Day: February 9, 2016

Being mortal, writes Dr. Atul Gawande in his new book Being Mortal, is about the struggle to cope with the constraints of our biology, within the limits set by genes and cells and flesh and bones.

Only the Gods are immortal, they don’t have to think about how to die.

I think I became a hospice volunteer in part to confront death face-to-face, to understand it.  I wanted to learn how to die well, I didn’t want to wait until I was too helpless or ill to decide. At every step of my life, I have paused to consider how I wanted to live. It is just as important to consider how I wish to die.

The young do not know they are going to die, and older people don’t like to think about it. In our culture death is a heresy, a taboo, something to never be mentioned in public or discussed in media or movies or popular culture or corporate marketing, at least not beyond mayhem and murder.  The marketers that shape our culture hate death, it doesn’t sell one thing. It is the ghost in the room, the shadow on the soul.

Most of us will not die on the battlefield or in gunfights with bad guys, our choices are critical but far less dramatic. But we do have choices.

I learned in  hospice that the people who die well are the ones who think about it and talk about it. The people who hide from it and deny it are pulled along by forces well beyond their control. They don’t die their death, they die somebody else’s death.  They lose all power not only over their lives at the end but of their deaths, of the way they leave the world. Medicine, writes Dr. Gawande, flees from the very idea of death and has taken the dying process away from families and private individuals.

As recently as 1945, almost everyone died at home in their own beds, most often with their own families or friends caring for them.  Even small children saw death and came to understand it.

That world is gone, death is a medical issue, not a personal one. Most Americans now die in hospitals and nursing homes, many have no say in how they die, how they spend their final moments or who with. Few people see death or know much about it, the old and sick are taken away and hidden from the rest of the world. We are as disconnected from death as we are from the natural world and from animals.

Quite often, people can’t even control the medicines they are given, the surgeries performed on them,  or even the places in which they wish to end their lives.

Because death is so hidden, is such a taboo, few people have any way of thinking about it or preparing for it. My hospice work taught me that death is sad, but not only sad. The people who did talk about it and think about it often left the world in peace, sometimes laughing and smiling, their final moments meaningful and with dignity, often with the people they love, as comfortable as they can be made to be.

We begin dying from the moment we are born. Our time in the world is short, our bodies begin to fall apart from the first day. Medicine can make our lives longer, but not necessarily better. Modern medicine is a powerful machine that pushes us along, but does not include our wishes in the journey. In my hospice work I have seen too many people suffer too much at the hands of well-meaning doctors who have never talked or thought about the dying process, and have nothing to offer people but surgeries and pills. Most doctors can’t give up and let death come, they don’t know how or they aren’t permitted to.

I am not planning on dying soon, but I am a lot closer to the end than the beginning. I want to think about death from time to time, write about it.

Dr. Gawande’s book is a good starting point for anyone. Hard reading at times, powerful reading.

Despite the miracles of modern technology, he writes, “decline remains our fate.” Most doctors, he says, “don’t think about this. We’re good at addressing specific, individual problems – colon cancer, high blood pressure, arthritic knees. Give us a disease and we can do something about it. But give us an elderly woman with high blood pressure, arthritic knees, and various other ailments besides – an elderly woman at risk of losing the life she enjoys- and we hardly know what to do and can only make matters worse.”

I’d love to live a long time, perhaps to be a grandfather one day, maybe to get my big book, maybe to complete my transition to a new kind of writer, maybe to put some money in the bank, perhaps to take Maria to Florence to see the art there. I don’t intend to wallow in death, I mean to dance to the grave.

But I don’t wish to hide from it either, I don’t want it to be a taboo in my writing, on my blog, in my mind. Death is as much a part of life as breathing, I want to learn how to think about it and prepare for it wisely and well. You are invited to come along for the trip, as usual. I am beginning to be old, this is not a time for me to scale back my life, but to see it clearly and bravely.

With my last breath, I hope to exhale my love for Maria, and thank her for bringing light and meaning to my troubled life. I intend to plan to be able to do it, because that means I will have found a way to have the death I want to have, not the death someone else has chosen for me

The Red Hen from the Gulley farm, our stand-in-refugee during one of the latest refugee hysterias, has bonded with Minnie the barn cat. Minnie grew up with chickens at the first Bedlam Farm, she was a shy and feral kitten when she came. The Red Hen, who was chased around by the other chickens, loves to sit with Minnie when she is sitting on the Fiber Chair.

When Minnie was in the house, as she was today, the Red Hen stood by the chair waiting for her. We think Minnie thinks she is a chicken, he is always with them, often napping with them in the shade. But she and the Red Hen are particular friends, they are always together.

I went to Battenkill Books with Red today to sign some books people had purchased from Connie Brooks and wanted me to personalize. I haven’t put up a picture of Connie or the bookstore in awhile, and I like to mention them often, Battenkill is my local bookstore, a beautiful bookstore, and Red is deeply attached to it, we have spent many Saturday and other mornings in the store.

Red loves to greet people, especially children. Connie went to sit down and talk with me, and I had this idea that it would be nice to get a photo of her with Red. Red has never jumped up onto any chair, in our home or anywhere, certainly not without permission. I recall the idea flashing through my mind that it would be sweet if Red would come up to her, but I never asked him to jump up, and he has never jumped up onto a chair with or without someone in it.

He is not permitted on chairs, and as a therapy dog, he is scrupulous about not moving towards people without being asked.

Suddenly, he climbed up and onto Connie’s lap and the two of them just fell into the other’s arms, Red tucked his head against her chest and she held him for several minutes. Truthfully, it was a very beautiful thing to see. Red and I are telepathic, we know what the other is thinking, I only have to blink or turn my head – or even think of an image – and he responds to it.

We are both very connected to this store, it is a part of our community, of my creative life, and a part of Red’s as well. We have been to many readings there, many books signings, many visits to see Connie or buy a book.

It was very clear to me that Red knew what I wanted and what I needed, perhaps more than I did. He is the most remarkably sweet and intuitive animal, I am ever grateful to Dr. Karen Thompson, one of the great breeders I have known, for him.

Winter is making a guest appearance this and next week. Late last night, I took Fate out to the pasture gate to check on the animals in the storm, to make sure the chicken coop was closed up and there was water in the heated bucket. This is a long-time tradition with me I did it with Rose, with Izzy, sometimes with Red, sometimes with Fate.

There is something timeless and beautiful about this chore, Fate goes and sits by the pasture gate, eager to work, oblivious to the snow and ice pouring down on ice.

Moments like this especially make me love my life here, this is something that l lives in the blood of humans I think, I know it lives in my blood. Fate is trooper, like Rose in that way. Up for anything, as long as it is work. More winter coming, frigid temperatures this weekend. About time. We are ready.

Maria and I had an argument last night, it is rare for us to argue and this one was not important and did not last very long. But it was upsetting for me, and her too. Arguments are healthy, they can be cleansing and they often lead to understanding and growth. But they are disturbing.

This morning, I couldn’t quite remember what the fight was about, and neither did she. The truth is, we had no idea what we were arguing about. It just didn’t feel good, and something beneath the surface wanted to come out.

It was an old and familiar feeling to me. I always thought my life should be free of conflict and argument. I always thought good people do not fight, do not lose their temper.  I have heard too much arguing in my life, especially the kind that is irrational and unreasoning, and that is not ever resolvable. For children, that can be unbearable.

I heard the Dalai Lama say once that if you worked with him every day, you would see him argue and lose his temper constantly. I sort of got it then, goodness is something we aspire too, but those of us who are moral can never fully and completely achieve if. Give yourself a break, a good therapist told me. You are a good person mostly because you want to be.

For me, conflict is laden,  it triggers old and deep fears and hurts and anger.

Conflict deflates me, and turns me inward. Conflict ignites my old mistrust of people and wariness. It takes me awhile to recover from conflict, but I always do. Otherwise, I might perish.

I feel sometimes as if I have lived a life of conflict, it is has propelled me, damaged me, upset others, shaped my life in good and bad ways, hurt people I love,  kept me away from people, from community. I am sometimes too much at ease belong alone. It is just safer to be lonely sometimes. Intimacy is fraught, sometimes I think I just need to step back from my love from Maria, it is frightening to need it so much.

The angry, sometimes cruel conflict in the political system  affects me also, anger and conflict are in the air we breathe. If feels familiar to me, and dangerous.  When leaders don’t lead, but follow, we all feel vulnerable and at risk. We have to find our better selves by ourself.

What heals? Creation. Creativity. Both are divine.

Creativity has always been my response to fear and conflict, my creativity, my writing, my photography, even my love,  was created out of conflict and hurtful argument. Creation has brought me to a better place, a place of healing and understanding.

I know now that suffering is a part of life, and I accept it. So is conflict.

Wherever groups of people gather,  villains are needed.  Thomas Paine wrote that human communities do not possess the moral virtue to govern themselves wisely and well, so it is necessary to give other people authority and control. And human beings hate authority and control, they inevitable conflict with it. That was always a big part of my life, on both ends, the one in charge, the one who is not.

So the wheel turns and turns.

Human beings seem to always need someone to hate, it defines and organizes them in some way.  I guess it is the Devil’s community.  They also need someone to love and inspire them with goodness. I guess we call that the Lord’s Work. When I am in conflict, I always try to talk it out, to work it out. I am always astonished and bewildered by how many people don’t care to work it out or talk it out, they are drawn to drama and conflict like moths to light. They need it, it fuels them in some way, justifies the hurt and pain in their lives.

I have learned this about conflict. It can happen to an of us at anytime, no one is beyond it or above. But if people don’t want to work it out with me, don’t want to talk about it with me, then I let go of it, that is their problem, not mine.

I know now that I will never live a life without conflict, that some people will always need to hate me and argue with me for all kinds of reasons. Most of them do not know me and will never meet me.

But I know better than to label myself good or bad when conflict happens,  or pretend to see the future. I am wiser and more accepting. Conflict, like suffering, is a part of life. Conflict does not mean I am a bad person, grace comes from my response, from my wish to be better, to face myself with truth and clarity. I l live in the world I live on.  In the era of Facebook,  friendships can be as thick as rice paper. They can come apart in a flash.

The shrink was right. I believe I am a flawed person but a person who wants to be good. That makes me a good person.

And then there is the modern world. There are so many broken and wounded people in the world whose hurt and fury are now only a few clicks on a keyboard away. The brave new world of social media asks much of us, it asks us to swim in conflict and be enveloped by it and call it community.

But conflict is teaching me still, cleansing me, calling to me to learn and be better.

What I needed to change was the fantasy that I could live without it, that truly good people don’t experience conflict. That is a conceit.

I have learned something else: my life is not an argument, neither are my ideas. In our connected world, every idea is disliked and feared by someone, I do not spend my life arguing my ideas. People can take them or leave them, nothing would kill my creativity more than a head full of slights and arguments.

And I am increasingly appreciative of conflict as I have come to understand how it has shaped and inspired me, and how curiously natural a thing it is.

Creativity is my tonic, it has always been,  and I have often wondered about the birth of creativity, about creative arousal.

I found some guidance this week reading the mystical writing of the Kabbalah, which is filled with writing and visions about the creative spark.

The world, say the mystics, could only be created by virtue of the actions of the righteous, the arousal of those below. God was in conflict with the earth and people he created, he was disappointed, he sought goodness: he contemplated the good deeds of the righteous, then yet to be created, and this act of thinking was powerful enough to actualize the thought.

God drew forth the light from within himself and was delighted and uplifted with holy people, those who would eventually come to be in the world.

“This joy,” wrote the mystics, “engendered undulation, greater delight. In the bliss of contemplating the righteous, of imagining  good and holy people, in this fluctuation, the power to create was born.

Creativity was born. The creative spark was given to every human being in the world, it was up to them to feel it and use it. God told the prophets that the people had only two things to fear from him: failure to give the poor hope, and failure to heed the creative spark.

So creativity, say the mystics, was born out of conflict. It is a powerful idea for me.