It Is Impossible To Die Alone

“Do not be afraid. It is impossible to die alone.” Those are the final lines of the play “White Snake” and I found them enormously comforting. This play is an epic tale based on a very old Chinese legend. The legend has changed over the centuries but is as common and well known in China as Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty is here. I saw the play last weekend in Ashland with a group of friends. The after-lecture led to a discussion with a friend who had attended the play with me about death and end of life experiences. Our mothers each had experiences in their final hours that convinced us that they were seeing something that comforted them and drew them to leave their bodies and reach out for something else. They didn’t so much leave their bodies as move on to something compelling and desirable. Char Lee’s mother told of speaking with her dead husband who was impatient for her to join him. He said “Hurry up old woman. What’s taking so long?” or words to that effect. My mother sat up in her hospital bed, a feat that should have been impossible considering that she had been in a drug induced coma. She saw something that made her happy. Her face was relaxed and full of joyful anticipation. As Char Lee and I tearfully shared these memories, we were comforted by the certainty that it is true, we do not die alone. Even if we don’t have family close by, there will be something amazing and wonderful to ease us when we transition into the next reality. I think that when that happens, this life will all seem like a dream that passed in a few minutes. The things we thought were important will fall away and we will see with new eyes. Even if we witness it happening, we cannot truly know what waits for us but I am convinced that it is good. When we let go of all we love here, there will be something better.

Japanese Dock-Newport, Oregon

Our June visit to Yachats coincided with the arrival of a floating cement dock from Japan. The dock is part of the debris from the tsunami that struck Japan after the Miyagi earthquake on Friday, March 11, 2011. It washed up on Agate Beach near Newport. The dock is seven feet high, 19 feet wide and 66 feet long. It looks a lot like a boxcar. It is the first official tsunami debris to reach Oregon. Kizzie and I thought we might see a barnacle encrusted wreck but instead found the structure had been scraped clean and was being blasted with fire from what looked to us like flame throwers. We saw workmen loosen hatches and proceed to scrape off the barnacles and mussels.

The ton and a half of marine organisms that had already been scraped off were bagged and buried inland. Experts didn’t expect so many of the organisms to survive the journey across the Pacific. They fear that the organisms may be invasive species that could destroy local marine life. Officials estimate that 5 million tons of debris washed into the Pacific Ocean after the tsunami and that about 70% of that sank. That leaves about 1.5 million tons floating our way. That’s a lot of scraping, burying and burning. What does it mean to have another country’s debris washing up in our front yard? What obligations do we have to sort, return and honor this enormous loss? I think we have the same duty we would hope for if things went the other way. I heard that a soccer ball found in Alaska was returned to the boy who lost it in the tsunami. My daughter, Kathy, lost her wedding ring and many other treasured possessions in Katrina after a hurried evacuation. I can’t help but think what it would mean to her to have even one of them returned intact. Instead, they are buried in toxic mud or already scraped up and added to some landfill. I hope we can do better by our Japanese neighbors.

Who doesn't love a swing?

 

What can make you feel younger than a swing?

Aging Gracefully Part II

I’m still thinking about this aging business. When you find that your own personal end of life is sooner than you had thought, it changes things. There are all those stages you go through—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Somewhere between denial and anger I find myself wanting to run around waving my arms in the air and shouting, “No, no. It’s all going too fast. I’m running out of time and I’m not done!” Then when it turns out that I’m actually not out of time, I forget all those important things that I thought I didn’t have time for and settle back into real life. Of course I did make a bucket list and I even managed to cross off quite a few of the things I put on it. Riding a Harley, zip lining, getting a puppy (two actually). Check, check, check. But right now this idea that I will soon enter the “old-old” part of my senior years is unsettling me. Last night I read an interview that Bill Moyers did with Sara Lawrence Lightfoot and think I like her views on aging better than the gerontologist’s view. She had dubbed the quarter century of life between the ages of fifty and seventy-five “the third chapter”. I like that because it implies a “forth chapter”. Yes, I know that implies living to the age of one hundred but since I’m not in the forth chapter yet, I won’t worry about that technicality. Ms Lightfoot says that this period is one of focusing energy, finding new means of expression and defining our personal passions. We can take time to step back and see what really matters to us and how we can cultivate our own creativity. She believes that maturity can help us be more innovative and purposeful. That all sounds good, but the danger for me, once the crisis is past, is that I will pop my metaphorical thumb back in my mouth and like Rosann Rosanna Danna say, “Never mind”.

Ode to Disneyworld

Can there be too much happiness in the land of happiness? Just find a viewing spot and watch it unfold for yourself. Enthusiastic parents only wishing to make their children the happiest children on earth, tow them from attraction to attraction--ignoring the warning signs until disaster strikes. Happiness overloads lead to dramatic meltdowns. Vesuvius could take lessons from the molten wrath of a furious three year old. “Oh, my God!” the parents say with their eyes as they stare at each other, bewildered. "Who is this child?” The child is so angry he can’t articulate his needs, his glassy eyed frenzy stuns them. They can’t begin to guess the cause of his flailing fury. What is this Magic Kingdom anyway? There is organization seldom seen in our everyday world. Keep things moving, amuse, distract, amaze. And all the while billfolds leak money. A bottle of water costs $2.50. That’s a bargain with temperatures in the 80’s. Themed park wear tempts with hats, shirts and key chains. We need these things to confirm we were there. Everyone has a camera. Sometimes two or more cameras. Hundreds, maybe thousands of cameras recording every activity so that later we can see what we saw and remember what we did. Cuisine? No, afraid not. Instead we have expensive institutional food served up with extreme efficiency in exotic looking food courts and restaurants. Somehow it all tastes much the same no matter the setting. Rides excite and make the most jaded adult gasp and scream, a child again for a few minutes. All is coordinated to facilitate maximum traffic flow. Indifferent audiences clap and file out to hurry to the next attraction on their intense program of calculated delights. All perfectly orchestrated to preserve the theme and deliver lessons in recycling, conservation, ecological responsibility and sensitivity to all creatures great and small. All good things, of course, but does the cost of running the park and staging giant pyrotechnic shows seem ironic to anyone? Anyone? Each area exists free of religion, strife or worship except for a brief “Namaste” at the beginning of the bird show. Here the African Kings and Queens get to sing and dance together. Genocide? Never heard of it. Why would we do that? God, Allah, Yahweh all absent. Unless you count the tourist shirts that say “Jesus Rocks” or “Birmingham Baptist Convention” Visitors are captured forever in their happiest moments of gaiety and celebration. Parades, spontaneous songfests, mandatory smiles, giggles optional. Disney characters meeting and greeting captivated fans of all ages. Color, music, sounds all synchronized to heighten the experience. Is this a better place? Could Disney solve our differences? Control traffic? Improve attitudes? Quite probably he could. Would we be better for it? Or would we, like the overloaded children, suffer a breakdown from too much of a good thing?

Aging Gracefully

Aging gracefully--whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think it means getting old without making a fuss or embarrassing your children too much. Like the time I was camping on the Oregon coast with my son and his wife and we went to Newport for a little shopping and lunch. I spotted a storefront with a donut machine churning out mini donuts. “Mini donuts” I shouted gleefully and proceeded to trip over the curb and fall flat on my face. I remember that we had lunch after I got up off the sidewalk and brushed myself off but I can’t recall whether I got any of those tempting mini donuts. It really is a shame how this little waterfront area can’t afford proper curbs and have these super tall ones that trip seniors. It’s a wonder they haven’t been sued. Or maybe it’s the mini donut people who should be sued for their tempting fragrance and the allure of the contraption that pumps out donuts by the dozen. Or maybe little old ladies shouldn’t be running for donuts. Nah, that can’t be it. So, what is “old” anyway? Anna Quindlen says, “Old is whatever you haven’t gotten to yet.” I think that’s usually about 15 years from where ever I am. Gerontologists say that now there is “young-old” (55-74) and “old-old” (75 and older). That might have seemed fair to me some years ago although I don’t think I ever thought “old age” began before 65. But now—now that I’m pushing 72, I resist the thought of being two years away from “old-old” age. My friend Vera is in her 80’s and is the furthest thing from elderly you could imagine. She drives almost two hours each way to get her hair done in Florence and then stops off at the casino for a little R & R. She defies definition. I shoud be more like her. Why should this aging business bother me in the least? Why should I care if I get automatic senior discounts and people yield their seats to me on a bus? If I slump a little and move slowly, almost nothing is expected of me. No one knows I’m 36 inside. Maybe it’s better for all of us if I take the discount and the seat and just smile.

Time Away

Time away is so very precious--not only for writing but for nourishing the soul. This weekend my friend Kizzie and I are in Yachats at the Overleaf Lodge, one of our favorite places. She is here to put the final touches on her book, "A Tall Tale about a short Long Dog: How Dachshunds Came to Be". Kizzie shared a mock up of her whimsical book with me. Her story and the art work by Scott Ward are captivating. The best part for us is that the whole thing started with a writing exercise we did several years back while staying here at the Overleaf Lodge. We had lunch at a local restaurant and I gave us the assignment to write a tall tale. Kizzie has been perfecting her story ever since and now she is preparing for a book launch in October. Amazing and inspiring. It makes me want to jump start my own writing which has been not only on the back burner but moved off the stove altogether for some time. If you can't write here, you can't write I tell myself. There are no chores, no responsibilities and no need to even look at clocks. The tides dominate--low tide for exploring and high tide for dramatic, crashing waves. The sunshine wakes us in the morning and when we can no longer see the waves, it's time for wine and conversation. Here we are not interrupted by every day oughts and shoulds. Conversation drifts from topic to topic and sometimes come full circle--leapfrogging along from tears to laughter to moments of quiet introspection. Inspired by the beauty of water, trees and wild life and nurtured by the easy pace, I feel untethered and blessed.

Signing Back In

I know I said I was done, but it turns out I'm not. It seems that, like it or not, some part of me is still writing. Even if I don't write it down, the writing continues. So, I might as well write it down because sometimes it's interesting to read what I was thinking after I forgot about it. Tricky thing this thinking business. I read that the difference between a writer and an author is that writers write and authors are published (for pay presumably). That puts me in the writers camp which is fine with me. I think that writing is a solitary sort of activity. It's nice to have someone read what you write and give you 'atta girls' or respond that they feel the same way and thought they were the only one who saw things quite that way. At the heart of it, at least for me, writing is just another way of talking to myself. So here we go again. This image is my Guardian of Hope, a gift from my friend Kizzie.