“If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, living or dead, who would it be?”
My husband’s reply was swift: “My Dad.” Marc’s parents had both died within the last few years.
“What would you ask?”
“Lots of things.”
Who would you be with, and what would you ask?
As Marc and I discussed dinners with the dead, I shared my latest experiment in the realm of spiritual connection. I’d just had my annual MRI exam, my head and torso in a noisy tunnel for a little more than thirty minutes. Normally, I meditate while listening to spa music. This time I asked for nothing but whatever muffle the earphones afforded (not much).
Just as “tapping” can help some anxiety sufferers, and those suffering from post-traumatic stress injuries, I wondered if an aural version of facial tapping might free me to go more deeply into myself. Far-fetched, but I figured the experiment would be low risk. Just maybe, I’d find a deeper resonance, (no pun intended), or state of being.
I “hid” from the clanging noise by mentally creating a house with many rooms. Within each room I visualized someone important to me who had died, waiting for me.
With the IV in place and the machine clanging as I lay motionless, I visited each special person and asked each: “What was the lesson of your life to me?” Some I thought I knew, but others I was still trying to understand.
These engaging little conversations took about five minutes each before I was rudely interrupted by silence, followed by notification that my test had been completed. I came out of the experience feeling energetic, despite the inevitable stiffness, and oddly informed.
Wherever I’d really had these intentional conversations, within the confines of my active imagination or in some alternate reality, doesn’t matter at all to me. What seems important is the nature of the question itself, followed by my focused, albeit forced attention on each interaction.
At the very least, I realized that intense curiosity provides quite a ticket to anywhere at all. I’ll share one insight gained in conversation with a special person that day. “If you want an easy transition from this life when you pass, remember this room we’re in. It was always your favorite place to be.”
Inspired by the experience of intentional communication, I bought a “mothers” journaling book, complete with handy questions to fill out and leave behind for my children to read someday. Of course, our kids can ask any deep question they want to ask us while we’re here with them. But it’s the rare adult child who goes there, with all the noise and distraction in this world. It takes precious time to meander in discussion with elder parents, and a longer time to really listen. Someday, our kids will have plenty of time and motivation to know us as best they can, or so we hope.
My new journal’s prompts make the writing easy. For example,
“Mom, what’s the most important life lesson you learned that you’d want me to always remember?” Here goes nothing ~
Life, According to Mother: Try Not to Fear Loss and Alone-ness.
That’s a pretty awkward statement, so I’ll do my best to elaborate.
From the very first separation, the moment an infant encounters its new limitless space, there’s a kind of grief as separation occurs. New bonds will form, but the nature of intimacy changes as time passes. Breakaways and chasms happen as a child grows up. Then, adult autonomy: a child grows into their own personhood.
The journey of life and love is always difficult. I think of the part of life where so much is gained: new love, new life, children, and then, lots of responsibilities and concerns that prevent us from the full pleasure of all that goodness. Things may sail along awhile, but grief in some form will eventually arrive, often as a surprise. We’re never ready to lose who, and what, we love. The loss of dear ones changes our life dynamic. Remnants of accumulated losses persist in signs and symbols throughout our lives.
Negative feelings have a way of sapping us. Anchoring yourself to your own center requires engaging with the energy of your emotions and stepping toward voids. I know well that this is not easy. I also know that no one I’ve ever met benefited from periods of prolonged despair from the seeming unfairness of it all.
Healing from loss to reclaim vitality is more than patching up and moving on. It’s seeing the cracks and voids as perennial holding areas for precious insights and memories as they alight. There is more to heaven and earth than can be contained in our philosophies, Shakespeare said in his time in language that still resonates.
Use such words as a balm upon your wounds. Even more importantly, reflect now on such things and find language and ideas that comfort you, even if it arrives wordlessly, for example, in songs. Look for life-affirming ideas and metaphors. That’s what I am trying to give you here, in this long book written in the archaic manner of cursive, along with something I know to be true.
Sorrow makes you feel helpless in the way we humans are. Please don’t ever let it make you hopeless.