Last week was my 66th birthday. I do NOT believe that sixty-something or even seventy- something is old. There isn't a fixed number in my mind that flashes like a neon sign, saying "Old Fart." Indeed, there are eighty year olds, my mother being one, who can still run circles around me, and do so everyday. But admittedly, there is more to being an oldster than just a certain level of physical endurance.
When I think of oldsters, the image that comes to mind is that of a raisin. What was formerly a plump, soft fruit has lost much of it's juice, becoming shrivelled and set. Oldsterhood begins to dawn as the zest for life sets. The mind becomes rigid, replaying the same thought patterns like a stuck recording. Negativity and fear gradually cause the comfort zone to contract and set up. But none of that is number dependant. It's all an inside job.
The weeks preceding my birthday this year were unusually funky. I was unmotivated, sad, withdrawn, bitchy, agitated, and clueless as to why. I kept questioning the funk... what are you about? There was no clarity. Yet, I also continued to acknowledge the obvious... I had no conscious reason to be in the funk. In fact, my summer has been near idyllic. Despite that, everyday I was like the character in that story... "I walk down the street. There's a hole in the
street. I fall in. "
My birthday was Friday and I went to play Mah Jongg as usual. I lost all my quarters and came home stuck in the funk. [I walk down the street. There is a hole in the street. I fall in.] "Well, Happy Birthday!" I told myself as I plopped into my chair facing the ocean.
Maybe it was the brilliant blue water behind the vibrant green of trees and grass, or maybe the beauty had nothing to do with it. But suddenly there was the answer to the why of the funk: "66 is a BIG deal!"
What? I don't believe that, not even a little bit! That's just not true!
"Think about it," was the inner directive. "65 is like a pinnacle from which you can look behind at your past... goals, successes and failures, accomplishments and disappointments. On the same pinnacle, you look ahead, at the journey before you, a new kind of adventure not fueled by burning desires and challenging ascents, but by peace, love, and trust. 65 is, indeed, an exhilarating vista. And what comes next? Coasting down the other side of the pinnacle into 66 and beyond."
"The joys and beauty of the 65+ side of the pinnacle, however, are generally never tasted by the masses. They never get in step with the rhythm of this side, but long for their entrenched familiarity of the former rhythm. To the masses, 66 is a VERY big deal. And the feelings that you have been experiencing are their disenchantment. "
"But, I don't believe that 65, or 66, or even 76, IS a big deal!" I protested.
"Ahhh, but you see, you share the same unconscious with all the masses who do."
I was stunned into silence as I continued to look out at the blue ocean. The symbolism spread out before me was perfect for the moment. The white caps and the waves were the conscious mind, with its thoughts popping up above the top layer of subconscious mind. But all that depth... all that deep expanse below the surface.... that was all unconscious mind, the unconscious mind of humanity's ENTIRE thought system.
Suddenly this game that we are in, took on a whole new perspective. Who am I to think that of myself I can do anything? The preceding weeks had clearly shown me the capacity of an unconscious belief system to affect me, even though my personal belief system was in direct opposition. Of what importance then, are my own thoughts and beliefs? Certainly not much, in the bigger scheme of things.
So what am I to glean from this revelation?
"This has been given to bless... let there be peace.
Stop worrying about how many times you fall in the hole.
Stop worrying about how to avoid it, how to get out of it, how to seal it up, etc.
Take heart, it is not yours to do.
Take heart, there is a part of You beyond the sea of unconscious that IS in charge, and One.
Take heart, I have transformed the darkness of the unconscious into my Mirror of Holiness.
Take heart, you will see your Reflection on cue.
Take heart, and listen to My voice within your heart.
Take heart, I will shepherd you to speak and to act in ways of love.
Take heart, you have nothing to fear, for you are not a body... you are Love.
Trust me. You are Living Love, and perfect for this moment."
I truly am blessed. The funk is gone. But clearly, this ah-ha is about so much more than aging. It's about getting real, and discovering that the truth is Grace laden.
Peace - aud
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Is It Right or Wrong?
The minister at the funeral today was not afraid to talk about the elephant in the room, and I appreciated that... let's air out the dark chambers of the mind and sweep out the fears. I wonder if there was anyone there who did not know that Frank committed suicide. Of those who did know, many were likely shocked, puzzled, questioning, critical, saddened, judgmental, and possibly even fearful... fearful for Frank upon meeting his Maker. What would be the consequences for Frank... a detour into purgatory or eternity in hell?
The pastor spoke of the adjectives that family and friends used in referring to Frank: caring, loyal, friendly, cheerful, helpful, accomplished, responsible, faithful, precise, hard working, certain, perfect, and the list went on.
As the minister pointed out, "Everything we knew about Frank was inconsistent with suicide."
"But," said the minister, "do we really know what goes on inside another? What we did see in Frank's last months were his increasing difficulty in accomplishing simple and routine tasks."
He concluded his sermon adamantly stating that "God, in His infinite mercy, will still receive Frank unto Himself." Heads before me, nodded in agreement.
Yet the taste in my mouth was still bitter as I left the church, and still is. Why? Because I continue to judge THEM, the preacher and the head nodders, for their judgment of Frank. Judging the judgers, it's an old pass time. I could have followed my impulses, but surely would have been considered a lunatic had I stood up on the pew where I sat and challenged the good pastor:
"How can you infer that there was anything less than PERFECTION in Frank Wurbs! Can you not entertain the possibility that his choice for suicide was not one of fright or frustration, but instead the ultimate gift of love to his adoring wife?
Frank was not a stupid man. He was well aware of the journey and the end result of a deteriorating brain. One by one, his memories would be walled off from consciousness, until everyday would be like a birthday with all things new. Yet THAT was not really Frank's concern. Frank's concern was for his beloved wife and those who love him, who day by day would watch him slip beyond their bonds of familiarity and love, who one day would be clinging to a physical shell and calling it by his name. He knew he was not that.
Frank was a pragmatist... he looked squarely at the facts and made his decisions. AND Frank was and is Love, just as his Creator is Love. From that great Love in a moment of clarity, Frank understood what the choice must be for those he loved... to end their spiral downward into oblivion with him by ending his brain's deterioration.
Frank had no fear for himself, in a body or out of a body. Frank trusted God, trusted God to live through him as Love incarnate. Can you see God in Frank, and in Frank's choice? If you cannot, then I will hold that vision for you until you can, and that day shall surely come. Amen."
Thank you, Frank, for living your Truth as best you knew how. And thank you for reminding me that I am like my brother, judging what I do not understand, until I do. Happy trails!
Ahhh, the bitterness is gone. I am so grateful. aud
The pastor spoke of the adjectives that family and friends used in referring to Frank: caring, loyal, friendly, cheerful, helpful, accomplished, responsible, faithful, precise, hard working, certain, perfect, and the list went on.
As the minister pointed out, "Everything we knew about Frank was inconsistent with suicide."
"But," said the minister, "do we really know what goes on inside another? What we did see in Frank's last months were his increasing difficulty in accomplishing simple and routine tasks."
He concluded his sermon adamantly stating that "God, in His infinite mercy, will still receive Frank unto Himself." Heads before me, nodded in agreement.
Yet the taste in my mouth was still bitter as I left the church, and still is. Why? Because I continue to judge THEM, the preacher and the head nodders, for their judgment of Frank. Judging the judgers, it's an old pass time. I could have followed my impulses, but surely would have been considered a lunatic had I stood up on the pew where I sat and challenged the good pastor:
"How can you infer that there was anything less than PERFECTION in Frank Wurbs! Can you not entertain the possibility that his choice for suicide was not one of fright or frustration, but instead the ultimate gift of love to his adoring wife?
Frank was not a stupid man. He was well aware of the journey and the end result of a deteriorating brain. One by one, his memories would be walled off from consciousness, until everyday would be like a birthday with all things new. Yet THAT was not really Frank's concern. Frank's concern was for his beloved wife and those who love him, who day by day would watch him slip beyond their bonds of familiarity and love, who one day would be clinging to a physical shell and calling it by his name. He knew he was not that.
Frank was a pragmatist... he looked squarely at the facts and made his decisions. AND Frank was and is Love, just as his Creator is Love. From that great Love in a moment of clarity, Frank understood what the choice must be for those he loved... to end their spiral downward into oblivion with him by ending his brain's deterioration.
Frank had no fear for himself, in a body or out of a body. Frank trusted God, trusted God to live through him as Love incarnate. Can you see God in Frank, and in Frank's choice? If you cannot, then I will hold that vision for you until you can, and that day shall surely come. Amen."
Thank you, Frank, for living your Truth as best you knew how. And thank you for reminding me that I am like my brother, judging what I do not understand, until I do. Happy trails!
Ahhh, the bitterness is gone. I am so grateful. aud
Sunday, January 17, 2010
De Ja Vous
"DE JA VOUS!" was my first thought as I held my breath and quickly shucked off my sweatshirt. Tossing the sweatshirt into the hamper, my nose caught waves of the odor still clinging to it, the odor of rotting flesh, the smell of death. "De ja vous! What did I miss the first time, why is it here again?"
Thirty plus years ago when we lived in Oregon, my kitty-loving daughter befriended one of the neighbor's white cats. And soon "Snowball" was hanging out on our covered deck 24/7. I called the neighbors to inform them of the where-abouts of their missing cat, and they were doubly relieved. Their lost cat was now accounted for, and somebody wanted it! They were moving and one cat was enough. Snowball became ours!
A couple of years later, Snowball's white ears got sunburned and one would not heal. The vet said her ear was cancerous, common in white cats, and he suggested removing both ears. A kitty's face without ears looks much like a monkey's face. Visitors often displayed shocked expressions of horror, repulsion, or concern upon seeing her, but Snowball didn't seem to care that she had no ears, and we didn't care either. She was, after all, the same sweet kitty.
A few years later, Snowball became sick. Lab tests revealed she had feline leukemia, despite the fact she'd been vaccinated for it. "The vaccine is not 100%," the vet said, and "she'll likely die within a few weeks." I took Snowball home, did some energy work on her, and teased her appetite with canned tuna. She recovered.
A year later growths appeared on top of Snowball's head. They didn't seem to bother her. The vet said they were cancerous growths... she is white after all. My decision was to do nothing. Now she looked like an alien monkey with black antennae. Time passed and Snowball's antennae grew bigger, but never seemed to cause her any distress.
Then one day I noticed the growths were oozy, and when I picked her up, the smell of rotten flesh wafted from her head. "Oh, Snowball," I said, "this is not good. The smell is so bad, it's going to make it difficult to hold you and love you without reacting to it. And that is not fair to you." I went in and called the vet, scheduling an appointment for euthanasia. It was the right decision.
15 years ago, now in Texas, as I'm driving to town one day, a tiny black and white ball of fur ran in front of my car. I stopped, stuck my head out the window and said, "What are you doing in the middle of the road?" As if to say, "Waiting for you!" the fur ball ran to my car door. I opened it, reached down and swooped up a beautiful kitten, put her in my lap, turned the car around and took her home. The top of her head & ears were black as if wearing a hat, and the black continued down her back to the tip of her tail. But most of her body and her face were white, her eyes black rimmed as if she were Egyptian. I named her Nefferteetee.
Neffer's been a real trooper, moving from the freedom of a country cat to the city, living in the kitty-kennel. She endured two other rescue kitties who lived with us at different times. And in the last years she's become a willing traveler, crossing the country back and forth to Oregon twice in the car and adapting to new digs there. But when I returned from Oregon in October, Neffer didn't travel as well as usual; she was stressed. Lately I've noticed she has a bit of a balance issue sometimes, and she seems thinner, but she is 15 after all, and past her prime.
A few days ago her left eye began to water and look strange. She had eye discharge last year, too... allergies. Yesterday, I had Gene help me clip her nails and cut out some hair mats. He found two growths behind her left ear, same side of the head as the bad eye. I know what they are.
This morning as I carried her to the kennel, she rested her head against my torso like she always does, as if to hug me while I'm carrying her. When I put her down, I noticed a leison has opened above her eye and it 's oozing. I know what it is.
Within seconds of going back inside the house, I become aware of the odor rising from the front of my sweatshirt where Neffer had rested her head.
De ja vous! What did I miss with Snowball, that Nefferteetee now brings to me? Was my first decision wrong? Should I have waited? Let Nature take Its course? Had I been self-centered and not really loving at all? Tears of guilt about the past and of sadness for the present engulfed me, still do as I write.
What did my decision about Snowball say? Did it say, "You're only lovable if you meet my criteria"?
And if I turn that around, what is the projected message about me? "I'm only lovable if I meet your criteria." Well, I can't say I've never thought that one. I've even based choices on that people pleasing belief.
Yet, what is the truth of the matter? I'm lovable, you're lovable, Snowball's lovable, Neffer's lovable; we're all worthy of being loved because of what we are, reflections of God's Love. It is our Nature to love and be loved.
That is the fact, yet I still feel guilty. Was my decision to euthanize Snowball loving or selfish? At the time I felt it was a loving choice. But was it? Why do I feel guilty? And what do I do with the guilt? There's only one thing to do... I gave it to Jesus, "Here, Jesus, is all my guilt about my decision for Snowball, let me experience this memory differently."
Almost instantly, this thought comes to me, "What if you misunderstood? What if the smell was an agreed upon signal between the two of you, that it was time for you to make the ultimate loving decision, to release Snowball?" I was struck silent, a peaceful silence. The guilt was gone.
So I am at this juncture again, this time with Neffer. But it comes laden with gifts of enlightenment about the nature of Love... Love is.
Bless you, Neffer, and thank you.
peace
p.s. Neffer and I have a 4:00 p.m. appointment at the vet's today. Let there be Peace.
Thirty plus years ago when we lived in Oregon, my kitty-loving daughter befriended one of the neighbor's white cats. And soon "Snowball" was hanging out on our covered deck 24/7. I called the neighbors to inform them of the where-abouts of their missing cat, and they were doubly relieved. Their lost cat was now accounted for, and somebody wanted it! They were moving and one cat was enough. Snowball became ours!
A couple of years later, Snowball's white ears got sunburned and one would not heal. The vet said her ear was cancerous, common in white cats, and he suggested removing both ears. A kitty's face without ears looks much like a monkey's face. Visitors often displayed shocked expressions of horror, repulsion, or concern upon seeing her, but Snowball didn't seem to care that she had no ears, and we didn't care either. She was, after all, the same sweet kitty.
A few years later, Snowball became sick. Lab tests revealed she had feline leukemia, despite the fact she'd been vaccinated for it. "The vaccine is not 100%," the vet said, and "she'll likely die within a few weeks." I took Snowball home, did some energy work on her, and teased her appetite with canned tuna. She recovered.
A year later growths appeared on top of Snowball's head. They didn't seem to bother her. The vet said they were cancerous growths... she is white after all. My decision was to do nothing. Now she looked like an alien monkey with black antennae. Time passed and Snowball's antennae grew bigger, but never seemed to cause her any distress.
Then one day I noticed the growths were oozy, and when I picked her up, the smell of rotten flesh wafted from her head. "Oh, Snowball," I said, "this is not good. The smell is so bad, it's going to make it difficult to hold you and love you without reacting to it. And that is not fair to you." I went in and called the vet, scheduling an appointment for euthanasia. It was the right decision.
15 years ago, now in Texas, as I'm driving to town one day, a tiny black and white ball of fur ran in front of my car. I stopped, stuck my head out the window and said, "What are you doing in the middle of the road?" As if to say, "Waiting for you!" the fur ball ran to my car door. I opened it, reached down and swooped up a beautiful kitten, put her in my lap, turned the car around and took her home. The top of her head & ears were black as if wearing a hat, and the black continued down her back to the tip of her tail. But most of her body and her face were white, her eyes black rimmed as if she were Egyptian. I named her Nefferteetee.
Neffer's been a real trooper, moving from the freedom of a country cat to the city, living in the kitty-kennel. She endured two other rescue kitties who lived with us at different times. And in the last years she's become a willing traveler, crossing the country back and forth to Oregon twice in the car and adapting to new digs there. But when I returned from Oregon in October, Neffer didn't travel as well as usual; she was stressed. Lately I've noticed she has a bit of a balance issue sometimes, and she seems thinner, but she is 15 after all, and past her prime.
A few days ago her left eye began to water and look strange. She had eye discharge last year, too... allergies. Yesterday, I had Gene help me clip her nails and cut out some hair mats. He found two growths behind her left ear, same side of the head as the bad eye. I know what they are.
This morning as I carried her to the kennel, she rested her head against my torso like she always does, as if to hug me while I'm carrying her. When I put her down, I noticed a leison has opened above her eye and it 's oozing. I know what it is.
Within seconds of going back inside the house, I become aware of the odor rising from the front of my sweatshirt where Neffer had rested her head.
De ja vous! What did I miss with Snowball, that Nefferteetee now brings to me? Was my first decision wrong? Should I have waited? Let Nature take Its course? Had I been self-centered and not really loving at all? Tears of guilt about the past and of sadness for the present engulfed me, still do as I write.
What did my decision about Snowball say? Did it say, "You're only lovable if you meet my criteria"?
And if I turn that around, what is the projected message about me? "I'm only lovable if I meet your criteria." Well, I can't say I've never thought that one. I've even based choices on that people pleasing belief.
Yet, what is the truth of the matter? I'm lovable, you're lovable, Snowball's lovable, Neffer's lovable; we're all worthy of being loved because of what we are, reflections of God's Love. It is our Nature to love and be loved.
That is the fact, yet I still feel guilty. Was my decision to euthanize Snowball loving or selfish? At the time I felt it was a loving choice. But was it? Why do I feel guilty? And what do I do with the guilt? There's only one thing to do... I gave it to Jesus, "Here, Jesus, is all my guilt about my decision for Snowball, let me experience this memory differently."
Almost instantly, this thought comes to me, "What if you misunderstood? What if the smell was an agreed upon signal between the two of you, that it was time for you to make the ultimate loving decision, to release Snowball?" I was struck silent, a peaceful silence. The guilt was gone.
So I am at this juncture again, this time with Neffer. But it comes laden with gifts of enlightenment about the nature of Love... Love is.
Bless you, Neffer, and thank you.
peace
p.s. Neffer and I have a 4:00 p.m. appointment at the vet's today. Let there be Peace.
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