Let the Light Fall

In my prayer this morning St. Benedict's words from the rule kept moving through my mind:

Keep death daily before your eyes.

I have lost a number of friends to cancer recently and so my meditation turned into a question, "How do I feel about the impermanence of life?" In a world that makes such a god of time, how do I feel about this fleeting god? As I continued to meditate on the reality of death I knew immediately that I would like for death to be as much of a friend as possible. And so I turned to thoughts on "daily dying." Every little death brings life. The image that came to me in my prayer is that of little bits of light falling on me at every moment, at every death. All death, even the daily dyings, involve some kind of surrender. If I live with my eyes wide open that surrender can be life giving.

Use the picture above for your own reflection. It was taken on the beautiful grounds of Mt St. Francis Spiritual Center in Ringwood, New Jersey where I just led a 5-day silent retreat. It is a sunset picture and notice how the light is falling so gently on the dying day. As I prayed in joyful and painful remembrance about the friends I have lost through death, especially death to cancer, a poem by Mary Bradish O'Connor came to my mind. I found it in my poetry archives marked, "favorites" and decided to share it here in my post on thoughts about dying.

Get over it. there's a tear in the fabric

of forever and it's just the way

it is. God didn't tap you on the back

because you were a bad girl and today

you pay for it. You did nothing wrong.

It wasn't all the walks you didn't take

or Irish luck that tossed you headlong

into cancer. Consider this a wake-up

call and live your gift of days with joy.

Walk the edge where air is thin and clear,

where fear can take you further.

It's just another country.

Chin up. Step through the door.

Each breath in, a miracle.

Each breath out, a letting go.

--Taken from "Say Yes Quickly"

by Mary Bradish

-Pot Shard Press 1997

When I first read this poem it was an ouch-poem. I didn't quite know what to do with it. I wasn't sure I could ever read it to a friend who had cancer; but then I thought that I would very much like for someone to read it to me if I had cancer. Knowing that the author wrote it after her diagnoses of ovarian cancer moves me deeply. The words, "It's just another country," have remained with me as have the words: "Each breath in, a miracle and each breath out, a letting go." That is something I can begin to practice right now. I, who, try daily to keep death before my eyes choose impermanence as my daily companion. The comforting part of my meditation today is a vision of the light falling around me at every moment. There is always something/someone dying. Let the light fall on all our daily dyings.

Oh! Let the Light fall!

Sister Death

This is my address book and the quote from Rumi [on the left-hand side] reads as follows: “Worldly power means nothing. Only the unsayable, jeweled inner life matters.” Although I couldn’t agree more I am wondering why, if my jeweled inner life is what really matters, it is so difficult for me to erase from my address book and e-mail account those who have died. Every time I sit down to update my addresses, insert new folks, delete those who have disappeared from my life or moved to unknown lands, my hand freezes when I try to erase those who have died. I can’t do it. They remain.

A few years ago when one of my dear ones died, a friend sent me a card utterly filled with stars on a deep blue and purple background. The quote on the card was ascribed to an Eskimo legend.

Perhaps they are not the stars
but rather openings in the heavens
where the love of our lost ones
shine to let us know they are with us
and are happy.

These beautiful words convince me that I do not need to leave those names in my address book. The ones I have loved are part of the mosaic of my life. I want to be aware of their shining. A sweet grief has made a nest in my jeweled inner life. I am learning to welcome it. I want it to feel at home. It has a right to live in me; it doesn't have to go away. Sometimes when I dialogue with my grief I explain to it that joy lives in me also. I want them to be friends. In prayerful moments, I sometimes close my eyes and in my mind's eye I see them walking hand in hand in the twilight: my sweet grief and my joy. They both know that it is the unsayable, jeweled inner life that truly matters. And that is what I am thinking about on this snowy evening in Arkansas.

Save Us From Congealing

"Death is not the enemy. Age is not the enemy. These things are inevitable, they happen to everybody. But what we ought to fear is the kind of death that happens in life. It can happen at any time you're going along, and then, at some point, you congeal. You know like jelly. You're not fluid any more. You solidify at a certain point and from then on your life is doomed to be a repetition of what you have done before. That's the enemy. There are two kind of people walking around on this earth. One kind you can tell just by looking at them at what point they congeal into their final selves. It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving, changing. With these people, you can never say X stops here, or now I know all there is to know about Y."

--Gail Godwin from The Finishing School.

O Ever Changing God

Protect us from congealing.

Plant deep in our hearts an intense desire

to be flexible, bendable

always open to your transforming breath,

ever flowing, flowing, flowing.

Until we flow into the sacred stream

of that Eternal Drink which is You.

Then pour us back into the world

and let the flowing begin

again and again and again.