Is
On her podcast, Sugar Calling, Cheryl Strayed interviewed Pico Iyer from his home in Japan. Part of their conversation was about impermanence and lessons from the cherry blossom trees. As Pico says, “Every life ends in death. Every meeting ends in a separation. But that’s not a reason to grieve, it’s actually a reason to find our beauty and joy right now.”
Unlike Pico Iyer, I believe that grieving is necessary. Like Pico, I believe in seeking beauty and joy. I think of this as a braided cord - joy and sorrow. Though I, like you, deal with it every day on some level, impermanence is still something I fight. Only a month ago, I anticipated buds to bloom on a star magnolia that I see from my dining bench. Today, white petals lie on dark dirt. Part of me wants the beauty of full bloom to stand still. Forever.
In this daily-changing world, the question most on my mind is,
will I see my loved ones again on planet earth? What I most want right now is
to be with my people. Since I live on an Island, I’m not able to walk down the
street or drive a few blocks and have a social-distancing check in. I know I’m
not alone in this life experience of distance and yearning.
One of my favourite children’s books is called, Lifetimes by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen. There is an underlying simplicity. Just the
facts. We each have a lifetime. Leaves. Bugs. Fish. People. Beginnings and endings with living in between. This speaks quietly to my
soul.
Now add feelings. Shattered hearts. Despair. Add anticipation. Add questions. Why’s. Add the wondering about the order of
things. Expectations. Add mystery. This life-death thing is complicated for the
human body, mind, and spirit.
Prior to Mark’s death, the death that made life feel
uncertain, unsafe in the world, was when our 3-year-old neighbour drowned. Our
son was about 2 ½. One day they were
toddlers peering through the gaps between the fence boards. Then, in the blink
of an eye she was no longer there.
This death led me to Hospice training, volunteering with
children who had experienced the death of a loved one, and eventually to working
as coordinator of the children’s program at our local hospice. My soul felt at home while sitting on the
floor or around a table and listening to children share feelings and stories and
wonder. About life. About death.
Now back to this virus thing.
What if I die from a virus? Or one of my family? Shouldn’t having a background in nursing
with extra training in critical care, having been immersed in death-life thinking through
hospice work, and learning about building my immune system through naturopathic medicine
keep me safe? Shouldn't I be able to keep my family from death? Shouldn't these life experiences guarantee me a lifetime of
at least 85 years? Get me at least to 60? Life has taught me that the answer is,
‘no’. Knowledge can be helpful in navigating, but it's no guarantee of life.
As I write, part of me wants to fight for control. I want to stop death from happening. Just for today. To one more family. One more person. Me.
Because even though I believe I’ll be reunited with my beloveds who’ve
gone before me, I’m not ready to say goodbye to those who are living. And even though I’m tentative to dream, I want
more time for dreams to come true. At least one more trip to Hawaii with my son.
Or a coffee together. Time. I want time and togetherness with my people.
So how do I come back to focusing on life? Through
my eyes, this requires that I surrender my fear and what I perceive as an untimely death. I hold on to my faith.
My belief in life after life. Next,
I look to the garden and the Creator behind all things. Preparing to bloom is a Japanese Snowbell
tree whose buds are profuse. I can
hardly wait until they come into full blossom.
I will still want to control how long they stay in fullness, however, by
the end of May, once again, I will learn about impermanence. And life.
