Aged Perfectly

Recently, a friend of mine, was telling me about a recent trip he took. He went back to where he had lived as a child. Deep in the Vermont countryside he visited his old home, and some of the little towns he knew when he was younger. As part of visiting the past, he ended up visiting the gravesite of his parents. He rediscovered that he also had plot there, and it already had an engraved headstone.  His grave stone read “aged to perfection.” This story set in motion the thought process that has resulted in this set of ruminations.

This revelation, the epitath already in place, was a source of great mirth and delight. It seemed such a good way to summarize a life. Everyone present, including him, laughed and smiled. A wondrous sense of justice and existential balance filled the air. The thought that Universe made his life just right, in the end, was just so soul-satisfying.

Later, I found myself thinking about it, and realized that I sensed that there was even more to it. In my mind, perfection didn’t wait until the end. I thought that he could die at any time, and at that moment he would be perfect. My thought kept going. It extended to — he was always perfect, even if he didn’t realize it, in any given moment. I found myself thinking that at same moment — he and all of us, are perfect. What if we lived in a state of constant perfection?

That thought ruptured some belief I had carried around for a long time. All the years of striving, the doubts about myself, the certainties about not belonging, began to melt away. I didn’t have to try to be better, I had already been perfected. All of my questionable attributes were part and parcel to what made me perfect. In fact, perfection wasn’t my doing, it was just part of Universal reality, part of the isness that prevails. I liked that mind-blowing thought, and I had a sense that there was something real about it.

After that, all I could do was just quiver. Currently, I am trying to integrate this perception. All of these years I have been playing out a rather macabre version of reality and my part in it.  I’ve been slinking through it, trying not to screw it up too much. I’ve had my false moments, when I thought I figured it all out. I’ve been up and down, always believing I should be something else, perhaps more holy, only to discover that where I am, just now, is another form of perfection. I am that I am. How could that be? Isn’t it reserved for subtler beings? Oh…..I’m getting the quivers again.

I don’t really know what I feel about all of this. I think I may be a mess of sorts. I don’t quite believe myself, yet on the other hand, I have this experience of perfection floating around in me. I am, and I am not, what I used to be. For sure, I’m more confused than I already was, but this time, I’m more confused in a positive way than I usually am.

In the back of my mind, there now lingers, a feeling of joy, a peace so still and profound, that no matter how rattled I am, I am not rattled at all. So, I write these words, knowing how preposterous they seem, but also knowing they contain some inexplicable perfection.

This moment is what it is, because it’s all here, perfectly mirroring the whole.

 

 

 

  

Selficide

I don’t know why it came to mind. I have been really sick lately. I had Covid, for the first time, last week. I contracted a strain that left me feeling shipwrecked in bed on a remote island. Being old, disabled and alone is not something I would recommend. Even the aftermath has been difficult, with fatigue and a perpetual energylessness. A week later and I’m still complaining that my internal lights haven’t come back on. Then last night I found myself thinking about suicide.

Sometime during the night, the lights came back on. I could feel the oppositional pressures that accompanied my sickness depression subsiding, and some kind of body/psychic energy returning. It happened in the middle of a depressed thought about the desirability of oblivion.  First, I pictured all of the people who have taken their own lives. In that moment, I related with them. Then, I thought about the greater subset of people who had forsaken their own lives, but had not as yet, faced death. I could feel the zombification of life. I could feel the creepy call of spiritual lifelessness, like gravity pulling me down into a mechanical routine.

Happily, I awoke into something resembling consciousness, and discovered myself thinking about selficide. I’ve used that term for a long time, to describe the move many people make (myself included) to get away from the choice that life frequently presents us with. Become yourself — at the risk of somebody not liking you ­— or dodge the moment, try to pass, and die a little bit. Commit selficide, rather than show up. It is the easiest way out of the difficulty of really being human, short of actual suicide. I was chagrined to realize I was still in the world where selficide was more prevalent, and preferred, than suicide.

I didn’t know I’d be writing about selficide today, but I awakened last night to the internal suck of depressions pull, combined with the overwhelming difficulty of rising to the demand of being alive. Sometimes I wish I could punt. It was enough to remind me of all the times where I shrank myself, in hopes of avoiding the rigor of real being — of having to be someone. I can’t tell you about how many times I walked away from myself, where I chose selficide over becoming more fully human. Being sick and dead, while alive, is probably more painful, than being sick and dead is. Still, it is preferable, it seems, to the burn of truth. Dying to avoid death, committing selficide, avoiding the certainty of uncertainty — its all part of the human playbook, and I have worn it thin.

So, I think about the rising tide of suicides amongst children, teenagers, older adults, and especially amongst us older folks, and I’m super-chagrined, but then that thought is followed up with the prevalence of selficide, and I feel a sickness more virulent than Covid. Having the lights go back on — after days of sickness and oblivion — to a world full of avoidance, is a mixed blessing.

I’m glad I’m largely past all of these dynamics. Aging has its gifts. Still, I find myself wondering how much selficide resides in the self-satisfaction of the older folks I’m mostly around.  How real is the gratitude, unknowing, and humility?I guess it makes sense — wondering about the veracity of myself, leads to wondering about the veracity of others.

It is amazing what a fever can generate.

 

 

 

  

Reverence

I had spent 2 and 1/2 years writing (my 1^st book) thinking I might die somewhere along the way. I ended up disabled, with a book-length manuscript, and wondering why I was still alive. The stroke, its brain-damaged aftermath, and its loneliness, didn’t kill me, so I had to find something else to do. Without realizing it, the writing had sent me along a trajectory I didn’t fully notice, or take seriously. I had written in the appendix of the book that I wanted to work with old people, speculating that perhaps they had developed into the farthest realms of consciousness, because they had lived longer, harder, and with more uncertainty. Little did I know, that years later (about 4) I would be immersed in elderdom, and would be discovering that old age brought with it the possibility of ripening.

The lifetime I traversed was arduous, but sugared with traces of transcendence. I joined the company of those who weren’t what they used to be, who knew enough, to know, they didn’t know much, and who found themselves way more open than they ever expected to be. Adult maturity turned into the introduction to a ‘looking-glass’ world.

Nothing was what it seemed. Vulnerability was the coin of the realm. All of this disruption led to a lot of growth. Some of it was forced, as Life had its way. People, including me, moved from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s seat. It is humbling, and strangely enlivening. A new semi-desirable era began.

All of this has been the way the world has changed. As I mentioned earlier, these changes knocked most of the hubris out of me. Life stripped me of some of my superfluities, leaving me more able to relish the miracle of what’s left. So much is contained in so little. Its more than a miracle! Anyway, these pesky losses prepared me for the unknown gains that are now altering my life. This passenger never knows where he is going.

This is a long way of saying that being dragged around the block a few times is a good way to learn what is essential. There are many types of drag, and many breath-taking times — they are all great teachers. And, they each teach the same essential message. With a creative fervor that goes way beyond expectation, Life teaches reverence. It not only happens when you are making other plans, but it surprises you, with the accuracy of what it does send your way. All to help you know your place.

After many years of being old, I came to see that these extra years, are a bonus that Life offers some of us. Out beyond the mere biological gift of reproduction, with time, another kind of reproduction takes place. Wrinkled and grey, this relatively new form of reproduction is an experience of becoming. A graduation of sorts. A human being becomes a little Universe attached to the bigger one, through bonds of love. In a protracted spasm of affection, reverence arises, and one experiences kinship with the Great Mystery. Not in any abstract, or imagined way, but as a palpable reality.

In my forties and early fifties, I could imagine this is true, in my sixties and early seventies, I had a more vivid sense of ripening, but now, I have become more of who I am, a small part of the whole.

The Universe is my truest parent. You too!

This is, the latest news from the senile sector. Academia, thanks to the power and sensitivity of Eric Erickson and his wife, has long-thought that becoming primarily integrous was the final stage of human development. But these last years have shown, that out beyond ideas of integrity, ego-transcendence, and aged lucidity, lies reverence — the experience of being part of a beloved Larger Being. Wholeness includes us!

This, of course, is unprovable. It lies where it belongs, in the subjective realm. I am thriving here, and reverence seems like the term that best describes what I am experiencing.  So, I’ll keep it. I am nobody, so I won’t have to defend it. But, I did want you to know. It just might be, that you are headed in the same direction.

 

 

 

  

Metamorphosis

As every flower fades and as all youth

Departs, so life at every stage,

So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,

Blooms in its day and may not last forever.

Since life may summon us at every age

Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,

Be ready bravely and without remorse

To find new light that old ties cannot give.

In all beginnings dwells a magic force

For guarding us and helping us to live.

 

Serenely let us move to distant places

And let no sentiments of home detain us.

The Cosmic Spirit seeks not to restrain us

But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.

If we accept a home of our own making,

Familiar habit makes for indolence.

We must prepare for parting and leave-taking

Or else remain the slaves to permanence.

 

Even the hour of our death may send

Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,

And life may summon us to newer races.

So be it, heart: bid farewell without end. — Herman Hess

 

Metamorphosis. That is the term used to describe the shift from one form to another. It is the way Life changes and evolves. Through some alchemical magic that no one, scientist or philosopher, really understands, Life transforms the old into the new. The journey from one being into another also follows this pattern. Does it make sense to think any other possibility is in store for us?

 

In a stage by stage progression, life on earth has evolved, consciousness has complexified, and little mammals have become larger miracles. The way is already laid out. It occurs as each stage brings new awareness and capabilities, and then gives way to an utterly new and strange world, that offers new lessons, new functionality, wider spaces, broader laws, and new endeavors. 

 

Take the dragonfly as an example. It is first an egg laid near, or just beneath the surface. It hatches into a larvae, sometimes called a nymph, and lives underwater. It is fierce predator, which over-time, goes through several molts where it sheds its exoskeleton. Each stage of its growth means that it grows larger than its previous one. During its final stage, the nymph goes through significant changes, its body becomes more robust, and wing pads develop. It enters a pupal stage, where the nymph climbs out of the water, undergoes a final molt, and waits for its wings to expand and harden, and then flies into its colorful adulthood.

 

A dragonfly goes through much of its early life in water, then through the wonders of biology, changes media to air, and becomes a flying creature. We may be similar, except we go through several stages in air, before we change media, and through wonders we don’t yet grasp, enter a more subtle existence. The dragonfly demonstrates the pattern that Life uses to grow what is. Fearing death, we fear Life. Fearing the transitional moments, when something else (Nature) is in control, we are moved on.

 

Metamorphosis. Leaving the form of Life we know, doesn’t necessarily mean leaving Life. The afterlife may not be what’s next. Instead, it just might be a form of Life unknown to us yet, a form that might introduce new awareness and “new endeavors.” 

 

Metamorphosis is the scientific way of referring to the magic that dwells in each beginning.

 

l/d

At first I was mineral

Then I was a plant

Now I am human.

 

When, by dying, have I ever been made smaller?

                                                                               Rumi

 

 

 

The Living-est Moment

Somewhere along the way, I heard a poem that contained the words “living-est moment,” and it was like a bell rang inside me. What I experienced was a bomb going off. In a familiar way, I knew I had been captured by a metaphor, which I would have to write about. In my usual way, as a writer, I was excited. But, as time passed, and the time for writing neared, I began to feel dread. I have nothing to say, no eloquent ideas, no sense of how to proceed. The “living-est moment” evades me, leaving me baffled, and wondering what is going to come out.

I’ve identified some fear. Maybe, it occurred to me, the moment has already come and gone, and I simply didn’t notice it. My life might already be on the downhill side of such a moment. Being older is such an uncertain experience. It leaves me shaken and often dubious. I may no longer be capable of my “living-est moment.” Oh, that is a grievous thought.

I have to admit that such thinking sometimes causes me to tremble. That trembling is bad enough, but then I think my “living-est moment” is still ahead of me, and then I tremble even harder. You see, I have this inkling, that my “living-est moment” is going to come when I am confronted with my own death. Just as I get that I am on the threshold, I am likely to experience a burst, adrenaline will mix with fear, desire, relief, grief, and a deep unusual nostalgia — a good-bye filled with longing, love, and a sweet fulfillment. I expect it to be an intense multi-dimensional moment. Energy, of a sort, will flow in all directions.

I had the fantasy, when I first encountered these words, that I might write about the inner circumstances that might promote such a lucid vitality, but as time has gone along, and I had to admit to myself, that I just couldn’t imagine such a thing. What a disappointment! I couldn’t fool myself into believing I could produce such a moment. Somehow, this notion just didn’t fit into my pantheon of human potential. I couldn’t actually assume that my “living-est moment” was really mine.

That absence of belief disturbs me. It leaves me on a dependent edge, I have ambivalent feelings about. I love paradox. I consider it one of the gifts of old age. My understanding of paradox is that when I’m present enough to experience it, that the transcendent becomes evident. Those are times when I feel deeply reassured. But, my intuition that my “living-est moment” might be my last, and that it isn’t even mine, gives me the heeby-jeebies.

Maybe, I could take solace, in the experience that isn’t mine. I am growing ready to give up taking so much responsibility. I have labored too long, and hard, around the notion that it is all my doing.  This disturbing notion seems to indicate that something else is going on. Life itself, might very well be, responsible for what I cannot create, my “living-est moment.” Isn’t that a more pleasant thought. The Cosmos seems to have some kind of stake in a dust particle like me.

Now, I don’t know what else to write. I’ve revealed something of my state of unknowing. Even so, I still find myself wishing I could leave you with some kind of glib well wishing, a good-bye that expresses my gratitude, in case you bothered to read this entire foray into my gibbering.

All I can say, I guess, is that may you experience your ‘living-est moment” somewhere beyond the shape of my daydreams.

 

 

 

  

Mother’s Day

Today is the one day we assign to recognize some women. Women have a special role in the miracle of reproduction. To carry, labor, and then deliver. Women bear the child, and often, much of the selflessness that goes into raising a new being. It is a breathtaking process; one it seems appropriate that we have a holiday to remember and celebrate. Thank the Infinite that there is a female take on reality.

And of course, there is now a whole set of women, who have found there are other good reasons to be female. Life is so big and prolific. These women give birth to another fresh set of possibilities. They deserve recognition too! Mother’s Day is also Women’s Day in my mind. It is a time for recognizing the myriads of ways that women have extended themselves on behalf of Life. All of it has been a blessing.

It is a source of painful wonderment to see religion and traditional cultures, who do not value the feminine as thoroughly as they could. This is an aspect of mystery that we, as a species, are still learning to embrace. A part of the thankfulness of Mother’s Day is for all of the women who have found the courage, even today, to speak out, and draw attention to the way the feminine is still mistreated. The Goddess is afoot! And, we are so much better off for it.

A single day really isn’t enough to capture the day-to-day boon that we are   embraced by. Women bring a fresh perspective that commonly hugs and integrates more of our wholeness; they remind us of who we are, and in that way, they go further, reminding us of our place in the larger drama.  There’s little dancing without them.

Yes, there is a feminine darkness, a fertile abyss. Life would not be Life without it. The feminine can throw one down, turning one into the bird that flies only into the darkening deep. Life gets stirred by mysterious forces, some of them go beyond gender, but are informed by female sensibilities. The womb is Nature’s way of paying homage to this fact.

As a man, I am constantly surprised, and sometimes delighted, by what my women friends perceive. They seem to be privy to a caring intimacy I am constantly having to learn. I relish the awakening they sometimes bring. It is heartening, sometimes embarrassing, but usually very connective. I get to feel the rain of love and sunshine in those moments.

Men are as deserving of this kind of recognition. Too often though, it comes in the form of privilege. Ironically, it often takes a truly disabled person, such as I, to point out how much privilege disables, and hobbles men too. Women only have what Nature has privileged them with. Culture belittles us all. It is strangely equal opportunity in that way.

The doctor who saved my life, through performing brain surgery on me, was a man, but since then, I’ve been cared for by women. I have first-hand experience with the caring nature of women. I know the quality of my life is dependent on their caring. The words that appear here are totally dependent, and owed to the caring ministrations of women. The blessing came around to me.

Finally, mystery has its way with us. Somehow, it makes us who we are. For some reason it deemed at least two genders. There appear to be more. Each one is a blessing. Each embodies part of our good fortune. All together, the whole manifests —The real Mother — the progenitor of the Great Mystery, shows up!

 

 

 

  

Grief and Praise

“Grief is gratitude for Life.”

                                                           Martine Prechtel  

I first learned about the single Mayan word that meant grief and/or praise several years ago. I was smitten. It seemed to bring together two experiences of human expression that were both precious. They meant more to me when merged. I extoled this form of expression with the Elder Salon. I even wrote a Slow Lane about it. Now, because I have been grieving a lot lately, grief and praise have come back into my mind. It is deeply reassuring to me, and so inspiring, to recall that love’s intensity comes pouring out with my tears.

I need to remember, as the world careens so wildly, that my fear and anxiety, which feed my uncertainty, which finds expression through my heartache and sadness, have love at their core. I don’t like the inhumane violence I have been witnessing lately. It buffets my heart, and causes dark dreams. But it also reminds me of what is important. Life is precious, and I know it is coursing through everything. Even the impact of the gore, whether deadening, or heaven forbid freeing, raises life’s signature. I can feel evolution beating my heart, and directing my attention. I know, because I have experienced the oneness of grief and praise, that love, mine or otherwise, is directing the moment.

The experience of the oneness of grief and praise resides in the dark waves of seeming loss. One is carried away when the loss is great enough. Everything loses its meaning. Wailing, silent or loud, is all that can give the tragic its due. These moments, laden with hopelessness, are like storm clouds breaking into rain. They paint the world with the grim determination of ruthless nature. They also water the land, sow life, and break the heavy pattern that has prevailed. Loss breeds gain. Grief simultaneously carries praise. The heart breaks open and is enlarged. The pain that breaks it open is the love that enlarges it.

These seemingly dark moments carry a strange form of gravity. It is as if two worlds are drawn together by the import of what has happened. Each, infused with its own energy, grief (loss) and praise (gain) combine, and form a third world. A place where the Divine works it’s unknown magic — a world, full of a painful awareness and precious understanding.

I chafe at being so grown.

Peace lies at the balance point of grief and praise. It is an uneasy, hard won peace. But, peace never-the-less. There is no substitute for the experience of knowing Life has your back.  It may come in a tangle of broken waves, darkened with uncertainty, but enlivening anyway, infused by a light so bright it cannot be seen.

Tragedy is just another way of getting at us. It takes us beyond ourselves in unexpected ways.  And we only have a few poor means of expressing this miraculous feature of Life. Happily, the Mayans have come up with one, and our lives reinforce it from time to time. Grief and praise are related — they both are expressions of love ­—and of how deeply we are connected.

May you have enough!