I thought not.
O.K., so you aren’t wondering at all--but I have need to talk it through anyway, so may we pull up a seat for a minute or two and explore? Why? Well, because this is a subject close--very, very close--to my own heart right now. More than that, it’s razor close to my life. And I need to work it through. So, here goes…
Yule, the time on the Wheel of Life akin to the Age of Mystery is, perhaps the most desolate, sparse phase of Development there is; it is, essentially, the least understood time of all: Death. Desolate? Sparse? I guess. But, is this really so, or is this just my perception, based on proximity and fear or, some other emotional baggage I may be carrying? Probably all of the above. But, why?
Well, for one thing, Grandma went into a nursing home this week. I saw her today--bruised, broken arm, stitches in her forehead. The fall that took her independence away came last Saturday--it felled her freedom and her short-term memory like a loggers axe and, now, she sits with all the dignity of Her Royal Majesty in a strange room, with an even stranger roommate, and no expectation that she’ll get out of this situation alive. Grandma is ninety years-old and this, to me, seems “desolate and sparse,” you can bet it does. But, let’s take a closer look…
In many ways, the Age of Mystery is no mystery at all. We grow old, we die. We all get this, as a matter of fact, even if we don’t like it very much. But can we ever, really get the full impact of it--unless we ourselves are sitting in that blue chair, with our walker beside us, and our dignity hiding somewhere, shamefaced, and completely out of sight? There is nothing mysterious about this at all. There is no mystery to falling, quite literally, into decrepitude and dependence, from a prior perch of strength and independence, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Unless… you separate yourself and your thinking from the body and the mind. Unless you look upon the journey as what it truly is--something other than a physical, or even emotional walk--but, rather, a spiritual one. Then, you need to look that spiritual journey right in the eye--without blinking.
I get so angry when I hear people saying things like, they will not visit anyone in a hospital or nursing home because they themselves “cannot handle it.” Or, they will never place anyone they love in any kind of long-term nursing facility because they themselves simply could not stand to visit them in such a place. How dare they, I think, be so self absorbed--how can they be so selfish?
Well, how dare I judge them so harshly?
The simple fact is, the spiritual journey is as real for those in, say, the Age of Innocence (ignorance?) as it is for those in any other Age. Facing death is a spiritual journey, no matter how close one may seem to be to it, or how far away. Just because a person may feel--or be--far removed from death or from the dying process, does not mean that they are not on the pathway of death just the same. I have no right to make harsh judgements of anyone’s Death Walk. I want to sometimes, but I have no business doing it.
So, here we are, a quarter past Yule--meaning, we are in the depths of Winter, in the shadow place of Death--with the clock ticking resolutely toward Rebirth. Because, in the nucleus of every death, there is the seedling of life, just waiting for the light to return; for the light of Candlemas to show itself again. And, for many of us, it is a damned dark and frightening place to be. So, we look the other way. Or, try to. Want to. Need to. And, who can blame us? Who should blame us? Certainly not I.
For the record, Grandma is sitting calmly in her chair, looking her coming death squarely in the eye, with all the poise and dignity of a Goddess. She has dominion over her grace and control, if not always of her body or mind, then certainly of her emotions and, in the final analysis, she is one amazing old woman. She is teaching me, with the gentle touch of a cooing dove, that peace is a state of being that we can and will all own--in our own time, at our own pace, and in our own way--nobody else’s.
You go Grandma!
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