Where I Stand

My friend Ella, who baits a mean hook, recently reminded me of a past bit of arrogance. A public acknowledgement (in sacred space no less) that my gift is to stand in the dark places, to shine some light there, so that no one has to be alone in the dark. What darkness is calling you now? She asked. And can you bear to share it?

Well shit.

When I said that thing (and I make no assumptions, gentle reader, about your thoughts on words like sacred or phrases like sacred space or the import of things that happen there, but I know what I know, and I should not be one whit surprised that I'm being called to account for it)... when I said that I was referring to what I call deathwork. Work I do with hospice patients and their families, and work I do out in the community, with the rest of us - who are dying just as surely but hopefully a bit more slowly - about developing a healthier relationship with that surety.

Work I love. Work that honors and feeds and affects me. But not exactly personal work.

And work I haven't done in six months now.

Because...

Let me just say that when you find yourself sitting with a woman who is about to be a widow, sitting vigil with her as her husband of 60-some years struggles to take his last breaths, and what is running through your mind is the somewhat petulant-toned "well at least your husband didn't leave you"...

Hopefully, if you're a deathworker with any integrity and self-awareness, this is the point where you decide to take a hiatus. And work on your own stuff.

What darkness is calling me now? So un-sexy. So un-glamorous. So un-noble. This is the selfish-seeming, all-too-common (like death isn't common? and yet this is a commonality my ego didn't want to share) gloaming of mid-life divorce. I stand these days in the shadow of betrayal and shame, guilt and fear and loss and loneliness and it's all my own. No one to "help" but myself.

Why is that so much harder?

There is light in this darkness. A lot of it. New opportunities. A certain freedom, and peace. The possibility of a whole new life. But like any form of grief, it is an experience with many complex flavors. Oh, for the purity of one emotion! Oh, for the ability to feel just what we are supposed to feel. And really, who does this supposing? And why are they always so wrong?

I've had a lot of conversations about this. With people living through some of the worst days of their lives. Who are shocked to find that, mixed in with the culturally-approved sadness, there are things like relief and anger and even moments of a sort of giddy, exhausted joy. I tell them this is normal. All of this is what happens when the world cracks open and anything seems possible, because the impossible has already happened. The form is so fundamentally, overwhelmingly changed. We are in blue skies. Which is glorious. And terrifying. And yes, we can feel both at the same time. Yes, we can hold that.

Yes, we can.

Fascinating to need, now, to apply this knowing to myself. In this way. Talk about past arrogance! To stand with Death, over and over, and think She wouldn't touch me. Or that her touch would come only in expected, acceptable ways. We have this history, She and I. So you can stand there, she says to me. Good. And... can you stand here? And how about here?. Moving always backwards, farther into the dark.

What happens to the one who says I'm not afraid to die? How does she learn about loss? Maybe like this. Ah, arrogance. Death laughs. (Although it's a loving laugh, really it is, She's a compassionate lady). And... can I stand here?

We'll see.

Thanks, Ella. :-)