Alive and Dying

Imagining my death last week I felt a little thrill, which interested me very much. It wasn't just the possibility of relief, it was a curve of curiosity. Dying might be super cool, alive as I am, dissolving into the One. 

Curious about the thrill, I pursued it, gently lest I scare it away. I let it ring a little as I investigated hospice care and funeral homes, then heard it ringing as I felt the breeze, finally a little cooler in NYC, and as I relaxed in my abode, eyes dancing with the flow of forms I've created or, rather, felt into being. Language has always seemed treacherous to me

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Grace

You can't see what I'm doing but I'm lifting my pelvic floor. You can't hear me but I'm humming. The hum sounds like a growl then graduates to a stutter as the vocal cords begin to get the message. I practice the vowels in my throat. I read a sentence without the consonants, then I practice the consonants in a whisper, then I add a bit of voice. When I get to conversation I am still stymied because there isn't enough air to get through more than a few words. I stop to breathe but my thoughts keep going, so I have to deal with the collision and make a choice, and then attend to the pelvic floor and make a note to remember to practice breathing, easy to avoid because it is so hard. 

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The Real Me?

"Oh, you're young!" 

She said when I revealed my age, only 61. Because when you see a bent-over spine and you hear a croaky voice, you think Old. 

Walking in the park now I know I'm in a category. My sexuality is disappeared, vigor shoved into memory, and what remains is, well, remains. 

On the other hand, my feet!

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Slow Down

I whisper to myself as I watch the leaves overtake the buds, who, having done their job, having flourished and amazed their audience, simply fall away, no big deal. But it always breaks my heart a little, the brutality of spring. Slow down, I protest, I don't want to miss a thing. It reminds me of when my daughter was very young and very adorable her father and I would joke about an age freezing shot. For sure she has grown more beautiful and more complex, and I am entirely for it, no way would I prefer a toddler. I just want to savor it again, more slowly. 

Time has always seemed to move too fast for me. Trains arrived at my station a minute earlier than I did.

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What have I done?

Did I promise to die?

Last week not only did I write to you about the great benefit of dying to goals and drive but I also shared the blog with my friends on Facebook. A moment of popularity followed, most notably with my high school boyfriend posting several pictures of me with long hair, seemingly innocent, dreams not yet shattered. I was called an inspiration and a few other laudables, and people seemed to be saying goodbye. My life felt over, and I was suddenly awake to how future had changed into history, how many possibilities had vanished. 

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A Place to Turn Around

Last week I told a handful of people that I'm dying. I let go, stopped trying to conquer what can't be conquered, stopped trying to make progress, decided to respect the disease and my limits. And I wanted to talk about it. I described it to some friends as a kind of Tourettes, spitting death into the patter of polite conversation that irks me. 

Death. I'm dying. No, I'm not getting better but I'm alive and will try to keep it that way for as long as I can. Enjoy your day and I'll do the same. I feel a bit guilty when I rebuff the well-wishing but, hey, this is my protest and my medicine. 

In many of the Zen koans, a teacher is praised with the phrase: He had a place to turn around.

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Alive and Growing

This morning I tried and failed over and over again to lift branches in a stone vase onto a shelf. I cursed that I couldn't do it alone, and I couldn't bear to wait and ask someone for help. Finally I discovered that if I stand on a yoga block I can raise myself up just enough.

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death poetry

A beloved teacher at the Village Zendo has died. Robert Kaku Gunn. Kaku means Song of Emptiness. I can hear his voice now, a beautiful tenor, always on pitch, leading our chants, shepherding us toward the sweet emptiness that is ever so much closer than we think. 

Looking at his picture here I smile with him. This morning hearing the news I cried. I hadn't seen him in a while so really nothing will change for me, except that I know his journey is over. All of us will eventually accomplish death. 

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Death Porn

Yes, I'll be pole dancing with the pillar of death, stripping down to my soul, dangling my scraps of life as they fall away. And you can watch.

So I looked up Pillar of Death, because, what the f*ck am I talking about? and before long I stumbled on a video of a twin meeting his twin for the first time. I cried. yes indeed. I will never have that experience and yet I felt it as if it were mine. It has nothing to do with pillars (even though there is some kind of game that features pillars of death), but emo is emo. 

Recently I saw a wonderful flick called The Forty Year Old Version, about a brilliant and under-appreciated Black playwright.

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Who Was We?

This 2-minute video is another expression of the complex and loving relationship between mother and daughter. My mother's death in February set in motion a process of opening to who we were together, of letting go, and of appreciating life as it is. 

I've included a passage from Jonathan Safran Foer's "Here I am." My mother and I turned out to be reading it at the same time, and when Sal Randolph asked for contributions to a collection of performances of reading, I asked my Mum to film herself. Then I read the passage she chose while filming myself. You'll also hear me reading bits from her poem, "Blue Butterfly," which I wrote about here. 

Sometimes people who see this work pity me. Please try not to. Sadness is a part of life and love. I'll take it. 

July 2020