Listening to the Spiritual Dialtone

I enter the Yoga Sanctuary and immediately remove my coat and shoes, then hesitantly shuffle in and out of the dimly lit studio where three musicians are warming up at the front of the room. I'm the first to arrive.

What am I doing here?

It's not long before I'm surrounded by a group of decidedly non-intimidating people, men and women, young and old, even a couple of families with children line up along the edge of the room and bob infants in their arms, dance hand-in-hand with their toddlers. Most of us sit on cushions atop striped rugs, legs crossed. There's a 4 page handout that acts as a songbook and includes the words to 32 different Kirtan chants, plus opening and closing chants. The evening begins with a warm up of Ommmm Ahhhhh Ommmm to open the throat chakra and find one's voice, and I'm immediately awe struck — to sing like this with others is simutaneously invigorating and calming, serious and joyful.

Ever since I moved out of my parent's house 20 years ago, my mom and I have either visited or talked on the phone on Sundays. Though we emailed each other every day, Sunday was the time to really catch up on the events of the week. Halfway through the evening, sitting on my purple cushion and chanting Sri Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram Ommm (a mantra often used by Mahatna Ghandi) it strikes me all at once, what it is I'm doing here, and I think the last line of an article I found about Kirtan chanting today sums it up perfectly...

"This chanting is exactly like the genuine cry of a child for its mother."

I think Kirtan will be my new Sunday night conversation.

Oddly enough, as I left the building (which was closed for the evening and under the surveillance of a security guard who sat at a small cafe table at the bottom of a staircase) I was thinking about my my last post and the word "quest" and noticed that the young guard had brought a a thick paperback along for his shift — Don Quixote!

Tomorrow I return to work and my regular schedule after almost 2 weeks away from the office. Perhaps the return to routine will be helpful in some way, but I worry about falling back into the hectic grind. Jobs are necessary, my career good, the company I work for generous in addition to being an organization I can feel proud to be a part of. And yet I've enjoyed the time I've had at home to watch the way the light falls through the windows, to curl up and read, to keep rooms tidy, to visit with friends, to be mindful.

I'm determined to make this the year I attempt to peer through the fog and ask some important and oddly difficult questions; Who am I? What do I want? And what's my purpose in this lifetime? With my mom gone, I feel an almost desperate need to focus on the bigger picture.

The word I chose for last year was, fittingly, acceptance. I think I'll make my word for 2010 quest. I'm not entirely sure who or what will guide me, but my mind is open. In these past two weeks I've been voraciously reading and giving lots of thought to the spiritual, philosophical, and creative ideas that have inspired me thus far in life. Tonight I'm venturing out to participate in my first Kirtan (Sanskrit for "to repeat'), which is a group practice of singing ancient mantras that are set to simple melodies. I hadn't heard of this practice before last week, but I'm looking forward to the experience. Here's a video I found on YouTube of a Kirtan in Portland, Oregon...

Thanksgiving

I hope your Thanksgivings are filled with abundance,

and the presence of friends.

Tribute

Some of you have asked if I would post the eulogy my brother and I wrote for my mom, so I'm going to make this my final post that's specifically about this topic (though I'll continue to reflect on both her and this experience in the context of the larger picture. How could I not?) I put a * where my brother's part began, though he needed to start reading for me a bit before that. If I'd known when I wrote this that I would also have to deliver it, I may not have been so gut-wrenchingly honest! At the end my brother also thanked the many friends, relatives, doctors, and nurses who helped our family along the way.

Line by line, a eulogy forms the hardest story you'll ever have to write. It isn't easily started or finished, not because we don't know what to say, but because in saying it we are saying goodbye.

Some of you are here to say goodbye to the woman you knew as a devoted Catholic. Maybe she stood next to you singing in the choir, or led a prayer meeting you attended. She might have been your CCD teacher, or placed the Eucharist in your hands on Sunday morning. Others are here to say goodbye to a gifted artist, a woman who spent her life painting in oils, acrylics, and watercolors, attending art classes, participating in gallery shows, becoming a member of the Rhode Island Watercolor Society, and traveling to Block Island in late summers to paint by the ocean, a place she loved. You may have known her as a secretary or a talented seamstress. You may have called her wife, friend, sister, cousin, or Auntie Winnie. All of you, I'm sure, knew her as stylish, soft spoken, and sweet-natured.

My brother and I knew her in many of those ways too, but most importantly we knew her as "mom" — a devoted mom who told us many times that she was happiest with her family gathered around her, and who proved this by filling our lives with love that manifested itself as warm meals on the table, a well-kept home, a thoughtful gift for no reason, sound advice when we asked for it, hugs whenever we needed one. She never failed to put our family first, and there was never a time she said, "I'm tired" or "I'm busy. Fend for yourselves."

In my mind is a collage of memories hard to categorize except as things I won't forget: my mom and I crying and laughing while we chop onions and sip wine in my small, over-heated kitchen on Thanksgiving; how she liked to make stuffed animals "talk" to us in a funny high- pitched voice; back-to-school clothes shopping expeditions; her making me not one but two birthday desserts for my 36th birthday; her uncanny ability to find out about whatever one of us was trying to get away with; how she would wait expectantly in the kitchen to greet us when we came home; how for the past ten years I could always count on seeing a new email from her in my inbox every time I checked; how much time she spent helping me practice the piano and complete homework assignments; how she doubled the joy of any success we've had with her happiness, pride, and unwavering faith in us.

It's impossible to share memories about our mom without mentioning Christmas, which was her favorite holiday and a year-round endeavor. As soon as one Christmas was over she would begin preparing for the next, stowing away presents all over the house and usually forgetting how many she'd acquired by the following December. Our family didn't have "gifts beneath the tree" because they wouldn't have fit beneath the tree. We had gifts piled up on all sides of the tree, practically hiding it from view. As we got older my brother and I would teasingly scold her saying, "Mom! You really don't need to do all this!" But she would laugh and shrug and tell us, "I know that. But I want to. I enjoy it!" And she did. And when another holiday get-together was drawing to a close and we were getting ready to head our separate ways, she would lament that it had "flown by" and was "over too fast" and looking back now, I know we whole-heartedly agree with her.

Somewhere in a family album there's a snapshot taken on my first day of kindergarten. My mom is trying to leave me with the teacher and other children, and I'm fastened to her leg, my face red from crying, my mouth open in what I imagine was a howl of fear at the thought of being separated from her. 32 years have passed since that first day of kindergarten, and I like to believe I'm all grown up. But inside a part of me there's a 6 year old reluctant to let go, and as an adult I've come to realize fully what we know instinctively as children — that a mother's love and devotion is a gift greater than a million presents around the tree. I have faith that for my brother and I her love will endure far beyond the limits of the mortal body it came wrapped in.
*
That mortal body suffered greatly over the last few years. I still remember how badly we were shocked when we learned, in 1994, that mom had aggressive breast cancer. We were devastated, but our mom would not let us fall into despair. She faced her illness with grace, courage, and a strong faith in God. She was more worried about how the illness would affect my dad, my sister, and me than she was about herself. Her attitude surely was a big factor in how long she was able to beat cancer and continue to enjoy her life. Doctors, nurses, and staff constantly remarked on my mom’s good nature and kind personality.

In February of 2009, mom moved in with me. Despite her many physical problems and increasing pain, we still shared many good times together. When trips to the theater and DownCity Restaurant, where we were greeted as “mother and son,” became impossible, we replaced that with Friday night fish and chips at Ye Olde English and Saturday night steak sandwiches at Kay’s. Later, we would get take out and watch TV together. And when my sister would drive down, either alone or with Jason, we knew that we would end up laughing until our sides hurt at some bit of silliness. My mom was my hero, and I’m sure my sister shares that sentiment. She taught me so much through her example—through her quiet dignity—and I know that the Lord has greeted her with, “Well done, good and faithful servant! Come and share your master’s happiness!"

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience, we are spiritual beings having a human experience." — Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

Dear friends,
This week I've witnessed and done things I never imagined I was strong enough to bear. And yet, here I sit, back at home in the hills with candles burning, the smoke from a stick of incense circling above the mantle, the dogs at my feet, and the computer open on the table in front of me. I'm definitely not the same person I was a week ago, but at least right now I feel peaceful and still. And right now is all I'm going to worry about at the moment.

Maybe the stillness is because I've already been grieving for three years, ever since my mom received her last diagnosis. Maybe it's because last Sunday I looked into her eyes and promised her, wordlessly, that I would be strong. Maybe it's because I've had help, from my brother, from J, from concerned friends who have stopped in with flowers and food, from relatives, from the clergy who were with us in Rhode Island, from your emails and comments, and from two amazing books I ordered from Amazon last Tuesday in expectation of what was coming. I've already finished them both, and plan to recommend them to anyone and everyone. The first is Deepak Chopra's book Life After Death, The Burden of Proof, and the second is the short book On Life After Death by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, MD. They are both illuminating and comforting.

I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was meant to be with my mom as she passed from this life to the next, and that's brought me great comfort. This is a woman who practically wished me into being, as she was told she couldn't conceive again after my brother's birth. The odds of my being here were not in my favor at any point during the process. I was even born blue, the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. Someday I'll relate whole story of how my parents came to call me "the miracle baby." For now I'll just hang on tight to the feeling that through some combination of fate and intuition I was given the opportunity to repay a small portion of a great debt to my mom.

Several sweet things happened in the days after my mom's passing. First, I uploaded the photo of her on the mountaintop to the website of the funeral home where her obituary is posted online, without telling anyone I'd done so. The next morning my brother was thinking of my mom, asking her to please send him a sign that she was ok. He immediately felt moved to check the website of the funeral home, and upon doing so he discovered this photo he'd never seen before, our mom in the days before cancer, sitting on top of the world, beaming.

The second occurrence had to do with the eulogy that my brother and I wrote for my mom. I started it, and my brother finished it (both the writing and the delivering of it). I'll post it in it's entirety soon, but for the purpose of this story I'll tell you that the line he chose to end it with was from Matthew 25:21 “Well done, good and faithful servant! Come and share your master’s happiness!" A long-time family friend and clergy member created beautiful programs for the funeral service, and when someone handed one to me at the church I discovered the words "Well done, good and faithful servant" on the cover. "How nice that they coordinated with each other," I thought. But neither of them had known of the others intention.

There were little signs that lifted my spirits along the way. A flock of tiny birds darting in unison around and around as we entered the church for the funeral mass. My parent's long time neighbor telling me with tears that just before he'd heard to news about my mom he'd looked up to discover a deer standing in their yard, something he'd never seen before. When I arrived back home with some of my mom's clothes I reached into one of her jacket pockets and pulled out a fortune, something my brother and I have never known her to save.

"Someone is speaking well of you." the fortune read. And on the other side the Chinese word of the day, "Disease."

Winnie Jolicoeur: January 20, 1933 - November 19, 2009

Dear friends,
Yesterday, as the sun-filled morning crept towards afternoon, I was blessed to be sitting by my mom's bedside and holding her hand as she took her last breath.

Though my family is filled with the grief of losing her, we're relieved that her immense suffering is over, and buoyed by the outpouring of support from family and friends, as well as the beautiful series of events that led to my being with her at that time.

Thank you for the comments you've left here this week. I checked in and read them each night, and they've brought much comfort.

The sun has climbed the hill, the day is on the downward slope.

Between the morning and the afternoon, stand I here with my soul,

and lift it up.

My soul is heavy with sunshine, and steeped with strength.

The sunbeams have filled me like a honeycomb,

It is the moment of fullness,

And the top of the morning.

— D.H. Lawrence

from my zen page-a-day desk calendar today.

Here in the Hills

Here in the hills my heart is broken. When I open my mouth to speak, tears fall. When I look at any one thing for too long, more come. I knew this would be hard, but nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of the disease, and the corresponding depth of my grief. I don't understand how something that's right in front of me can be so inconceivable, but it is.

I appreciate your comments, emails, thoughts, and prayers. My brother was also touched by them when he caught up with the blog last night. I'll post as I'm able, maybe just photos until we catch up with the details on Five Senses Friday. I've been visiting your blogs, and love seeing what you're doing and creating out there.

Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.

November brings with it deer season in the hills, and along the quiet roadways sit the empty shells of pick-up trucks. The hunters have trudged off into the woods with their deer calls and shotguns, and will remain there until darkness settles, more often than not leaving behind a pile of discarded beer cans and fast food wrappers as they pull away and head back to their out-of-state homes. Litter in the fallen leaves: an unfortunate sign of the season.

Before our hikes in the woods J and I don bright orange coats, advertising premiums left over from my dad's life-long career as an auto parts salesman. Though the coat styles are different each covers our heart with a black and white FRAM Autolite patch. Dad had acquired hundreds of jackets, coats, and baseball hats in a rainbow of colors, all bearing various logos and labels: Monroe, Champion, Delco, Dayco (if my dad could see this list he'd be beaming and pointing at me, exclaiming "She knows! She knows! You take after your old man, Mel!") His coats-of-many-colors collection eventually grew so large he built a closet for it in the basement, shiny nylon arms sandwiched tightly together on three closet bars, dozens of baseball caps looming above like trophies. Several of the jackets ended up with J when my parents house began getting cleared out last summer; these safety orange ones have proved to be the most useful.

We've also wrapped blaze orange bandanas around the dog's necks, just in case, though I'd like to go one step further and spray paint the tip of Yeti's deer-like white tail. "He doesn't look anything like a deer" J assures me. He could be a mini deer though, or a deer way off in the distance. Things are not always what they appear to be. Someone could make a mistake, jump the gun.


After our rainy, wet woods walk, devoid of any birdsong or mushrooms at this time of year, I head to my computer and J to his wood shop. He's building a long, sturdy step stool with a hand rail on each side for my mom, 6" that will enable her to climb safely in and out of bed at my brother's house. I'm finishing up my part of the eulogy my brother and I are writing for her. Last Wednesday, after several days in a row of growing ever weaker and sicker, my mom agreed to let the ambulance take her to a nearby hospice suite. Originally, the plan was to keep her there for 5 days, regulate her medications, try to get a bit of her failing strength back, and let her return home to my brother's house. If she does, she'll need the step stool J's built for her — but we'll deliver both the stool and the eulogy to my brother today, before the three of us head to hospice together to visit her.

Hope, meet my companion, reality. Reality, this is my good friend, hope.

Play

“Play is the exultation of the possible.”
— Martin Buber

Especially when it involves toys that dispense treats.

Perhaps I'll try the sideways approach.

Have I won yet?

Five Senses Friday Number 31

See:
• There have been beautiful nights of crimson sunsets this week
• Thousands of crows roost in North Adams, and I saw them circling and resting in a tall tree on Main St. Thursday evening. To me it was breathtaking, though no one else around seemed to notice
• Long white Yeti fur covering my black pant legs. A small inconvenience balanced by a thousand moments of utter cuteness.


Hear:
• The roar of fire catching in the wood stove. The rattling of November's wind through dried leaves and the tall cornstalks I used to decorate the front door. The wreath of dried branches against the window knocking all afternoon, like a ghost.
• Water on the moon?!
• Only very random people talk to me about my mom during the week. An older gentleman at the gym, the Vietnam vet who works at our town recycling center, the IT guy at work. I don't have good news for them.


Taste:
• Early, local Thanksgiving last Friday
• Tonight: Bulgogi: Korean Marinated BBQ beef — lettuce wraps, white rice, pickled vegetables, miso paste and kimchi
• A lunch packed by J, in a special "m heart" lunch bag no less. What's in there? A natural turkey and provolone sandwich on fresh bakery bread, a local apple, a peanut butter protein bar, and some chips, something I would never in a million years pack for myself but am happy to discover in the bag
• Bagels and lox, though the bagels available here don't really deserve to be called bagels. They should be called "stalegels."


Smell:
• Walking in North Adams last night, I swore I could smell cotton candy
• Green apple dog shampoo
• New leather boots, in expectation of winter


Touch:
• Dog fluff
• The heft of a new book

More Non-Dull Moments with Yeti

J just emailed me this little series of photos to sum up what he's been doing this afternoon. I'll just give you his captions...

"Yeti, you come!"

"What's that extra green stripe on your back?"

"Hold still, Yeti."

Is that not the saddest face you've ever seen? Apparently another of Yeti's pastimes is rolling in things that smell horrible. A habit Vixen stopped engaging in so long ago I almost forgot about it completely...

Have a wonderful, clean-smelling evening, my friends!

A little older, a little more confused

I was probably in my 20's the first time I heard this song and the opening line (from Dennis Hopper in The American Friend, by the way). How much more poignant it is now though.

Tennis for Dogs

I considered naming this post "Tennis. Doggie Style" but imagine the various related google keyword searches I'd have to see every time I checked my stats...

Yeti can run ridiculously fast. Especially when he's escaping into the woods, which he's done several times this week, leaving J and I calling his name in the happiest sounding voices we can muster and trudging along the path with a bag full of all-natural doggie treats. One morning I took him out on a leash (not an ideal situation for such an exuberant dog), only to have it mysteriously fall off halfway through our woods walk.

"Yeti!" I screamed in a panic as he quickly realized his freedom and bolted away, bounding over fallen trees and whizzing to and fro, a little white blur of potential coyote snack tearing through the trees.

He sprinted teasingly back to me several times ("good boy! good come! here's a treat!") then darted away again ("damn!") before I could grab him. Finally I decided to start to jogging back towards the house with Vixen circling me nervously. Yeti, perhaps unable to control his instinct to herd his suddenly-running-away-pack, rushed around and around and tore past us, beating us to the door.

Vixen is still the alpha of the dog household, which she reminds Yeti of by holding him down and nibbling him like a corn cob several times a day. She's probably wondering how long this play date is going to last (until the weekend, actually). I don't think she's noticed that Yeti has wormed his way into sleeping on the bedroom rug unless she heard J and I thrashing around and screaming "what the hell is that?!" when he tried to jump on the bed at 4 in the morning. I think poor Yeti was as surprised as we were by the sudden ruckus.

There haven't been a lot of dull moments with this little guy around, which is fine by me.

Lightness

“He who loves, flies, runs, and rejoices; he is free and nothing holds him back.”
— Henri Matisse

Ready to Rouse Your Inner Warrior?

via succeed blog.

Dog Music

Dog Music

Amongst dogs are listeners and singers.
My big dog sang with me so purely,
puckering her ruffled lips into an O,
beginning with small, swallowing sounds
like Coltrane musing, then rising to power
and resonance, gulping air to continue—
her passion and sense of flawless form—
singing not with me, but for the art of dogs.
We joined in many fine songs—"Stardust,"
"Naima," "The Trout," "My Rosary," "Perdido."
She was a great master and died young,
leaving me with unrelieved grief,
her talents known to only a few.

Now I have a small dog who does not sing,
but listens with discernment, requiring
skill and spirit in my falsetto voice.
I sing her name and words of love
andante, con brio, vivace, adagio.
Sometimes she is so moved she turns
to place a paw across her snout,
closes her eyes, sighing like a girl
I held and danced with years ago.

But I am a pretender to dog music.
The true strains rise only from
the rich, red chambers of a canine heart,
these melodies best when the moon is up,
listeners and singers together or
apart, beyond friendship and anger,
far from any human imposter—
ballads of long nights lifting
to starlight, songs of bones, turds,
conquests, hunts, smells, rankings,
things settled long before our birth.

— by Paul Zimmer