Because of Autumn’s Gifts
A process of dying for a time of life.
Just another reminder for me as I looked out my windows at the turning colors of falling leaves and withering plants.
This is what I heard him say:
“Dying is the most important moment that exists in any incarnation. It is important that you not be so overwhelmed by the processes of dying. I wish you a process for dying that doesn’t overwhelm you. I wish you a moment of dying that you can be conscious of. I wish you a future incarnation in a plane of incredible light.”
~ Ram Dass
Autumn, it seems to me, is a time to remember the transiency of life. The signs and reminders are all around us if we care to look with knowing eyes and opened hearts. This is the season of the dying process. It cannot be avoided, at least at this latitude. Autumn is also perhaps my favorite time of the year.
In Buddhist teachings, there is a practice called “The Five Remembrances.” It is offered as an important life practice to help prepare those who practice it (like me, every Sunday!) for their pending death AND the deaths of all those dear to them. The third and fourth Remembrance mantras of the practice, as I practice them, state:
Breathing in: This body is of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.
Breathing in: All that I have, and everything that is dear to me, is of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.
“Dying is the most important moment that exists in [our lives].”
From my own learning, both experiential—from my own life and that of my Dad’s and all the others whom I’ve had the honor of bearing witness to their deaths—and from my on-going study and life practice, I’d include a nuanced revision of Ram Dass’ teaching. Because…
…you know, right, that dying isn’t a moment?
Dying doesn’t come at the very end of life. Only death comes at the end. Dying, rather, begins the moment we are born. We know that, right? If you had only one practice in your life, you could not do much better than simply remembering this:
Our life IS the process of dying.
How we live will be how we die because we “are doing” both at the same time.
THAT process, dying, is also known as life! Two sides, one coin.
So I thought I needed to revise, slightly, Ram Dass’ teaching—making it more relevant, more real, more True. But first:
An Aside: Dad plus another
In a nutshell, THAT was what I wanted to create for my Dad when he joined us for what we expected would be, and were, his dying days. To create an environment—physical, mental, emotional, and even spiritual—of calm and warmth and love. No overwhelm. Ram Dass calls that time “the most important moment that exists in any incarnation.” Important, surely, for the dying one; but also just as, if not more so, for those who care for, or about, the dying one. I have shared in these posts how supporting my Dad as his 24/7 caregiver was, in large part, a selfish act in that I knew his dying time was a vital and fecund time for me and my own growth as a son, as a dad myself, as a husband, as a brother, and as a human. We leaned fully into Dad’s dying process, his life and death, with the concerted effort and intention that we would journey with him to the very edge of his liminal life and keep overwhelm, fear, suffering, and confusion at bay. And we did just that.
One takeaway for us, those in my family who closely followed Dad’s dying and death process, was that we have become just a little less fearful of death for having seen, intimately, how it could be done, how it could be approached...with reverence.
Kind of just like the dawning of Autumn.
Parallel note: I’m not really supposed to talk a whole lot about the experiences I’m having as a hospice volunteer. So I proceed with a respectful and mindful caution. What I do want to share, in this context, will honor the dignity of this particular experience with one particular man without compromising the integrity of his dying or identifying him in any way.
My main task during my service with a local hospice organization is to phone, weekly, a number of patients (ie mostly their caregivers) to insure all their needs are being met and to insure they know their hospice team is keeping them in our hearts and are standing by at a moments notice to respond to any call. Generally, my patients remain the same from week to week, until, that is, they don’t.
One patient in particular, a 90+ year old gentleman, endeared himself to me from my very first conversation with him which occurred my first week of active service back in August. I spoke with him directly and it was very evident he was thriving—his voice was strong, he seemed vital, as if, to me, hospice may have been premature. We never talked about him being “in hospice.” Instead, he told me to keep calling him weekly because “I don’t get to get out much nowadays and so I will look forward to talking with someone other than my wife.”
He never needed much so the calls were simple. Early on, his major complaint was that he was experiencing pain and discomfort in his legs that were keeping him from getting comfortable sleep. When I inquired a bit further, he said that he would like to speak with the nurse to talk about how best to soothe the sore leg muscles he was experiencing… following his exercises! Imagine that. He was a character—easy and fun to talk with. I looked forward to calling him. He called me by my name, I the same to him.
When I was given the role of serving in this way (note: volunteers get to choose how they want to serve but I asked that they place me where the need was greatest), I didn’t expect to develop the kinds of relationships that seem to be developing with many of my patients. Keep in mind, I never meet these patients or families in person—my service is 100% via phone call check ins.
Two weeks ago, I called and, like most times, his wife answered. I had spoken with her many times too—as she mainly walked the phone to wherever he happened to be in their house. This time, she sounded different. Not panicky, just slightly “off.” I knew things had changed. “His energy is down and he’s not eating as much. The nurse knows all this. She was just here on Monday. But right now, he’s still sleeping; he hasn’t woken up yet” she reported somewhat matter-of-factly. But something in her voice was different; the energy coming from it, through the telephone, a lower vibration.
And I knew this was not his normal. So, I followed protocol to insure the clinical team was made aware.
That was the final time I spoke with anyone in that family.
The next week, last week, his name did not show up on my call list “rounds.” And that, was that.
It was the first time, in this new hospice experience I’ve chosen for myself, that my breath was taken for a few moments. Well, more than a few moments. His voice and feeling tone has stuck with me. Others on my rounds, men, women, wives, husbands, dads and moms, youngish and oldish, have died too. Their deaths, too, have meaning for me—but not like this one did.
“Dying is the most important moment that exists….” It is also the most profound provided we choose for it to be.
I expected more calls, more conversations; to have him tell me more about his life, what he enjoyed doing, what or who he was most proud of, his moments of greatest pride, his moments of deepest sorrow. I expected more conversations. But the most important thing “got in the way.” Death intervened and had the final say. Just as it always will.
But the experience fed me. I was changed by this relationship—for good. There’s a phrase in one of the final songs from the Broadway musical “Wicked” that is exceptional and speaks to a Truth that happens if one has the courage to allow it to be:
“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better. But because I knew you, I have been changed for good.”
And it’s my WHY for choosing to do what I’ve chosen to do.
“Life doesn’t feed on life. Life doesn’t nourish life. Death feeds life. Every rooted thing knows that and proceeds accordingly. Death is the life-giving thing. That is the proposition that life offers, that grief endorses. Everything dear to you will perish so that life might continue. Our deaths can, in every sense the word can be meant, feed life – unless we refuse to die, or fight dying, or curse dying, or spend all our dying time not dying. [When] you don’t let dying change how you live together, whatever the motivation, the consequence is missed last chances for authentic talk between you, shared sorrow, teaching, learning how to live as if what is happening is happening. [The] overflowing burden of knowing something of the ending of days, that is what gives you your days and your love for them, and makes of you a treasure for the rest of us, and makes of your life a story worth knowing. You become example enough and reason enough for those wrecked on schedule and those refusing to be so to continue for a while. It makes of you the rumored, honorable ancestor. You won’t be there to see it, but your willingness to live your death, to die wise, ennobles those who come after.”
~ Stephen Jenkinson (Die Wise, p. 371-380)
This is why Ram Dass wishes for us what he wished: “I wish you a process for dying that doesn’t overwhelm you. I wish you a moment of dying that you can be conscious of.” So that our deaths can nourish the lives of those who remain. This is also, for most Hospice organizations, their whole purpose for being. Their own WHY.
But as I reflected further on the wisdom of one my favorite teachers, Ram Dass, above, I realize he likely may have known exactly what he was talking about. A moment lived fully is an eternal moment—this is also known as vertical time for the heights and depths it can achieve in this now. There is only THIS moment, always. We can’t be in any other moment, ever. We are only, and always, here, now. Same was when we were born; it will be the same upon our death. (The moment following our death will be only the second time when “we” can claim the Truth of being everywhere all at once. The first, obviously, was prior to our conception.) And because this is true, our process of dying is our life long journey. Talk about transformational Alchemy!
My revision to Ram Dass:
“[Living while dying; dying while living] is the most important moment that exists in any incarnation. It is important that you not be so overwhelmed by the processes of [living]. I wish you a process for [living] that doesn’t overwhelm you. I wish you moments of [living] that you can be conscious of. [The same will then naturally happen upon your death because you will be living up to the moment your body dies.] I wish you a future incarnation in a plane of incredible light.”
No different from the original though.
Semantics.
Just as falling leaves provide winter shelter and cover for some, and compost the soil to enrich it for future growth, so to can our own deaths nourish life—provided we are prepared to experience them, each of the eternal moments of our our life, our dying, and our death; fully and wisely.
Breathing in, this body is of the nature to die; there is no way to escape death.
But something more important lives on.
Always and Ubuntu,
~ k