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Since the day my daughter was born, I was never sure she really wanted to be here. By being here I mean in a body. Alive, embodied, and on the earth. My identical twin daughters weighed 4.1 pounds at birth, born at almost 34 weeks gestation, so they were little rugrats. The first one out of the hatch is known as Baby A and the second one as Baby B. When she and her sister were about two months old, I took them to a Jewish women's group I was part of, meeting on the new moon each month.  A kind woman, leading the group blessing for them, asked me what they were like. What an amazing question, one that affirmed that all of us, including my babies are spirits inhabiting bodies, with lessons we come into this life with and very distinct personalities. I said that her sister, Baby A, was raring to go. She wanted out of the womb, breaking my water after 12 weeks of bedrest, in a staged break-out! I said that she, Baby B, was just very chill, and hadn't decided if she really wanted to be here yet. She was just a bit removed and aloof. One of the first things I learned about being a mom of twins, was not to compare them. But it was clear Baby A wanted to be alive. So in my guilty comparison, Baby B was quite a bit calmer, less prone to crying fits, and held back a bit in her own sweet way.  I have been thinking about that story of her being a baby who exuded ambivalence from the outset lately.  I still see these basic traits in her and it is almost 27 years later. So we were talking one night and I told her the story. Her response was immediate and precise. She said "Sounds right." I was amazed by her ability to accept my point of view. I don't know how much is personality. After all, twin research shows that the social environment of the twinship causes differentiation of behaviors and personality. Maybe its just the samskaras, karma, life questions and life lessons she was born with to work out in her journey this lifetime. Maybe she and her sister are working through some past lifetime stuff. Maybe its just the way she is wired, neurologically-speaking. Maybe its just random and arbitrary. I find her to be a gentle and innocent soul, with a wonderfully sarcastic sense of humor, very quick to deduce and distill the core idea in a conversation, and amazingly spacey, disorganized, with a real lack of executive functioning. I love her madly.

Really now, what matters most to you? Whether we are delving into a deep life review over the decades or considering the shape of our 2025, a few questions can frame our loving conversation with ourselves. This is the frame I use: 1. What mattered most to me (this year)? What gave me joy? What made me feel most alive? When did I have the most energy flowing inside me and experience the most openness to life? For me, there were three top things that made me feel super energized and bouncy with joy: a) growing closer to and spending luscious time with my boyfriend of 2.8 years; b) intentionally devoting more time to writing posts and flirting with writing longer stories; c) leading end of life education experiences with beautiful humans. Just reflecting on these things fill me with gratitude. And there are so many others that I want to add to that list that I feel the richness of my life. On to the next question: 2. What do I want to let go of? What or who am I holding on to? What am I negatively attached to in thought, word or deed? For me, I have alot of stuff here. a) I am letting go of my attachment to being good friends with my kids' dad, since he keeps expressing his lack of interest. It has been 5 years since I finally ended our 23 years of relating and I have had a hard time letting go of wanting to stay connected, especially for our kids. I am ready now. It is time. b) I am also letting go of my belief of how much food I need in a day. I actually need much less than my brain is used to having. I let go of a bit of extra weight just recently in a very intentional way and not only do I feel better in my skin, but in my head. I can eat less and feel better! c) I was able to accept that friendships change as we age. I let go of some friendships that I feel I outgrew and was let go of by other people. I began some new lovely friendships and have hope in some promising connections. I renewed some old friendships. Friendships and community is so important to me and is my chosen family. I feel ready and open to keep learning in this area. d) I also let go of some chronic pain. I was feeling so frustrated by bouts of different joints and muscles in serious pain, chronic UTIs, and hormonal/blood sugar imbalances. In reflecting back over the year, I see so much improvement and resolution that I feel confident letting go of corresponding negative beliefs about my health that keep me stuck. 3. The final question has to do with how I want to align the lessons of the last year with the new year. What intentions and awarenesses do I want to bring with me as I cross the threshold into 2026? I am thrilled to re-affirm my love of deep friendships and relationships with my beautiful, young adult daughters, my partner, my new and old friends. I am looking forward to doing more public teaching and presentations on end of life. I will write more, eat less, feel good in my body. I will stay open to the lessons of the day, every day. Peace.

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?