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Do you have a chronic health issue? A disease that has been with you for a long time? Do you feel fragile and vulnerable? I am in my late 60's and my health is good. I work at it every day. But I have chronic health issues that have plagued me for 25-45 years. I thought they were well managed until this year. Suddenly, my asthma was out of control, my interstitial cystitis was flaring up most days, and my piriformis syndrome got worse. Additionally, I was inexplicably gaining weight and symptoms of systemic candidadiasis were back, pointing to hormonal imbalance. After I got over feeling hopeless, frustrated and mad, I was inspired to try new solutions, experimenting with new drugs, and new physical therapy treatments. Who knew a speech therapist could help me manage my asthmatic coughing?  Amazingly, I am feeling about 50-70% better, although I could really use a new bladder, if you know of one. I feel very humbled by this. At any time, things can change. Drastically. Sickness can arrive at any time. We just never know. Impermanence reigns supreme. The Nine Contemplations, written in the 11th century by the Buddhist monk and scholar Atisha, addresses the twisting, jeweled path of life and ultimately death. They are a quiet warning of the inevitable and the need for preparation, so that we can go beyond fear and live a fully engaged life. The Sixth contemplation is: "My body is fragile and vulnerable. The human body is fragile and vulnerable. My life hangs by a thread." What makes you feel fragile and vulnerable?

My 90 year old friend is sad. He is living with the regret that he is not leaving behind a legacy, a body of work. His friends have authored books and started groups that have become large organizations. My friend is very lovable and loving. Whenever I get to be around him, I am happy. He is very intelligent and knowledgeable about literary things, and I always feel just a bit smarter after leaving his company. He is trying to forgive himself for not doing more. He is trying to accept himself and his life. He is trying to be comfortable joining the masses of people who have not left a major legacy. He will be remembered like most of us will be for a random act of kindness, a moment of generosity, a hilarious story, a penchant for poetry, an unmoving faith in humanity, and if we are lucky enough to have brought little precious beings into this cray cray world, for our children and our children's children. The Nine Contemplations, written in the 11th century by the Buddhist monk and scholar Atisha, addresses the twisting, jeweled path of life and ultimately death. They are a quiet warning of the inevitable and the need for preparation, so that we can go beyond fear and live a fully engaged life. The Fifth contemplation is:  "Death has many causes. There are many causes of death- even habits and desires are precipitants." May we live freely and openly until we die, of whatever cause takes us.  May our habits help us cultivate gratitude, forgiveness and acceptance every waking moment. May our desires hinge on the desire to touch pure love. May my friend know peace.

A friend in her forties almost died recently from an accidental overdose. It reminded me that we never know when death will reach out for us. That thought reminded me of the Fourth Contemplation: "My life span is not fixed. Human life expectancy is uncertain; death can come at any time." The Nine Contemplations, written in the 11th century by the Buddhist monk and scholar Atisha, addresses the twisting, jeweled path of life and ultimately death. They are a quiet warning of the inevitable and the need for preparation, so that we can go beyond fear and live a fully engaged life.  Each Contemplation moves me but knowing a friend faced death for a few critical days, was on life support, and now is slowly returning to her functioning body, really shook me up.  I never want to take a day or a minute for granted. I want to live consciously every moment. I don't want to squander my time.  I want to be ready for death when it is time for my life to end. This is my intention.  It motivates me to dance and to write and to be with loved ones and to hike in nature and to roast lots of vegetables.

If I had one wish as an end of life doula, it would to be contacted earlier! The dying person or their caregiver usually wait too long to get the benefits we offer - support and empathy and guidance.  Just like hospice is called in too late and can only do crisis-level care, end of life doulas are also called in too late. Recently I was called by a birth doula about her dear, dying friend, who really needed some help articulating her final wishes and support to get on hospice so she could be more comfortable. We had a good, long talk and the friend's primary caregiver was going to call any minute. I didn't hear from the caregiver and found out later that the dying woman had unexpectantly died that very day. We do not know if she was ready; if she was at peace; if her caregiver knew her wishes. We hope so. We pray for an easy transition for her.  Because death was ready to embrace her.  The Nine Contemplations, written in the 11th century by the Buddhist monk and scholar Atisha, addresses the twisting, jeweled path of life and ultimately death. They are a quiet warning of the inevitable and the need for preparation, so that we can go beyond fear and live a fully engaged life. The Third contemplation seems apropos here:  "Death comes whether or not I am prepared." Let us not be afraid to prepare. Let us embrace planning for our death. Let us articulate our wishes. Who do we want to be with us? Where do we want to be? What is left unsaid? What do we need to let go of so we can find peace? What do we want our loved ones to remember about us? Because death comes whether or not we are ready for it. Death comes while we are busy denying it. Death comes even when we don't want it to arrive. What do we have to lose by being ready for it?

Do you think you can escape death? Intellectually, we know we will die.  But we put off fully facing this because, for most of our lives, it is more of an abstract idea than a reality. I find it helpful to listen to people for whom death is not an abstraction. I learn so much from them. One dear woman told me that as her body declines, she notices her heart's capacity to love is increasing. I love that. The Nine Contemplations, written in the 11th century by the Buddhist monk and scholar Atisha, addresses the twisting, jeweled path of life and ultimately death. They are a quiet warning of the inevitable and the need for preparation, so that we can go beyond fear and live a fully engaged life. The First and Second Contemplations are: "All of us will die sooner or later. Death is inevitable; no one is exempt." and "My life span is ever-decreasing. Each breath brings us closer to death." How do we face it? How do we allow this awareness to let us live more fully? How can I be at peace with death? Keep breathing in and out, slowly with awareness, I tell myself.

I recently told my death story while being interviewed by the Elisabeth Kubler Ross Foundation. It was the first time I told the entire story. By young adulthood, I had gone through expected deaths; that of my grandparents and an uncle.  But I was not prepared for violent, sudden death. My twenties would teach me a lot. When I was in college, a woman lefty, feminist community was stabbed to death as she lay sleeping, by a misogynist psycho. Our Take Back the Night March that year was solemn, laced with outrage, grief and pain. A year later, I unexpectantly ended up as a support person for a college friend whose friend had been murdered by the Marin County Trail Killer. I held her as she cried many a night. Then it turned out another woman she knew was killed by the same psycho killer. A year later, in April 1981, my dear friend was waiting for her ranger boyfriend to get off work at Point Reyes and took a hike. She was raped, tortured and executed by the same deranged psychopath. This was his killing spree after 20 years in prison for rape.  Until her death a few decades later, I stayed in touch via letters with my friend's mom. I still have all her letters. My friend's murder was life changing. In graduate school a few years later, a curly-haired classmate pointed out a lump in his chest. I was a trained massage therapist and worked on loosening the muscles there; he was dead in a matter of months. Every day after classes, I visited my pal, the department secretary, for laughter and to chill. One day she was driving with her son and took an exit ramp hard and the car flipped. They both died instantly. I still recall the soft, exhausted smile on her husband's lips at the funeral as he greeted the mourners, and the way his daughter-in-law faltered as she lay a rose on her husband's casket. The deaths of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, colleagues were peppered over the next couple of decades.  In my fifties, my sister died of breast cancer that had metastasized to her brain, after a five-year struggle. She was bitter, felt cheated, but at the end, when she was thoroughly demented, Death's arms were a relief and a release. Five years and 2 hours later, my momma died. She was 94 years old. I got to be with her for the last four years of her life. She felt she had outlived her usefulness, watching her body decline and her days become more restricted. We got to say our goodbyes and share our love for months. I knew all of her wishes. Nothing was left unfinished. She reached for Death. She sang me "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" before she became unconscious. She simply stopped taking another breath a few days later.  Her acceptance of death was a huge gift. But the most unexpected gift was that after her death, I felt no experience of grief like I had with so many past, traumatic deaths. I only felt love.  What an epiphany! Grief is not mandatory! I do miss her, but mostly I just love her. You can watch the interview here .

“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.