve been feeling in my veins isn’t just that of William the Conqueror, but that of a city that has fought to survive.

June 6, 1944, D-Day, the Normandy Invasion

320,000 German soldiers became gravestones.

135,000 Americans didn’t watch another sunrise.

65,000 United Kingdom soldiers didn’t return home to waiting families.

18,000 Canadians didn’t get to watch/play hockey again.

12,200 French soldiers didn’t get to eat another baguette.

Over half a million people lost their lives during the Normandy Invasion. That would be like wiping out the entire population of Tuscon, Arizona. (Beautiful city, would recommend a visit). Gone. Extinguished.

The immensity of the loss of life has been downplayed in history classes I’ve taken. It’s just a number, right? It’s like trying to figure out how rich you’d have to be to not worry about what something cost. It’s all speculative numbers. Until you actually consider that those deaths meant more than just a number. They were people like you and me. They had loved ones they wanted to return to. There were birthdays they would never again celebrate. They were humans.

There was grief and mourning that couldn’t take place because D-Day wasn’t just one day. Operation Overlord didn’t complete until the 19th of August 1944 when the Germans retreated back over the river Seine. That’s 74 days of intense fighting.

Tomorrow I’m going to go to the Caen Memorial and pay homage to those souls that fought for the liberation of their way of life. My mom asked me to say a prayer for them. I will honor that request. I feel it’s the least I can do.

Day Thirteen, Countryside

Aloha! Welcome! Today was a pretty great day overall. My left foot has two big blisters on it from walking so much, but it was totally worth it. I saw so much that it’s difficult to process. What I’m sitting here debating with myself is whether I want to share the beauty or the horribly necessary violence. Beauty it is!

This is a bit of beauty that I experienced today. To hear the birds sing in “French”, make sure you have your volume adjusted.

I visited here today with my clients. I’m still processing the immense loss of life, the violence committed, the size of the weapons used to destroy everyday life for a cause of justice, liberty, and freedom.

Where I’m staying was occupied by the German forces. There were big campaigns rallied to drive out the oppression but success took a few attempts and an incredible loss of life, destruction of homes, businesses, families.

It’s humbling.

The Hourglass

My dead are buried here

Cycling the winds of change

Filling my hourglass with the sands

of moments spent with true hearts

moments charged with life’s passing

Experience dictating lessons

of community

of unity

of vision

A tribal pulse weaving roots

deep into the soil of my hearth

fashioning the cloak of enduring life

a version of immortality

told in legends measured by grains

creating a life worth living

The Stillness is

The stillness is 

where you were 

Intimately held;  

death and life blurred 

The wealth of years 

Fell silently 

The labor gone 

So quietly 

The stillness is 

Where you were 

The peaceful night 

Embraces you 

Mourning’s tears 

A grassy dew 

And yet, 

The stillness remains 

Where you were 

Glimpses of mortality 

An unacceptable reality 

Because the stillness is 

Where you were 

The Wisdom of Baba Yaga

Baba Yaga 

The Grandmother of angry repute, 

When she wishes to be found 

May grant three voices 

Likened to that of her same-named kin 

Each louder than the last 

Blasting as horns through the silence 

Of long disguised enigmas 

Concealed in shadowy cellars 

Her nefarious, grotesque face 

And carcass alike  

Wallows in the justice 

Of adorning her garden fence 

with the skulls of the unworthy 

She beckoned, 

granting me fortress 

At her whim, I unmasked for her 

The eyes of her distorted haven warily watching 

Her chicken-legged house  

settling noisy bones 

Baba Yaga, with her filed iron teeth  

Has devoured me  

with surges of bloody wisdom 

As ancient as she is 

from time unrecorded 

On written pages 

She ravaged me with mortar and pestle 

crushing me with catastrophe 

Sweeping up my granular remains 

Endowing newfound resolve 

To cultivate a bedrock authority 

Roots of my own power 

controlling the forces of my very nature  

and the singular destiny  

of my kaleidoscope purpose 

In the Deep

I’m fragmented by your absence.

Infinitely reformed.

I’m suffering love

the color of tears.

It is salty and dark

It is laborious to breathe.

I’m not afraid

of loving you

as I held you.

I’m conscious of the vulnerability

in which I’m submersed

from our severed physical connection.

My grief is a mere reflection

of our laughter, our conversations

distilled into our unwitting last

“I love you.”

I bring the best parts of us forward with me.

I will not betray our trust.

Your love is a part of who I am now.

No matter how deep the anguish,

There is no regret in cherishing

the you I knew.

The Still of Grief

In the still of grief
Time moves strangely,
Cruelly away from
The last breath,
The last moment shared
unforgiving
Unrelenting
In its finality.
It is like swimming in shallows
While experiencing depths
One half of a choreographed routine
Meant for two;

danced by one

A Willow’s Lament

The willow boughs in comprehension

Lose track of the wind

on the mirror surfaced lake

christening the sky

with clear intent

Where is the coffin

but sky and earth

the heavens ornaments

of universal praise

And yet, in the kitchen,

where life is rebirthed,

there gathered the women

pottery deep into breakfast

the labor of reassurance has begun

the calm center of the maelstrom;

change the only constant

There is light

Light in the darkness

Light in the chaos

So is life with death

Born when it’s time to be born;

die when it’s time to die.

It’s movement, a process

where peace with time is in repose

there is an order of things

neither joy nor sorrow may take hold

Yet, Spring, herald of rebirth

has abandoned blooming,

it feels like Winter

Like the depths of the ocean

have suddenly become thick air

Upon this fleeting dream-world

Dawn is breaking

Even though some trees are bedecked

The willow boughs in comprehension

Acknowledging the bond

and where

the direction of love is not lost

the deeper treasure of sweetened time

will reap its own reward.