Note # 49 – The Space We Leave Behind

I love the autumn. There’s a slow unwinding that happens in the world and within me, too – a respite after the busy fertility of summer, a last brilliant pause before the stillness of winter. 

Maybe it’s because deep down, I am a Celt – my people come from an emerald green island where it’s cloudy and rains a lot.  I love cool weather and warm sweaters; rainy days spent with a book (or a pen) and a fire. I think it’s literally in my genes.

And it’s been a fine autumn in a lot of ways.  I am slowly making my way back to writing, the fall colours have been breathtaking and I am working with a delightful and hilarious group of kids. I feel positively showered with blessings.

But there is also a certain melancholy this autumn. You see, three people I know have died in the past few months – two after long illnesses, one in a tragic accident. They were all my age. They were all loved. And now they’re just gone. It still seems unreal to me and I am surprised each time I remember that I can’t check in with them, that I can’t send them a quick text, that I won’t bump into them while I’m out walking Gavin.

It’s made me think a lot about mortality and how we live our lives and how, as Olivia says in Date Square Dharma, all we have are a few precious minutes on this earth.

There’s a story in Buddhism about a woman whose son has died. She comes to see the Buddha because she has heard that he can bring the dead back to life. He tells her that to do this he will need a mustard seed from every house in the village where no one has died.  The story says that the grieving mother ran from house to house asking for a mustard seed, only to discover that every single house in the village had been visited by death at some point. It was then that she understood that none of us are free from mortality.

These past weeks, as I’ve spent time at the palliative care wing, I have been thinking of that story even more and it’s made me look at my ordinary day through a different lens. A lens of gratitude mainly, but also a critical lens. Mary Oliver, as usual, said it best when she asked, “What are you going to do with your one wild and precious life?”

And so these past weeks, I’ve tried not to work so hard. I’ve played more. I’ve gone hiking more. I’ve spoken my mind more. I’ve tried to really be present for the people in my life. I’ve listened to more music and I’ve danced by myself on the street corner while walking Gavin at night – there’s no one there to see and Gavin doesn’t mind.

Death is inevitable the Buddha tells us, so what really matters? Surely it’s not our possessions – our cars, our furniture, our clothes. I think it’s the real stuff of life that matters – the people we loved, the things we created, the space that will be left when we depart.  

Seize your day, dear ones. Make it magnificent.

P.

P.S. Such respect and gratitude to all the hospice workers who treat those who are suffering with such dignity and care…