postcards from nowhere

Greetings!

This autumn has been just spectacular. Usually in Colorado fall lasts 
about a week.  The trees start to change color, it gets really cold and 
snows, and the leaves drop, all in a matter of days. But this year, 
we've had exceptionally warm weather, and the leaves have stayed on the 
trees long enough to change into a gorgeous rainbow of colors.  The urge 
to be outside is almost irresistible.

Fall will never be the same for me after last year.  On October 23rd, 
my dad died of cancer.  During his last few weeks, I was in close touch 
by telephone.  When the call came for me to fly home, I was out planting 
tulips in the yard.  I remember talking to my mom and crying as I planted
the bulbs in the earth, aware that my tears would feed new life in the 
spring.

I had just come back from seeing him 10 days earlier. We knew that his 
time was short, and I wanted to be with him while he was still doing 
relatively well.  One moment from that visit stands out particularly 
clearly in my memory. 

He was sleeping really late in the mornings by then.  He came slowly 
down the stairs about noon, and my mom cooked him his favorite breakfast.
I put on his favorite jazz CD, and he brought his plate into the living 
room to eat.  As he settled in on the couch he took a satisfied breath 
and surveyed the room.  With a big smile on his face he said, "Boy, this 
is really nice.  I have my favorite music, good food, and my family with 
me." As tears welled up in my eyes, he took a small bite of his food and 
chewed it slowly, savoring every sensation.  He wasn't able to eat much, 
but every mouthful was a small miracle.

When I went back 10 days later, he wasn't getting out of bed anymore.  
He wasn't eating, either.   But he was still conscious, and still 
savoring life.  When I walked in his eyes lit up, and he reached out 
his hand towards me.  

A few days later, the only mode of expression left to him was his eyes.  
It's amazing how much can be said with only eyebrows!  As outer means of 
communication were diminishing, the inner connection between us was 
expanding.  As I sat next to his bed holding his hand, I knew what was 
in his heart.  He was surrendered, at peace, unafraid.  He simply took 
each moment as it came.  

Because of the relatively slow progression of his disease, he had been 
able to tie up all loose ends and make peace with his life.  There was 
no unfinished business to keep him here, no resistance to letting go.  
But despite being so surrendered to death, his heart continued to beat, 
and his lungs continued to breathe.  As all of life, even death comes on 
its own schedule.  His eyes told me that despite the labored appearance 
of his body, he was inside there just patiently waiting for the bus.

When the bus finally pulled into the station, we were all there at his 
bedside.  My mom, my two brothers, and me.  One minute his breath was 
labored and raspy, and the next it was gone.  He never even closed his 
eyes. 

I'd never witnessed a death before.  What was the most surprising to me 
was that I never felt him leave.  Even to this day, I still feel him as 
though he were here.  I can hear his advice when I want to, and feel his 
strong comforting presence.  Perhaps it is because I have lived 900 miles
away for 10 years, and I have become accustomed to the absence of his 
physical presence.  Or perhaps the essence of a person really does live 
on after the body dies. 

When I cry, even at the funeral when I cried, it was not from grief or 
a sense of loss.  It was from a profoundly deep place of sweetness and 
tenderness. The one-of-a-kind expression of the energy of life that was 
my dad will never again exist.  The totality of him, all the idiosyncracies
and treasures and sometimes frustrating qualites, will never be embodied 
in the same way again.

And this is the gift his death has given me.  When I came back home, I 
saw those around me through different eyes.  I knew, really knew, that 
their quirks and idiosyncracies would become precious memories when they 
were gone from my life.  It's not much of a stretch from that knowledge 
to a place of acceptance in the now.   

Death is the great leveler and destroyer of judgment.  My dad was not a 
perfect person.  But he was perfectly himself.   And if he were to walk 
back through my door today, I wouldn't change a thing about him.

So every autumn, I will use the changing leaves and falling snow as a 
reminder.  A reminder that nothing lasts forever, and that if I wish 
away this moment, or a particular trait in someone I love, I am missing 
out on the joy of savoring unique perfection.   Because Life only creates
originals.  Like snowflakes, not one of us will ever be replicated.  

Snowflakes melt so quickly . . .  why spend even one instant wishing that
one snowflake was more like another?   Just catch it on your mitten and 
enjoy it while it lasts. 

Blessings,

Karen