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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.

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?