Search Results

“I am looking forward to letting go. Of my body; of my stuff; of my friends and family." These words were said by my 89-year old student recently in my course, Spiritual Dimensions of Nearing Death. We had been exploring the time right before death, the time of death, and after death. We had been focusing on letting go of our fears and accepting death. We had been doing visualizations and guided meditations that helped us peer in to death. We had opened to the possibilities, the maybes, around how we continue after this corporeal existence. We had touched upon the falling away of everything; the emptying of the body, the attachments, the longings, leaving only pure love remaining. So when this kindly and very rational, gentle man, said those words, I was deeply moved. It is something to achieve that level of peace within. What do you think?

I love the word 'delight'. Do you? For me, it conjures up the joy of pleasure in our senses, a moment of unabashed happiness, a lovely occurrence of pure glee. A delicious morsel on the tongue, a beautiful view of the sun setting over the ocean, an exquisite, dulcet sound, a sweet touch that is savored, the smell of a newborn's head. Ahh, delight. Could 'delight' refer to a lack of light? The prefix "de-" generally means "down," "away from," "off," or "removal".  Such as Defrost: to remove frost  Or Deplane: to get off a plane  Or Depose: to force someone to leave an office or position  Or Degrade: to lower in rank, status, or character The very same word has been used to describe a lack of light, with 'de' understood as 'a taking away', a taking away of light. Could delight connote darkness? I have a different take on it, inspired by the words of poet and essayist Ross Gay. Delight is of the light and de-light is without the light. The word acknowledges that pain and suffering is part of life and love, and near to both joy and sorrow. The light and darkness are two sides of the same coin. We have day and night. We have up and down, in and out, over and under, waxing and waning. Delight is part of the fabric of life, woven into the warp and the weft. We need both to make a strong fabric. We learn so much from our mistakes, our trials and tribulations, our pain, the lack of light. That turns into lessons learned, earned wisdom, liberation, freedom, love and ultimately the full spectrum of light. Next time you hear the word 'delight', perhaps hold for a moment in your mind's eye, the beauty of the sun and the moon. We need both.

I have really strong thigh muscles. And a pretty strong core. I am reasonably content when I look in the mirror and flex my biceps. But my muscle of hope needs strengthening. It is sagging. It is covered up by despair, rage, and fear. Several times each day I have to remember to use it so that it can become more robust. I scour the news for random acts of generosity, for positive acts of protest, for people standing up for what is right. I go to arts events- poetry, painting, dance, music- for the upliftment. I meditate as an act of hope. I hold on to moments of joy. Today I was able to accept that the sagging muscle will get stronger, even if it takes me 50 times a day to remember to flex it. That is my practice. How are you flexing you muscle of hope?

I heard a new take on the phrase, "Grief is Love with no Place to go." Instead, it’s "Grief is Love looking for a Place to go." I love the idea that grief is an active state, that grief is looking, that grief and love are alive and well. The first phrase conjures up an image of a shut door. The second phrase is open and evokes a sense of journey. As a death doula and conscious dying educator, I get to learn from people who have endured a deep loss. They continue living with all the pain and all the love they feel. They keep looking for the places they can give their love. Their dead beloved person lives on in their heart, their spirit, their cells. They mark the birthdays, the celebrations, the death anniversaries. One woman told me about hiding little envelopes of money with a note in the skatepark where her son used to frequent. She paid it forward in memory of her precious child. She found a place of love for her grief. Grief and loss; love and place. Its a fabulous, terrible journey, yes?

My armor of anxiety often obscures my equanimity. Someone I love very deeply had a surgery yesterday. I am breathing comfortably again. Sometimes that same suit of armor helps me figure out how to find the centered place of calm within. Last week I was locked inside a metal suit of anxious thoughts and feelings.  Every time I tried to let go of the fear of bad future outcomes, within seconds I was swimming in worry again. I kept trying to bring myself back to the present, only to relapse.  Since my person was pretty adamant about NOT worrying about it, and since no one else knew, I felt it was my duty to worry! And after about 20 attempts a day to center, I would just give in to the shear terror of what might catastrophe awaited us.  Because I have a spiritual practice, I knew I could be of greatest service if I could hold the space, emanating calm and strength. If only I didn't have so much aversion and attachment to all the possible negative outcomes. If only I could just stayed with what is.  I decided that if the armor locked in my anxiety, that it could lock in my determination. I might reach 100 or 1000 times a day where I had to choose to refocus my mind to the present. No matter what, I would not give in to worry. And that was when everything shifted. Effortlessly, I was in the loving armor of equanimity. Right outside of the armor, was the fear and the anguish. We peacefully co-existed. I didn't have to banish it; I could have friendly feelings. Staying present was a gift. I let go of that crumbling fear and experienced calm. The surgery went well and we are waiting for the pathology report. We will deal with that next. Right now, all is well. Right now I am loving and caring for my person, and that is the best gift ever.

"Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die." This is a great Buddhist quote. It reminds me of another quote, "Resentment is letting someone live in your head rent-free." At this time, in this moment, when the uncertainty, the tumult, the foreboding sense of peril is so extreme, let us hold on to joy as an act of resistance. Let us reach for community as a source of strength. Let us relish the beauty of the flower, the redwood tree, the tomato growing on the vine, the view from the ridge of the mountains and the ocean.  Let us forgive and let go of anger and resentment. Let us be home in the moment. Let us stand for love. Let us know peace at the end. This is our strength and our right. We will persist.

Do you want to know when you will die? I don't.  It seems like it's part of the ultimate mystery of life. So extraordinary and so ordinary. But I do want to be at peace when I am in my last moments. I want to accept it. I want to have said goodbye to my people. I want to feel ready to leave this body. I teach a course called "Spiritual Dimensions of Nearing Death" that explores this very poignant time of right before to right after death.  It helps people feel more peaceful and less anxious when thinking about death and dying, either for themselves or for their loved ones. We use readings, guided meditations, videos, lectures, discussion and writing. Won't you join me? This session is open to all CA residents. We meet virtually on Thursdays between Oct 16th and Nov 17 DM me and I will send you the flyer. Or find it here . Here are some comments from past students: "Whether you just started exploring your mortality or you already meditate on your own death regularly, the course will uplift you. It is one of a very few places where you can talk openly about death, express your fears, ask questions, and become more intimate not only with your own mortality but also with what your final hours may look like. Every person should take this or a similar course in preparation for the final act." "I was pleased to attend your class on the spiritual dimensions of nearing death. I would  like to express my gratitude for the selfless effort you put into it. Since I am working [as a pastor] in Germany, I will try to join future classes as my schedule permits. I consider it to be a great blessing to have attended your class."  “This series of classes was so informative, thought provoking and well formulated. I'd actually take it all over again."  ​"As a pastor, I found this class helpful for my ministry. As someone who has watched loved ones die and also did not get to say goodbye to some loved ones, this class was healing. As someone who will die, I continue to be intrigued by the process of dying." "Rhyena is a gifted teacher. I loved learning from her! I'm so inspired by the work she does." ​

When my children were born, the fear of losing them also was born. I don't think a day went by for their first 20 years that I did not worry. I am beyond moved by people who live and find a way to thrive having survived that loss. "Thinking about my children is like air. A lifetime of thinking about them will only end when I reach the end of my life." That quote is from Yiyun Li's amazing book, "Things in Nature Merely Grow". It is a love letter to her two sons who both died by suicide, 6 years apart, at ages 16 and 19. I first read her story in the New Yorker last year and recently read the book. I was moved beyond words. I bow down to her and her suffering. I honor her. I learn from her. Besides from being an amazing writer, she offers her wisdom and her suffering in a way that deeply touched my heart.  Reading her words, which are emissions from a deep place within, is a holy experience. Here are excerpts that greatly moved me: "Sometimes people ask me where I am in the grieving process, and I wonder whether they understand anything at all about losing someone. How lonely the dead would feel if the living would just stand up from that shadow clap, their hands dusting their pants, and say to themselves into the world, I am done with grieving.  I don't want an end point to my sorrow.  The death of a child is not a heat wave or a snowstorm. Nor an obstacle race to rush through and win. Nor an acute or chronic illness to recover from. What is grief, but a word, a shortcut, a simplification of something much larger than that word?  There is no now and then; no now and later; there is only now and now and now.  Never feel that you are obliged to show your pain to the world very few people deserve to see your tears.  Marianne Moore wrote in her poem "Silence": The deepest feelings always shows itself in silence. Not in silence, but restraint. I do believe that we learned to suffer better. We become more discerning in our suffering. There are things that are worth suffering for. We also become less rigid in our suffering; suffused, one's being no longer resists." Here is to all the parents who have lost children.

I am moved by acts of generosity. Whether random or intentional.  The person in line behind me who gave me that extra 50 cents when I was short. The young man who gave up his seat on Bart so a pregnant woman could sit down. The friend who didn't have to send that sweet card to me with a kind appreciation. The coalition of donors offering a matching gift of $150,000 to KQED. The doctors and nurses and cooks who risk their lives going to worn torn areas. The woman who ran after me when she saw I dropped my sunglasses. This time it was my daughter. She lives in Oregon and her boyfriend of 6 years and he has been living out of state for almost a year for work. She didn't like not having a say in his decision to take the new job and decided not to uproot her life and leave her job. Understandable, right? It has been a growthful year for them, navigating this long distance terrain and how to make decisions together.  Something moved inside them and now they are officially engaged, with plans for him to move back to Oregon when the right job opens up.  Today my daughter applied for a job in his new city. She may or may not get it. He doesn't know about it. But I am so moved by her act of generosity. She is saying, I am committed to you. I know how to bend. I want to be with you. I will do what it takes to make our life together beautiful. I love you truly. I am so proud of her generous heart. So much love.

"Grief begins not with death, but the moment we sense something precious slipping away." "If you don't grieve, you cut the lifeline to ever feel alive again." "Grief is the map. It tells us the life we had before is gone, and it helps show the way to the next place." These pithy sayings by the great, late, Irish writer John O'Donahue cut to the core of my truth. They flew eloquently out of his mouth during an interview with Krista Tippett on On Being. In my experience as a human, and as a doula, and as a conscious dying educator, Grief is indeed a great teacher and guide.  We need to lean heavily on grief in order to go on living.  If we try to repress or deny it, it finds its way back to us, demanding to be faced.  There is no way around it. We must go through it. Grief is with us every day, in the tiny and monumental losses we face. It is a silent friend, like sorrow. The process of grief is so very non-linear, that we need to hold on tight and trust that it will guide us. Grief reminds us that all we have for sure is groundlessness. Enjoy the wild ride, with all its up and down bumps, with its tears and laughter, with its aloneness and connectedness!

Did you ever think you would become a Conscious Elder?  I hear people in my Death Cafes talk about how much the spiritual path has opened for them, precisely as their body struggles with decline. Poetic irony abounds. I saw how a friend's 98 year-old mother welcomed her one day-old great granddaughter with an earned wisdom and grace, and complete joy. I watched how my 102 year-old client, who is bed-bound, dances with her hands to the sounds of the music that has been present throughout her life. Though she speaks little, her humorous jab at me made us both laugh with real pleasure. There are many treasures of the years of later life.  As I step into my elderhood consciously and intentionally, I see myself releasing the past so that it no longer controls how I feel or act now. My mind is a tad quieter, which gives me more space for the calm of eldering. I am more open to play and beauty and gratitude. My spiritual practice stays close to me. I love teaching my course, Spiritual Dimensions of Nearing Death, and I am reminded that every day is a spiritual dimension of nearing death. What does your Conscious Eldering look and feel like to you?

Today I had an uncomfortable memory and realized I had not forgiven my mother's third husband for making the last year of his life a living hell in 2012 for her. My sister, who was very close to my mom, was dying of metastic breast cancer that had gone to her brain. My mom wanted her close by so she could visit her.  At 88 years of age, it was too hard for her to get to Washington DC. We moved my sister from her apartment in DC to a facility near my mom in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, for her last days. For those 16 or so weeks, my mom's life revolved around making breakfast and lunch for her husband, then making a treat to bring to her daughter, then driving fifteen minutes to the facility and spending a few hours sitting bedside, then driving home and making dinner. My mom dropped 40 pounds fast. She kept going, but the emotional toll of her first-born being so very sick, the endless healthcare hassles, and all the caregiving was very, very tough. Then she made the cardinal sin of picking up something for dinner because she was too tired to cook. That was the final straw. Her husband knew what she was facing every day and the agony in her heart. He saw her dragging herself out of bed and wasting away.  But he was mad. He felt he was not getting enough time and attention. He did not like being left alone for so long. He didn't clear the table of his dishes, so she had to also face that after a long day.  But he was absolutely outraged that his dinner was compromised. It sounded unbelievable to me. I checked in on them as soon as I landed from California to help out again with my sister. In fact, my mother's partner of 28 years was so incensed that he told me he would leave my mother if she didn't tend to her responsibilities to him.  After picking up my jaw from the floor, I immediately got them a personal chef. That lasted 5 days before the chef was fired by the man of the house.  My mom kept going for another month until her precious girl, after celebrating her 60th birthday with pastrami on rye in bed, could no longer speak. There were 18 tumors roiling in her brain.  A few weeks later, she was released from the pain that wracked her and died peacefully. My mom called me to tell me the news as she held her hand. About six months later, my mother's husband at 93, was brought to the same facility. His body was failing. He refused adult diapers, and she could no longer care for him at home.  She faithfully drove to see him every day. One long day, after arriving home and eating a nosh and doing his laundry, she drove back to bring him clean clothes. She put his clean sweatpants on and kissed him goodnight. It was dark when she got home.  Early the next morning she got the call from the facility that he had died in his sleep. She took comfort knowing he had clean pants on. My mom died 5 years and 2 hours after my sister. She always missed her baby girl and her husband.  With this writing, I forgive him.