As a young child I fought hard against falling asleep.
I hid myself when my pajamas appeared. I refused to nap and screeched like a night owl at bedtime. Though too young to be verbal, my senses were attuned to my surroundings, and I resisted going down with every fiber of my being. My grandfather recorded one of these legendary bedtime bouts on16 mm film, ending with my youthful father eventually pressing a knee against my chest to hold me on my back. Pajamas on after the battle, I was down all right, but my eyes were open as I stared blankly at the ceiling; dad pounded his chest for Grandpa’s camera, smiling in victory.
The Sandman was the real victor then and always. The ultimate relief-giver, he left me with my limbs oddly twisted and a thumb jammed inside my mouth. I slept soundly after all the commotion.
Eventually my eyes would click open like those of a doll, and I’d be ready for the next rebel round of life, which always started with my tired mother dragging a hard brush through my tangled hair until my head, and even my eyebrows, hurt.
~~~
Today I sometimes sit with those who have come to, or who are approaching, the end of their lives. The world is filled with people who claim they know and are reassured by the peaceful heaven that was/is promised to them. Their certainty does not always ease the journey of the letting-go-of-this-life experience.
“It scares me to close my eyes now.” Some are wracked with anxiety, medicated but still frenetic. So much is left undone, unsaid.
I understand and am reminded of the child I was: fearful, rebellious, directionless, intent on seeing everything through on my terms, my own way, finishing whatever needed doing.
I remind them of the first jolt of their lives, when the peace of the womb was forever interrupted by their emergence into reality as we know it.
If they need prayers, we pray in the way that feels right to them. If they need stories, we find old photos and reminisce. If they need escape from the pressures that impending separations provoke, we try meditation. Below, I’ve written out the one that seems to work best.
I learned the following via Alwyn Clement, a British Spiritual Lead (their term for institutional “chaplain”) two years ago.
I thought I’d leave it here and wherever else it lands. May it travel to help others where it needs to.
I’m going to put it in my Five Wishes book for my children to read to me when the time comes.
~~~
Speak gently and slowly to the person who struggles or grieves and pause often. Breathe deeply at least three times. Breathing together imparts a sense of spiritual kinship that’s hard to describe - but it deepens the experience of companionship.
A Meditation
At this moment, there’s nowhere else to be.
There is nothing else to do.
Let’s imagine a landscape that’s beautiful to you. It may be a field, a pasture, a garden…in the distance, you hear a bubbling stream.
As you enter the scene, allow it to grow. It gets larger as you begin to explore with each one of your senses.
What can you see…?
What do you hear…?
What can you smell…?
What can you taste…? What is there to touch….?
A gentle breeze flows. Can you feel the sun on your skin? As its warmth intensifies, settling into your core, feel yourself relax further as you wander through this beautiful landscape.
Just ahead, look - there’s a great ancient tree, its trunk vast and sturdy.
As you approach, wind rustles through its lush canopy of green leaves, a shelter against the bright sun overhead.
This ancient tree has watched people come and go through centuries.
You come upon a bench tucked in amongst the old tree’s great roots that break through the surface of the ground beneath your feet.
Take a seat there. Relax against the tree’s sturdy trunk.
Notice all the things you can see and hear right now, leaning into this tree.
Notice how you feel as you sit.
Feel the strength of the ancient tree at your back.
Let everything go quiet.
There is a message to you from the tree. Lean back into it –
Listen with your heart. Listen for the message.
Listen – what is it the tree says to you? Your heart hears it and understands.
When you think you’ve heard the message
Get up from the seat, and…
Walk back the way you came.
Back to where you started.
Gently let the images of that place fall away…bring yourself to real time.
When you’re ready, open your eyes; you’ll find yourself…awake.
A final memory. My Grandma Baillie – married to Grandpa the photographer/recorder—had two beds in her bedroom, one for me when I spent night with her. There, I could not wait for night to fall so we could settle in by ourselves.
After we each tucked in, she sheltered me with gentle invitations and stories. She sang old songs for me and taught me words. There, awake or asleep, peace descended, and I experienced joyfulness and ease.
Like the old trees around me, Grandma remains. I still lean in her direction, so much so that I want to be her.