Come on along…

reflections on dying and living

It’s not as though I’m unaware the world is burning, that madmen are attempting to ruin what is precious; all that has true value in this brief, sweet life. But the only place I can be at any given time is right here, right now. My travelling companion, Esana, reminded me often of this truth.

~ Joshua and Jolene Wadds

My nephew, whom I only met once when he was an adorable baby in a double stroller with his twin sister, has died. After a valiant decades-long struggle to be healthy; to stay alive, he slipped away and out of his body just a few days ago. He wasn’t yet forty years old. My cousin, Widge, whom I knew only briefly in childhood and at our grandmother’s funeral in 1977, also left his body recently. My dear friend’s auntie, who has raised a fist at death for many years now, has her fingers twisted around the final hours of life.

Life is precious, brief, unpredictable - full of possibility and the certainty that it will end. Believe it or not, folks, no one gets out alive.

When my mother was dying, I brought my face close to hers, told her once again that I loved her – her last whispered words to me were, “I love you.” (What more does one truly need in this life than to love and be loved?) In that intimate moment with her, it was clear to me and absolutely fine that I would soon follow her out of my skin and bones. I miss her still, but do not feel sorrow.

Perhaps I’d tapped into what Heidegger meant when he wrote that people we know become part of our very being—our Dasein—and how even after they are gone, they somehow remain part of us. But more than that, as Joseph Campbell maintains, they are still present within us. Ram Dass also spoke of this. Others have seen all life/death as a hologram in which we move and shift through various dimensions. I don’t know about any of that with any sort of authority, but in that encounter with my mother as she prepared to leave, I knew something important about my role, if you will, in the long line of births and deaths. We’re still here. Stardust and all that.

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Because they were wondrous and I’m bursting with gratitude, I would like to share some recent living experiences. Maybe it’s not appropriate in some eyes, to be joyous in the midst of destruction, loss, and suffering. Still, I want to savour what is.

Our train from Rome to Rimini was a cool, uneventful four hours, a welcome pause after the heat and mayhem of Jubilee, celebration of the Italian Republic, transit strikes, anti-government protests, and blazing heat. We were met by my dear friend, Sulochani, with whom I took my 1988/89 Rebalancing training in India, took several subsequent trainings, and with whom I’ve maintained a deep heart connection ever since.

~ Antonio, Sulochani, Susi, Andreas, moi

Because I’d been considering hosting a retreat near Rimini, Sulo and Antonio drove us to a mountain-top refuge in Modigliani where their friends, Susi and Andreas, have a gorgeous self-sustaining refuge. Although their grounds and facilities were truly lovely, the views breathtaking, and their intentions aligned, the location was a bit too remote and challenging to reach for anything but an introspective, full-immersive experience. They joined us for a wonderful hilltop (a different one – there are so many) restaurant owned by Sulo’s aunt, Osteria Malardot.

Initially, we were to travel together with Sulo to Puglia for a holiday, but life and an impending death had wrapped itself around her life. So many in need of her care and attention made it impossible for her to get away, so after three days, Esana and I boarded a train to Molfetta, a small city in Puglia.

We stayed in the Centro Historic, a walled maze of narrow streets quiet during the day, teeming with people after nine in the evening.

We stumbled on a marine museum that seemed closed, but a woman came out, asked if we wanted in, and opened the doors for us. Later, we discovered this was a cellar where food was kept cool. The variety of knots was mesmerizing, and the display fascinating – from ship building to fishing techniques – and it was a sweet refuge from the heat.

Architecture is Esana’s jam, and churches especially intrigue her. Neither of us is religious, but sitting in pews in magnificent ancient buildings listening to women reciting the rosary or to choir practice created a kind of stillness and reverence. The highlight of Molfetta was a two-man concert in the English church.

There is an ancient “pulo,” 1.5 kilometres from Molfetta. It’s a sinkhole, ovoid in shape and 30 meters deep, formed by the collapse of numerous underground cavities. Geologists date this formation between 250 and 60 million years ago. There are many small cavities in the walls which were used since prehistoric times. It was almost continually inhabited since Neolithic times.

Just as we finally arrived, hot and sweaty, at the top of the hill to meet the guide, I tripped and fell. People were kind and helped this old lady to her feet but I was so shaky that after the first stop at a grotto where skeletal remains were evidently still under the stones, I decided to sit out the tour of this crumbly and steep site. I wrote the following as I waited:

I sit with the dead. I am in grotto number one. There is a woman buried here. She died over 700 years ago. They don’t know who she was. Maybe a nun, maybe a commoner, maybe the wife of the shepherd.

From down below voices drift up – a mix of Italian and broken English. Thousands of years ago, people lived here. Now I am surrounded by the life of flowers, jasmine, Bay laurel, olive trees, pomegranates, figs, and many flowering trees I cannot name. This in a sea of limestone where the glacier waters once receded, layer upon layer. Submerged and emerged, drowned and risen. A tiny white butterfly flutters by.

I have fallen and ripped some skin on the palm of my hand, only scraped the other palm and the knees. An elbow. I am whole and I have chosen to rest in the shade. here, I am calm and content.

Life is so interesting, isn’t it? How we live and die, live and die again.

We write, we paint, we make sculptures… Why? To attempt preserve the brief life that we have? Or simply because we must?

Here in this ancient archeological site I wax existential. wondering about life itself; its purpose, how one small gesture can change the trajectory of a life, and as the understanding goes, how a butterfly’s wings can change everything. There is no stillness. There is no finality to anything. It just changes into something else.

But I have a pretty outfit that wasn’t torn in the fall. How important a thing is in one moment and how absolutely trivial and ridiculous it seems when taking one step away.

Other than that mishap, what struck me about being in this town for five days, was how without any demand on my time, I was able to slow down, to “saunter.” I mean, when was the last time you sauntered? Strolling became the activity of the day, stopping to duck into the coolness of a church or a museum, pausing to survey a menu, or watch a fishing boat slide into port. Breathing. And something I rarely, if ever do, taking a midday nap! Heaven.

Despite the whirl of catastrophic events in every direction, I am so grateful to be able to have had this time to stop and reset in beautiful surroundings, eat divine food, and share precious moments with dear friends.

Margaret Atwood once said or wrote something along the lines of heaven being personal and intimate, while hell is human-made and social. So I invite you to create your own personal heaven amidst the chaos of these times. It’s okay, it doesn’t mean you don’t care. In fact, I’m beginning to believe it means the opposite.

With love,

Susan