Grieving the Loss of Experience

 

   COVID19 rages on.  I live in Western New York, where the number of cases and deaths continues to rise, although the New York City area has plateaued.  I continue to keep my twice-daily statistics.  It's interesting to watch the various columns either forge ahead in numbers, or plateau, sometimes evening out altogether.  Some states are thinking of re-opening, but most believe it's far too early to consider doing that.  As a result, our economies world-wide have stopped dead in their tracks.  Even hospitals are beginning layoffs and pay cuts to the very people who are putting themselves on the line every day, trying to save each and every life that they can.
   We grieve the loss of friends and family.  We grieve the loss of the school year, graduations, jobs, and opportunities.  We grieve the loss of long-planned vacations, adventures, trips abroad.  As I consider the heavy losses of human life, I wonder:  is it OK to grieve the loss of experience?
    My husband and I are retired.  We had plans to go to New York City in March to meet up with friends, go to a concert, and generally hang out and visit with people we haven't seen in a while.  That was cancelled.  We had plans to go to Canada, to visit our family there.  We often go up and spend a night, visiting various family members on both days.  That was cancelled.  We had plans to make our international trip for the year, in June:  England (visiting family), Scotland, and Russia.  That was cancelled.
    But the experience that was cancelled today was the hardest loss of all:  every year the New York State Art Teachers' Association spends a full week in the Adirondack wilderness, taking part in the Summer Institute.  We live and work at Great Camp Sagamore, one of the beautiful Great Camps of the Adirondacks, formerly the "summer camp" of the Vanderbilt family.   It has been wonderfully restored and is now an educational facility.  We live in community with 50 artists/educators, taking part in numerous art projects that span many media - watercolor, acrylic, pencil, fiber arts, print making, photography, sculpture, environmental sculpture, puppetry, paper-making...the list goes on and on.  We have an astronomer and a naturalist who come every year to teach us the stories of the constellations (using a Celestron telescope on land, and with the naked eye in the middle of a lake from canoes at night), and to teach us about the flora and fauna of the pristine wilderness.  We live in the cabins and lodges that the Vanderbilts "roughed it" in.  We eat in the dining hall that still rings with the stories and songs of history.  There is a beautiful, freezing-cold lake there for swimming, boating, and fishing.  It's an amazing place for the spirit and the mind.  I have attended the art Summer Institute for ten years, my husband for nine years.  The core people and leadership remain stable from year to year, and have become a tightly-knit community.  Last year we gave up our spots in order to go to Alaska.  We were so excited to return this coming summer.

   Today's e-mail from our leaders confirmed what we feared was coming:  due to the Corona Virus, the Summer Institute, and I presume all of Great Camp Sagamore's programs, are cancelled.  Full stop.
   In the grand scheme of things, when lives are lost, jobs vaporize, the economy is  at a standstill, and the stock market swings wildly, is it OK to grieve the loss of our beloved summer experience?  I believe so.  This is not a matter of life or death, but it is a lifeline for those for whom it was created, teachers.  Not only is the Summer Institute professional development, but it's also a place for the restoration of the soul.  To be in the wilderness, for some, is a brand-new experience.  There are at least three generations of teachers there each summer, and I believe it may be nearly four generations now.  We encourage each other, nourish each other, learn together, live together, and now we will cry together, across the miles.  For this is a great loss.

   Over the years, my husband and I have attended a number of events at Great Camp Sagamore, such as the annual Mountain Music and Dance Weekend in the fall.  We've gotten to know two distinct groups of people, all artists or musicians, and the phenomenal staff that keeps such an historical treasure running.  What will happen to them now?  Will the music weekend also be cancelled?
   We live in a time of unparalleled uncertainly on so many levels.  My way of coping with the loss of the known and familiar is to process it through the five senses.  This can be done not only in the present, but also through memory, as a kind of meditation.
    What did I hear that day?  The wind sighing in the hemlocks.
    What did I see that day?  A barn full of artists, creating, learning, laughing, talking together.
    What did I touch that day?  The strings of a dulcimer.  The smooth wood of my Irish harp.
    What did I smell that day?  The wonderful aroma of hot cedars, hemlocks, and pines, as the summer sun turns the forest floor into incense.
    What did I taste that day?  S'mores, made by adults around a campfire, for some for the very first time.
    How did I experience space that day?  I looked upon the dawn breaking over a mountain lake, and heard the cry of a loon, far, far away, down at the other end of the misty waters.

    "Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
     A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
     Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.
     Preserve your memories:  They're all that's left you."
    - Paul Simon
   
 

Letting Go of Fear

Sunrise, Annapurna, Nepal

   In the Christian world, we have just come through the forty days of Lent and have now entered the liturgical season of Easter.  During Lent, many people give something up as a way to participate in Christ's selfless love.  Like, say, chocolate.  This year, I decided to give up fear.
    Why fear?  Why not something tangible, like cake?  Or candy?  Or wine?  Or, as one dear friend suggested, plastic?
    I gave up fear (as best I could) because I see that as being a major contributor to not moving forward in my personal growth.  Fear keeps us from doing so many things.  If we step out of our comfort zone and venture into new territory, we can experience anxiety...but also freedom.
    A few months ago, I went on a three-week journey through India and Nepal, looking at culture, spirituality, and education.  My husband and I did this on our own, with help from our friends in these two countries who found drivers and English-speaking guides in the various Indian cities we visited.  When we reached Nepal, we went trekking with the help of a small trekking company that my husband had found three years ago.  I was frankly afraid of stepping out into such a huge adventure without the shepherding of a tour group.  My husband had worked internationally for 33 years, and has always travelled more or less on his own.  I've travelled with him quite a bit, but this new proposed  adventure caused me to experience real fear.
    Perhaps it's my age (63), or the belief that I have had an interesting life, and therefore don't expect to have a boring death...but I decided to bite the bullet and step out in faith, to leaving fear behind, and to explore these two countries with him.  I had to let go of my fears.  These fears included, but were not limited to:

Mount Dhaulagiri, Nepal

* Heights (We trekked in the Annapurna Circuit in the Himalayas of Nepal)
* Crowds (India, and its magnificent monuments such as the Taj Mahal, is very crowded)
* The unknown (We stayed in a different place each night, sometimes without a lot of pre-planning)
*  Poor sanitation (Don't get me started on pit toilets, or the fact that you have to carry your own toilet paper with you everywhere)
*  Terrorism (Sad, but true:  when we came home, we saw the movie "Hotel Mumbai."  We had had lunch in that very hotel in which India's 2008 terror attacks began.  It could happen again.  In fact, as soon as we came home from our trip, the horrific Easter terror attacks in Sri Lanka occurred.

The Taj Hotel and Gate of India, Mumbai

   Giving up fear doesn't mean giving up caution or safety.  It means giving up the notion that we can actually control our destiny, that we can somehow will away any random evil that might wait for us in the shadows of the world.  It means living life to the fullest, in spite of the fact that our lives could end at any given moment.
   When we went to Israel in 2015, friends and family feared for our safety.  If you think about it, we would be far more likely to be shot in a shopping mall, theatre, house of worship, or elementary school in the U.S. than we would be in any of the "third world" (also known as the "two-thirds world") countries.

   Perhaps it's my age, the fact that I've had a wonderful life, and the fact that my children are grown and are happy that give me the courage to give up fear.  On our recent trek in the Himalayas, I faced several situations that initially scared me, usually involving great heights and narrow trails.  I faced my fear, and realized that the likelihood of actually falling was pretty slim.  A song kept running through my head as we climbed higher and higher:  the blockbuster hit "Shallows," sung by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper from "A Star is Born."  The refrain says, "We're out of the shallows now."  I take that to mean that we (or I) have moved beyond the shallow waters of day-to-day living, and are now ready to move into the deeper waters of living fully into the rest of our lives.  Step out into the waters of life.  Leave fear on the shoreline.  Be careful, yes.  Don't take unnecessary risks, to be sure.  But above all, don't limit your life to what is too safe.  Let go of fear...and embrace fulfillment.

Step out...and experience life

Amer Fort, India

What is it About December?

   It's been a very long time since I've posted to this blog.  Now, as 2018 draws to a close, I feel compelled to write again.  Tonight I learned that I have lost yet another friend, and again in December.
   This is a month that is known for darkness.  Today is the Winter Solstice, the darkest and shortest day of the year.  Many celebrations surround the concept of darkness and light during this twelfth and final month of our calendar year:  Hannukah, Advent, Christmas, Solstice, New Year's Eve.  Since the dawn of time, humankind has taken a moment during this wintry month to pause and reflect on life and death.
   For me, each year that passes carries a little more sadness during this month.  Both of my parents died in December, and several friends died, as well.  I was born on December 22nd, and have always loved being born at such an energy-infused time of year.  For beneath the frozen ground, seeds are sleeping...new life will come in the spring, and this long period of sleep is necessary for their growth. Each year that passes in this decade of my 60s brings more loss.  The deaths of friends and family must, by natural law, increase as I age, until one day I, too, will pass away and become memory.
Is it morbid to focus on death at a time when most of the Christian world is focusing on birth?  No, because both are intimately entwined.  The Wise Men brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh - foreshadowing the death and burial of Jesus Christ.  These were the precious gifts they laid at the manger in Bethlehem.  And even as Jesus was born under the brilliance of a Star, Herod ordered the death of all Jewish baby boys under the age of two...just in case.  Birth.  Death.  Entwined.
   It's certainly much less dramatic for me.  My mother told me long ago that I was born on the coldest day of the year.  Perhaps that's why I've always loved the cold!  As a child, I slept in an unheated summer porch.  I remember putting my little hands on the chimney that passed from the kitchen below through my little room to the roof, feeling the warmth of it.  I was never cold.  In fact, since our grandmother lived with us, the house downstairs was kept uncomfortably warm.  To this day I gravitate to the cooler places in our house.
   Today I lost another friend.  Just yesterday she was commenting on my photograph of dawn in Ontario, and hours later, she died of a heart attack - no previous warning.  We must all be prepared.  Who knows who will go next?  In my family, the women live to be quite old.  My mother was 96.  Her aunt died at 104.  I may well live to be well over 100.
   My motto is, live each day as if it is your last, but plan as though you will live forever.
Now, as the longest night of the year is in progress, my wish for all of you, dear readers, is that you reflect upon your lives, and realize that you, too, could disappear into the night without warning.  Yes, we celebrate the return of the light beginning tomorrow (my birthday), but we know deep in our hearts that the great wheel of time will continue to roll, and bring around December after December.                What do we bring to the manger?  Does the Star shine down upon us, too?  What is it about December?

The Color Purple

   This week our community lost a dear friend.  By "our community," I mean not only greater Rochester, but also the large family of music educators who knew her.  To protect her family's privacy, I'll call her Tammy.  I knew Tammy from my final position as an arts director in a local outer-ring suburb.  I knew her not only from endless staff meetings, many informal classroom visits, formal observations, concerts, and the like, but also from social events - parties at my house, gatherings at her house.  For you see, music educators are a very large family.  One of the comments that appeared in my own annual performance reviews each year was the fact that I was "too close" to my faculty.  That one always made me smile.  My superintendent finally said to me, "You're one of them, aren't you?"  You bet I am.  I was, and I always will be.
   Even though I've been retired for 5 1/2 years now, I still have friends - former colleagues - in the school district who do a bang-up job of keeping me informed of all manner of news.  Sometimes I get news reports before the official word comes from their current central office administrators...This brings me to how I found out my friend and colleague was ill, a little over a year ago.   Through Facebook and messaging, I was able to follow Tammy through her slow, relentless downhill journey.  Thanks to social media, I was able to send Facebook messages, texts, and e-mails, along with one or two calls to let her know I was thinking of her, that she was in my prayers.  She was diagnosed with cancer right around the time that my brother was diagnosed...I offered to go visit her on several occasions, but she never felt well enough to take me up on my offer.
    When I realized she was no longer checking in to her Facebook account, I began posting photos on her wall occasionally.  Sunrises, sunsets, beautiful scenes that I had the privilege of seeing...it was my way of visiting.  And of course, she was always on my daily prayer list.
   This past week, Tammy passed away.  There was an amazing half-page article in the local paper, as well as a lengthy obituary.  The obit gave not only the times for the calling hours and funeral, but also a request that her friends and family wear purple to these events, as it was her favorite color.
   Purple.  The color of royalty.  I only have one or two things to wear of that color, purchased one summer to match my purple cast on whichever foot was operated on that year.  I wore one dark purple sweater with matching scarf to the calling hours at the funeral home, and a lavender top with a black jacket to the funeral itself.  And I was part of an absolute tide of purple in both places.
   The tributes to Tammy were beautiful.  There were photos of every aspect of her life, cut short at too young an age.  Her Celebration of Life was a glowing tribute to her faith, her love of family, and her adoring friends.  I must admit that I considered not attending the funeral.  After all, the family seemed surprised that I showed up at the calling hours.  I had originally decided I would remember Tammy by driving to a nearby state park to observe the "ice volcano" that has recently appeared on local news - a fountain that has a 27' ice pinnacle growing up around it.  Tammy had been a camper, a hiker, a lover of nature, interests that I share.  I would remember her by spending some time in a beautiful place.  Only, when I made the hour-long drive to see the ice volcano, the final stretch of road was closed!  I turned my car around, and realized that I still had time to go home, change into yet more purple, and make it to the service in time.
   I'm so glad I did.  The chapel was packed.  I was once again a part of a purple tide.  I saw a number of people I had worked with - music teachers, administrators, all members of that community.  I was content to sit in the back pew alone, singing along on the hymns, tearing up at the testimonials, and above all, basking in the glow of a true celebration of life.  Tammy was beloved among her peers, and that love was very evident that day.
   Today I wore purple one more time.  The funeral may be over, but I believe that Tammy is now leading a band in Heaven - I have no doubt that she's in charge of the elementary angel instrumentalists, cheering them on in their heavenly music making.  I know angels are supposed to be wearing white, but I believe Tammy and her little band are all wearing purple...the color of royalty.  After all, they are performing for a King.

When Feasts Collide

   For years our family has celebrated Epiphany with one last present, one little gift for each person in our family to remember the Magi reaching the manger.  Sometimes we even had a celebration of Twelfth Night, like a dinner party (sometimes in costume).  Epiphany still holds magic and mystery for me.  Now, as an adult entering my “golden years,” I feel the historic tension of that period in Christian history.  It wasn’t really on a silent night that Christ was born.  Holy, yes.  But silent, no.  Herod had caught wind of the birth of the Jewish King, and ordered the death of all newborn male Jewish babies.  I think of Rachel weeping for her children, who are no more.  Of the Magi, accidently alerting Herod of the birth of the newborn King of the Jews.  Of Joseph and Mary, returning home stealthily “by another way” – through Egypt – which is quite a detour.  To escape what?  Violence.  Death.  Injustice.

  This year, Epiphany collides with the Feast of the Baptism of our Lord, an interesting contrast of events.  For me, Epiphany evokes the idea of gifts, royalty, and flight from the threat of evil.  For me, baptism evokes the idea of the gift of Grace, the crowning of the young King, and freedom from sin.  These two holy days both involve gift-giving.  The Epiphany occurred in an atmosphere of flight from violence, and Baptism occurred in the symbolism of the saving grace of water, and the powerful force of life overcoming death.

   As I write this, I am looking out over Tampa Bay.  The roar of fighter jets fills the air before dawn.   MacDill Air Force Base is across the bay.  Yesterday, we went for a walk in a beautiful little nature park in urban St. Petersburg.  In a linear nature preserve that runs alongside busy I 275 South, we walked on boardwalks through swamps and by a canal in which alligators basked in the sun.  There were no fences, no barriers, no gates to keep us separate from these ancient creatures.  Walkers stayed on a raised boardwalk, sort of safe from the possibility of a charging reptile.  But these reptiles were very cold, and were happy to laze in the sun, absorbing the warmth.  The park lies next to a residential neighborhood, but residents of both habitats appear to be able to live side-by-side in peace, without fear of attack.

   Today, Rob and I will attend the simple and beautiful Episcopal Cathedral in St. Petersburg.  Then we’ll drive South to spend the afternoon and evening with grandson Brady.  Again, there is symbolism in this activity.  Brady cared for 240 college students who couldn’t escape Hurricane Irma last Fall, in a job he had just begun only a month earlier.  Baptism by fire…And yet the storm decreased from a Cat Five to a Cat Two by the time it reached Fort Meyers.  The decimation of Puerto Rico and other islands was not visited upon Florida Gulf Coast University.  I remember thanking God – experiencing gratitude for a lesser storm.  Those words came back to me today, in the pre-dawn darkness punctuated by the roar of the ascending fighter jets.  I am grateful that we are not at war on our own soil, although much of the world is suffering.  I am grateful that the beautiful, terrifying creatures of the Floridian swamplands – even in the midst of a city – still exist.  And I am grateful that today we can see our grandson at the university where he became a man, helping others through the storm. 

   My prayer today is that we might not destroy ourselves as the human race.  It has been said that if all the animals were to die on the Earth, mankind will perish.  If mankind were to die off completely from the Earth, all of creation would flourish.  Through Baptism we are marked as Christ’s own forever.  I pray for an Epiphany for this world, for the grace of God to save us from destroying ourselves, and our precious Earth.  I pray for the gift of a lesser storm.

Waiting for the Light

   It's been over four months since I've posted in this blog.  I can feel the turning of the seasons; when last I wrote, it was high Summer.  Now, we're nearing the end of Autumn, beginning the descent into Winter which coincides nicely with the concept of Advent.
   I've had time to begin to more fully synthesize the unknowable concept of death.  I find myself leaning toward meditations on seeking light, on finding life in the stark landscape of early Winter.  Advent has always been a very sacred time of year for me.  This year, our priest has asked those of us in our small house congregation to consider three reflection questions for each Sunday's lectionary readings.  We've done this in the past, but this year he wants us to prepare responses to the three questions, and be prepared to discuss them the next Sunday.
   There is no grief for me in this process, and if there is loss, it is of the sadness and darkness that I have felt in previous years as the light wanes and the long, cold nights of December descend.  I'd like to share the three questions for Advent One here, as well as my responses.

   Advent One, 2017

1.               For what are you on the watch this Advent?

2.              How are you being enriched in every way this Advent?

3.              How might you need to be roused in order to cling more tightly to God?

   Advent is perhaps my favorite season of the church year.  So many personal events have happened during its long, dark nights and short, cold days…My first marriage (1975), my initial move to New York (1978), and my mother’s death (2014) all occurred on December 7^th, Pearl Harbor Day.  I was born on December 22^nd, the coldest and shortest day of the year in 1955.   I have always loved being born on the Solstice.  Sharp, bright pinpoints of light in the thick December night skies are a source of wonder and comfort for me.  In spite of the cold and the dark of Advent, I find in it a great deal of comfort, and more than a little joy.  I am a person of the shadows, and have always been on the edge, on the outside looking in.  I can place myself in the context of the Arab refugee family who could only find a humble stable, or cave, in which to give birth.  When pregnant with my first child, my first husband and I lived in a modest apartment in a very poor section of Cincinnati.  To get to my charity hospital pre-natal care appointments, I rode two city busses across town and spent several hours sitting on a folding chair in the basement corridor of Children’s Hospital.  I was a child myself, preparing to give birth.  I certainly can relate to Mary sitting on a donkey, riding over the harsh desert roads and finding someplace, any place safe to have her baby.  In fact, it was during Advent that I began lighting the Advent candles in 1975, while awaiting the birth of my own child.  It’s now been 42 years that the Advent candles have been lit in my household, although the children grew up and left, and husband number one departed, to be followed by husband number two.  Both were watchmen with me, waiting for a sign, waiting for the Word from above, guidance for the journey ahead…

   I am still on the watch for a sign from God, a word, a call…to what service?  That I do not yet know.  But I know that a fire burns within me to do more, to step out in faith and offer my life up in service.  Where am I going?  I am watching for a sign.  Perhaps I’ll be led by a star, shining in the East…

   I am being enriched this Advent by interacting with the aging, the aged…acquaintances, friends and relatives who are struggling with some form of cognitive impairment as their brains age and their arteries harden.  This is terrifying, yet enriching as I watch them and those who are their caregivers find new ways of relating.  Time becomes more elastic for the aged, who begin to pass more easily from past to present to future.  My work with the Hospice residents is also a very enriching experience…I always come away from a work shift feeling honored to have had the chance to sit quietly with the dying, to listen to them, to pray with them, to hear their stories, and to enter – however briefly – that space of waiting – like the hushed darkness of Advent – for the next life.

   In terms of being roused in order to cling more tightly to God – well, sometimes I feel that God uses me as a rabble-rouser, stirring up uncomfortable ideas and questions during Mass and in conversations… like bringing up the over-abundance of our Thanksgiving feasts juxtaposed with the huge eyes of the starving children of Yemen, or mentioning the uncomfortable (inconvenient?) truth that our Native American sisters and brothers have quite another context for the event that began the first Thanksgiving.  I think I rouse myself with these queries, and I certainly need to cling more tightly to God.  It’s a big, scary world out there, full of darkness and light, and I am but a small, aging human who cannot begin to stand up to its challenges without the grace of God.  I believe that I am being roused by the fire burning within me that constantly prods me, saying, “You could be doing more…” And so I look to the heavens, and listen deeply.  And begin to follow that star.

Day is Done

It seems somehow appropriate to write this blog post on Good Friday, a day of mourning but looking to the future Light. Last week, my husband and I went out to Ohio for my brother's Celebration of Life, and for the party at the house after that. There was much planning involved - a eulogy to write, a dress to buy, a wreath to make for my sister-in-law that would celebrate the Resurrection as well as Easter and would also memorialize my deceased brother. Deceased. What a final word. Many members of my mother's side of the family, cousins now (all the aunts and uncles are long gone), gathered at my brother's house the night before to visit with his wife and sons. It was a good gathering. Some of the cousins haven't seen each other since my mother's burial of ashes in NE Ohio two and a half years ago. My brother is now the second of the group of cousins to depart this Earth. The next morning, my husband and I headed out early to the funeral home to help set up the display of my brother's favorite and/or daily items: His helmet from Vietnam. His dog tags. Several SeaBee caps. The trophy and lifetime achievement awards from his place of business. His laptop. His lunch cooler. His travel mug. The only thing missing was Jim. Soon after the final touches were put on the photo displays and the two black-draped tables of his stuff, visitors began to file in. And file in. And file in. The ushers had to keep adding chairs, open up the doors, and find ways to expand space for all the people who came to say goodbye to their co-worker, their buddy, their friend. I had practiced my eulogy five times so that I could get through it without crying. I made it to the last line...but my dear nephews, his three sons, could not hold in their grief. My brother was a beloved father, husband, son, brother, uncle, cousin...The music, flowers, and speakers were all beautiful. And then came the full military honors. I had never seen this ceremony in its fullness prior to my brother's Celebration of Life. It involved an Honor Guard in dress blues (Navy), an officer in dress white, and a chaplain in fatigues. They unfolded the flag that sat on the table with my brother's ashes, held it up (it was very large), and out in the parking lot, three rifles fired three volleys. Someone played Taps on a bugle. At that point I just broke down. As I wrote in my eulogy, "As one of your sons remarked to me recently, you left a part of yourself there. The boy had become a man, the man went to war, and the man came home, a wounded warrior. It took years for you to process all that you had experienced there, and you processed it right up to the very end of your life." After the final notes of Taps died away outside, the honor guard refolded the flag, ceremoniously presented it to the officer, who knelt on one knee and presented both the flag and the shell casings of the spent rounds to my sister-in-law. It was the most moving tribute I have ever seen. The whole ceremony and service lasted 90 minutes. After that, we all piled into our cars and headed back to my brother's house for the party...a true Irish wake. Memories were shared; kegs were tapped, tons of City Barbecue were eaten. And all around the house were photos, memorabilia, the beautiful flowers, the many cards and tributes to a life well-lived. The wreath I made for my sister-in-law was among the display items at the Celebration, and now hangs on her door at home. I chose to make the wreath for her as a quiet symbol of eternity - the circle, with purple ribbons for Easter, for the Resurrection. My brother's body is gone now, but his spirit remains...perhaps with us for a time, perhaps already gone to Heaven to take care of his long-gone dog, Sage (which is what his four-year-old granddaughter was told.) I'll end this with the final words of my eulogy for Jim: "We love you, brother. I hope that as you enter now into the Lord’s Army, you lay down your arms, and enter into an embrace with God the Father and find comfort and peace, freedom from pain, freedom from sickness, freedom from sorrow. God is the ultimate Healer, and you are now in the deep, eternal embrace of the Savior. Rest well, my brother. We will see you in the great Bye and Bye."

The Lone Silver Wolf

Tomorrow I am leaving for Ohio again, this time for the last time of this six-month journey of saying good-bye to my brother. Yesterday I was filled with grief. Nothing would make me feel better, until I spent several hours in my little home studio and made a few small paintings. One of them, "Ghost Pack," was a bit unusual in terms of symbolism. Maybe I didn't know I was processing my grief. After all, what does the image of a wolf have to do with losing a brother?

Today the meaning came to me. I remembered a story about Barrington Bunny from a book called "The Way of the Wolf," by Martin Bell, that came out in the 70s. Today I looked it up, and there it was...the lone, silver wolf, by the forest's edge, looking out for the little guy. Looking out for someone he loved. The lone silver wolf would not leave a friend alone in the snow... The story of Barrington Bunny may be found here: http://www.angelfire.com/music/lefantome/bunny.html.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It's been a long couple of months. While I was writing my earlier blog posts, my brother Jim was struggling with lung cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, but after radiation therapy, they thought they got it all. Think again. In late September, Jim found out he had Stage IV lung cancer. Terminal. My husband and I were able to make it out to Ohio to visit him and his family four times between September and his death a few days ago. Those visits were so very important to us. Each visit found Jim just a little bit weaker, although his spirits remained high. Each visit left me wondering if it would be our last. We went out in October, and Jim was still getting out to enjoy eating out and other trips. We went back in December. He was on heavy pain meds then, and slept a lot. We did have a few good hours with him, exchanging Christmas gifts and sitting around the kitchen talking and laughing. I had made a fleece blanket for him, green with white deer (bucks, of course. With antlers.) We drove back out in February, just after he spent a week in the hospital. He went home to Hospice care. That weekend, we arrived on a Friday. It was a shock to see him in his hospital bed in his living room, a darkened room curtained off from the rest of the house. The green and white buck fleece I had made him for Christmas was on his bed. I spent a lot of time sitting by his bedside, praying. Slowly over the course of the weekend, he began to get up a little, and by the end of the weekend, he was using his walker to get around the house a little bit, even venturing into the kitchen. After we departed, his wife Kim told us he had made it out to a casino! That just seemed miraculous. Then the call came a few days ago. Jim was failing. Did we want to come out? Of course we did. We made the drive, even though a wind storm had left our home in Rochester, NY without power. We found my brother sitting in his elevator-chair, the one that was bought during our last visit. However, this time I don't think my brother recognized me. At all. My husband and his sons helped put him back in his bed, as his legs would no longer bear his weight. Once again, the green buck fleece blanket was his cover. He was heavily medicated. Although his eyes opened, and he even recognized his wife, sons, and the wife of his best friend, he was clearly on his journey. The family sat vigil around the clock, and we spent many hours with them. Twice I was sure his time had come, but he rallied both times. He had the unexpected energy burst that sometimes happens with one who is ready to leave this world. Then he crashed. My husband and I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, which was very difficult for me. The family had "cocooned" so deeply that I felt cold and alone when I left the house. Of course, Jim's family continued the vigil...until I received the call about 24 hours later that my brother had passed away. I cried. I sobbed. I howled into my own fleece blanket. My brother! My brother! Where are you now, my brother? My daughter gave me a beautiful flower arrangement which I placed on the cover of my grand piano, along with candles and a photo of Jim, laughing and smiling for the camera. My brother is at rest now, at peace. My brother is no longer suffering. We believe that he is with God. We were blessed to have him on this earth for 69 years, but now my brother has gone home. Sleep well, dear Jim. We will see you in the Great Bye and Bye.

Saying Goodbye to Gloria

Early this morning my first Hospice patient, "Gloria," died peacefully in her sleep. I know this is the natural outcome of most Hospice stays, but it's my first experience with the death of a resident. I'm glad I had those four visits with her during training and then as a supervised volunteer...but I so wish I had had one last visit. In fact, my husband and I were called a few days ago to volunteer either last night or tonight, and by the time we responded, only tonight was still open. We'll be there with only one resident, who no doubt will be sound asleep, as we have the last shift of the evening. I can't tell a lie, this is hard for me. It's my faith tradition to believe that Gloria is in a better place now. I was lucky in that the last time I sat with her, we had a lively conversation about Thanksgiving Dinner. She was in and out of our reality; at one point she asked me how many people were coming (I said 6), how we should cook the turkey (I vetoed the pressure cooker), and if dinner would be held "here." In class later that week, I asked the instructors if it's OK to go with the reality of the dying...they said yes...so Gloria and I had planned a feast for either the past or the future...perhaps for both. Time seems very elastic for the dying. It is hard to say goodbye. Even though I only knew Gloria for a brief while, we took comfort in each other's presence. She tolerated my singing (for the most part), and I held her hand while she dropped off to sleep. As a Hospice volunteer, I know this pattern will repeat itself over and over again. I only hope that I can be fully present, be engaged, and then be able to step away as each person makes their final journey. Good bye, Gloria. May your Thanksgiving feast be a beautiful one.