Book #4: 2017-A Year of Great Loss, and Hope — Content Rewriter

 (Jasper)

Chapter 32:  The Sacred Journey Through Loss: A Testament to Healing, Compassion, and the Transformative Power of Love

In the vast tapestry of human existence, few experiences penetrate the soul as profoundly as witnessing the dying process of those we cherish most. The year 2017 became a crucible of transformation in my life—a sacred passage through the darkest valleys of loss that ultimately illuminated the most radiant peaks of compassion, healing, and spiritual awakening. This narrative unfolds as a testament to the extraordinary capacity of the human heart to heal from trauma, to extend empathy beyond the boundaries of our own suffering, and to discover profound meaning in the face of mortality.

The Genesis of Awareness: Confronting the Shadows Within

The seeds of this profound journey were planted years earlier, in 2009, when my mother departed this earthly realm, leaving behind a wound that would take years to understand and to heal. Her death marked the beginning of my deeper awakening to the pervasive nature of oppression and repression that courses through the veins of our collective consciousness, and myself, like a poison, manifesting as physical, emotional, and social disease within both individual souls and the broader fabric of humanity.

As I observed the world around me with increasingly clarity, I became acutely aware of how our medical, economic, religious, cultural, political, and spiritual institutions have fundamentally failed in their understanding of humanity’s most basic needs. These systems, designed ostensibly to serve and heal, often perpetuate the very wounds they claim to address. The realization struck me with the force of revelation: we are collectively trapped in cycles of trauma that span generations, cycles that can only be broken through radical acts of compassion, understanding, and love.

This growing awareness was not merely intellectual—it lived and breathed within my very being. I saw how a dark force, common to all of humanity, had taken residence within my own heart and soul, manifesting as the repression of self and the oppression of others through judgment, fear, and separation. The recognition was both humbling and terrifying, for it meant acknowledging that I, too, was complicit in the very systems of oppression I sought to change.

My desire to help my father and male friends develop greater insight into these issues of oppression and repression became more than an abstract goal—it became a calling, a sacred mission that would eventually test every fiber of my being and transform me in ways I could never have imagined.

The Psychic Awakening: When Consciousness Transcends Boundaries

On January 11th, 2017, I experienced what could only be described as a seizure of consciousness—a profound disruption of my ordinary awareness that revealed the interconnected nature of all suffering. During this otherworldly experience, through a seldom accessed proprioceptive sense, I became acutely aware of a “black mass” in the left portion of my brain, a dense concentration of shadow that seemed to pulse with a dark energy.

What I didn’t understand at the time was that this vision was not merely personal—it was prophetic, a glimpse into the suffering that would soon manifest in the life of my dear friend Marty. On March 5, 2017, barely two months after my mysterious seizure, Marty had also suffered a seizure, though his was a major neurological event that would forever alter the trajectory of his life and mine.

The hospitalization at OHSU revealed the devastating truth: Marty harbored a brain tumor, a manifestation of the malignant melanoma he had been battling since late 2012. This was no longer merely a four-year recovery phase—this was a transition into the final chapter of his life, a chapter that would be written in the language of courage, fear, love, and ultimately, profound transformation.

The psychic connection I had experienced was both a gift and a burden. Through some mysterious mechanism of consciousness that transcends our ordinary understanding of reality, I had become attuned to Marty’s suffering on a level that defied rational explanation. This attunement would become one of the most challenging and ultimately transformative aspects of the journey ahead, teaching me that true empathy often requires us to carry the pain of others within our own hearts.

The Dance with Mortality: Embracing Life’s Finite Nature

As Marty’s condition worsened, I saw something both heartbreaking and beautiful: his determined effort to dive into the activities he’d put off for years, spurred by an unshakable sense that his time was running out. There’s something deeply moving about watching someone race against the clock of life, trying to fit a lifetime of unspoken dreams into the small space of remaining days. He shared with me his wish for a spiritual experience, to connect with the love and energy of God, the universe, the Great Spirit, much like the experiences his father and I had known.

The physical decline was swift and merciless. Within two days of our last normal conversation, Marty began losing all use of his left leg and arm, his body betraying him with a cruelty that seemed to mock his courageous spirit. The transition from independent man to wheelchair-bound patient was more than a physical transformation—it was a complete reorganization of identity, purpose, and possibility.

What struck me most profoundly during this period was Marty’s struggle with articulation—not merely the physical difficulty of forming words, but the existential challenge of finding language adequate to express the magnitude of his experience. How does one communicate the terror, the sadness, the strange beauty of watching one’s own life force ebb away? How does one share the intimate knowledge of approaching death with those who still believe in the illusion of permanence?

I began to understand that my role in Marty’s journey was not to fix or cure, but to witness—to be present with unwavering love and attention to the sacred unfolding of a soul’s final chapters. This witnessing required a kind of courage I had never before been called upon to demonstrate, for it meant facing my own terror of mortality, my own desperate attachment to the illusion of control over life and death.

The Crucible of Relationship: Love Tested by Suffering

As Marty’s condition worsened, the stress began to fracture the most important relationship in his life. The communication with his wife, once a source of strength and comfort, became increasingly strained under the weight of impending loss, financial fears, and the crushing reality of watching a beloved partner slowly fade away.

Marty’s revelation that he and his wife were experiencing insurmountable relationship issues added another layer of suffering to an already unbearable situation. Here was a man facing the ultimate transition, simultaneously grappling with the dissolution of the primary relationship that had given his life meaning and structure. The cruel irony was not lost on me—in his time of greatest need for love and support, the very foundation of that support was crumbling beneath him.

Near the end of August, Marty shared with me a perspective that revealed the depths of his compassion even in the face of his own mortality. He spoke of how it would be better to die quickly, ensuring that more financial resources would remain available for his wife after his death. This selfless concern for her future well-being, even as he faced the terror of his own ending, demonstrated the kind of love that transcends the boundaries of self-preservation.

My heart ached for this married couple—Sharon and I had shared countless outdoor adventures and community memories with them over the past 25 years. Watching the slow dissolution of their bond under the pressure of terminal illness was like witnessing the death of love itself, a preview of how even the strongest connections can be tested beyond their breaking point by the ultimate realities of human existence.

The Sacred Right: Death with Dignity and the Complexity of Choice

On September 10, 2017, Marty made a decision that would forever alter my understanding of autonomy, compassion, and the meaning of a “good death.” Without informing me of his intentions, he chose to exercise his right to Oregon’s Death with Dignity process—a decision that was both an assertion of personal sovereignty and a source of profound isolation for those who loved him.

The medication prescribed by his doctor was supposed to provide a peaceful transition, but death, it seemed, had its own timeline. Marty’s passage took nearly nineteen hours—a protracted journey that challenged every assumption about the mercy of medical intervention and the possibility of controlling our final moments. Those hours stretched like an eternity, each minute heavy with the weight of letting go, of surrendering to forces far greater than our human will.

He died on September 11, 2017—a date already seared into our collective memory as a day of profound loss and transformation. The synchronicity was not lost on me; Marty’s personal apocalypse unfolded against the backdrop of our nation’s annual remembrance of tragedy and resilience.

The disorientation and grief I experienced over Marty’s decision to use Death with Dignity revealed the complex emotions that arise when someone we love chooses to actively participate in their own departure. Part of me felt betrayed—not by his choice, but by his decision to make that choice without including me in the process. The exclusion from his final chapter felt like a rejection of the deep bond we had shared, a dismissal of my role as witness and companion on his journey.

Yet as I sat with these feelings over time, I came to understand that his choice was not about me at all—it was about reclaiming agency in a situation where agency had been systematically stripped away by disease, disability, and the medical system’s well-intentioned but often dehumanizing protocols. His decision was an act of radical self-determination, a final assertion of his essential humanity in the face of circumstances that threatened to reduce him to a collection of symptoms and prognoses.

The Convergence of Loss: When Grief Compounds Grief

As if the universe sought to test the very limits of my capacity for loss, my father’s death occurred on the day of Marty’s funeral—September 16, 2017. The convergence of these two profound departures created a surreal landscape of grief where the boundaries between different losses began to blur and merge into a singular experience of devastation.

The challenges of supporting Marty through his protracted dying process had already stretched my emotional resources to their breaking point. Now, faced with the simultaneous demands of grieving my friend while managing my father’s estate and navigating the complex family dynamics that emerge in the wake of death, I found myself in a state of psychological overwhelm that defied my usual coping mechanisms.

The logistics of death—the endless paperwork, the financial complexities, the legal requirements—felt like a grotesque mockery of the sacred nature of loss. While my soul yearned for space to process the magnitude of what had occurred, the practical world demanded immediate attention to details that seemed insignificant compared to the cosmic shifts taking place within my consciousness.

Perhaps most challenging of all was dealing with what I came to understand as the temporary insanity of grief as it manifested in Marty’s wife. Her ongoing spiritual dementia—a kind of psychological fragmentation that occurs when the mind cannot integrate the reality of ultimate loss—served as a mirror for my own potential for psychological dissolution in the face of overwhelming trauma.

Watching her struggle with the aftermath of Marty’s death, I saw the shadow side of survival—how those left behind must somehow find a way to continue existing in a world that has been fundamentally altered by absence. Her confusion, anger, and emotional volatility were not character flaws but natural responses to an unnatural situation: the sudden disappearance of the person around whom her entire life had been organized.

The Alchemy of Reconciliation: Healing Generational Wounds

In the midst of this crucible of loss, an unexpected opportunity for healing emerged. My father, who had been both a source of emotional wounding throughout my childhood and young adulthood as well as a supportive family member, was now approaching his own transition. The man who had so frequently and rudely damaged my sense of self-esteem when I was young was now vulnerable, dependent, and in need of the very compassion he had rarely shown to me.

The contemplation of whether to extend myself to his care was one of the most difficult spiritual challenges I had ever faced. Every fiber of my being that had been shaped by past hurts wanted to respond with the same indifference he had often shown to my emotional needs. Yet something deeper—a voice of wisdom that had been cultivated through years of recovery from alcoholism and drug addiction—whispered of a different possibility.

After extensive consultation with my wife, we discussed at length the potential risks and rewards of extending our hearts and lives to the man who had caused such pain in my formative years. The decision that emerged from these conversations was not based on obligation or guilt, but on a recognition of spiritual opportunity—the chance to break generational cycles of emotional abandonment and to demonstrate a different way of being human.

In the spirit of fairness and as a tribute to my newfound sense of spiritual integrity, I felt compelled to extend the hand of love to my father in his final stretch of days. This was not forgiveness in the traditional sense—it was something far more radical. It was the recognition that every human being, regardless of their past failures or cruelties, deserves to die surrounded by love rather than isolation.

The experience of caring for my father became a masterclass in the transformative power of compassion. He would walk out into our beautiful yard that adjoined a creek, where he delighted and felt somehow completed and made whole by being surrounded by the natural world. In these moments, watching his face light up at the sight of flowers and feeling the warm sun on his skin, I saw past the role he had played in my life to the essential being that resided within him.

Something miraculous occurred during this process: for the first time in my life, I felt a complete and total unconditional love for the man who was now appearing as my father. This was not the love of a son for a father, burdened by history and expectation, but the love of one soul recognizing another soul in its journey toward the ultimate mystery.

I knew inside, with the complete authority of the spirit that resided within me, that my father was so much more than the role he had played in life. The limitations, the emotional unavailability, the wounds he had inflicted—these were not his essence but the accumulated debris of his own unhealed trauma, passed down through generations of men who had never learned to express vulnerability or genuine emotion.

There are some who thought that my father was a horse’s ass, but that is the view one sometimes gets when in second place, having been passed by his race horse of a mind. A man like my father, who lived a full life, could have his own book written about him, and not scratch the surface of all the people that he impacted, positively or negatively, and all of the experiences that he had, all of the humor that he shared, and all of the wisdom that he developed. 

My sister, my wife, and I wrote several pages of “Beryl-isms”, which are quotes directly from my father about life in general.  I have presented a few of his “top 50” statements, which he repeated many times over the last few years of his life.  In parenthesis, I have included a few of my replies to his common statements that I used to give back to dad as part of our “conversation”..

1). Don’t wait too long to retire. People think they need to work those extra years, they work that extra one or two years, thinking they need the money, and death takes over, and they never make it to retirement (well, Dad, I retired early, but we will have to wait and see if that has any beneficial effect on my longevity.  Right now, my main goal is to try to outlive you, oh immortal one!).

2). Oh those rich people, all of that money, and they still have to die anyway! (and the rest of us, we have to die too, darn it!)

3). Why do you need to know, are you writing a book? (well, as a matter of fact I am!)

4). I really took the system, didn’t I? (after being retired and on pension for 35 years, contributing $22,742 to your pension, and getting over one million dollars back, I would say that you did!)

5). Come back again when you can’t stay so long (well, I am working on that one!)

6). Don’t you have something better to be doing? (yes, but you are the priority of the moment, so try to enjoy it while I try not to suffer too much)

7). Sure am glad that I am retired, or is it retarded? (um, I won’t touch that one)

8). I might be here, but I am not all here (then where is the rest of you?)

9). You know, having a dog like Rocky adds 7 years to my life (yes, but your dog took 7 years off of mine!)

10). (to any waitress) Say, you sure are looking good this evening. Would you like to come home with me and serve me my favorite meal? (argh! So embarrassing!)

11). I am not trying to be pretty, and I never will win any beauty contests (I can’t argue with you on that one)

12). The doctor needed a urine, stool, and semen sample, so I just left him my underwear (oh, boy, what a bad joke!)

13). You couldn’t hit a beach ball with a banjo! You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn! (comments made to me both as a youth when pitching or batting on little league baseball teams, and while playing golf with him as a child and as an adult)

14). When I get to Heaven, I am going to have a talk with the “Old Man” about my wife dying before me.  Wives are supposed to outlive the husbands.  Either I should have died first or we should have died at the same time (Maybe mom finished her work before you did.  In what form would you have wanted a simultaneous death, like in a murder/suicide, or in a car wreck?)

15). Son will we all meet again in heaven? (are you sure that you really want to hang out with the same crowd for eternity?)

16). Heaven is not ready for me yet, and Hell is afraid that I will take it over, so that is why I am still here (maybe you are still here to provide a few more lessons for the living.  I know that I sure am getting a crash course!).

17).  I am in no hurry to die.  Nobody I know has ever come back from the dead and told me what a great time that they are having after death. (yes, and wayward religions continue to capitalize on that mortal fear, ignore the fact that heaven is here and now, and do not effectively teach us how to die to ourselves and our fears and suffering to experience heaven in advance of bodily death)

18). I provided care for you all of those years when you were young, now its your turn to take care of this old man (I should have read the contract more carefully before my birth!)

19).  You should always be best friends with your sister.  Never let anything get in the way of that friendship, because she will find a way to love you to your death, as you should love her as well (Well, Dad, you sure have shown commitment to both your brother and your sister, especially over the last twenty years.  Somehow you all endeared yourselves to each other.  Thank you for being a success in that aspect of family love, and overcoming the chaos created by your parent’s relationship.  I think that Pam and I are on a good course right now)

And on and on it could go. My dad was a great story teller, and fountainhead of wisdom, one-liners, humor, self and other deprecation, and sarcasm.  My personality was so much less colorful than my father’s, yet, it is easy to see that I truly am my father’s son.  I have many of his same attitudes, and I replicated many of some of the same deficiencies in my own life that my father also experienced.

It was tough watching my father deteriorate, which began in earnest after his radiation treatment for prostate cancer in 2005. After mom died in 2009, Sharon and I had him over for dinner every evening. He was anxious, and suffered horribly from grief, and deteriorating cognitive health. I took him to the doctor’s office for treatment for depression in late 2009, and the doctor ending up prescribing anti-depressants for me instead. He continued to threaten to kill himself, and I had to locate all of his guns, and empty them. In the process of emptying his rifle, I almost shot myself in the foot, sending a bullet through his bedroom floor.

Within three more years, late in 2012, Sharon insisted that Dad have his driving competency evaluated, as he appeared to no longer be capable of driving safely. When the doctor confirmed that Dad should no longer drive, my life as I knew it came to an end. The loss of his independence also became my own loss, as well. I became responsible for 100 percent of Dad’s life, health, nutrition, meals, baths, finances, home and lawn care, and spiritual support. Dad no longer managed his life, other than dressing himself, going to the bathroom (mostly), smoking his cigars, and eating the food placed in front of him

I found a way to love that man on deeper and more profound levels, as I continued to release my own expectations of how he should be, and how he should live. His sole concerns became his love for his dog, Rocky, and maintaining residence in his own home until his own death. He had lost all short term memory, and was basically unteachable the last 5 years of his life, though he maintained his dignity, his sense of self, his recognition of his family, and his love for his children, including my wife Sharon. At the beginning of 2016, I finally hired a support person to help me with Dad’s care, a loving young woman by the name of Madison. She helped for about 15 hours per week, which went a long way to take some of the burden off of Sharon and me.

When Rocky died in June of 2016, ten days after our own dog Ginger’s death, Dad’s final thread of love and companionship with his past was snapped. He asked me over 5000 times where Rocky had disappeared to, after his dog’s death. I watch my father call out 30 times or more, Every Day, to his deceased dog, Rocky. We made up a sign for him, so that he can see, in writing, that his dog is dead, that it died of old age, and that he is ‘in heaven’. But, he never truly got it, because his short term memory was gone. At times, I felt compelled to set him straight, and tell him he is neglecting this moment, where Sharon White and i lived, and instead he was worshiping the dead,, where all of his grief and losses reside, but of course he quickly lost that. My heart broke for him, and for all of us

Our presences were just not quite enough to make all OK with Dad. But, we made him as comfortable as we could until his last days. He never took one medication, nor was I about to force one onto him. Dad’s final four years were a real labor of love for me, forcing me into early retirement from work, and the experience almost tanked me. But I learned how to love another human being unconditionally and completely, though the lesson plan exacted a price from me. I am only just now coming out from under the spells of anxiety and stress around the experience of care giving for my Dad, as well as being fully present for my friend Marty for the several months prior to his own death, which occurred five days prior to Dad’s death.

The last conversation that I had with my father was 6 hours before his death.

This is what we exchanged with each other:

Dad, you are still in bed, and its 2:30 in the afternoon, what’s up, it’s such a beautiful day outside.

You know son, I am always tired now, but I am about to get up.

Well, Dad, this might be the last sunny day in a long time, so why don’t you get up, and go out on the porch and have a cigar? I’ll put a chocolate bar on your table, and a drink for you.

I’ll get right up son. By the way, who is caring for me this evening?

Well, Dad, Madison is caring for you this evening.

Oh, poor Madison!

Dad, Madison benefits by being with you, as you do with her.

I will be with you beginning this Sunday morning, and I will be with you for the next three weeks as usual. You know we are planning one final trip to Hawaii with you, right?

Oh son, I am happy just staying at home. I have everything that I need here.

Well, OK dad. I am going to leave now, as I need to prepare for Marty’s funeral tomorrow.

When will I see you again, son?

Dad, it will be Sunday morning, OK?

OK, son, you know that I am dependent on you. Please take care of yourself.

Oh, dad, you know that I am dependent on you, too. You be careful too!

I love you, son.

I love you too, Dad.

I leave his room, not knowing this is to be our last exchange.

The next day, at 10:58am, as I stand in back of the hearse, as a pall bearer in Marty Crouch’s funeral, I prepare to receive Marty’s body to place into the hearse. I receive a call from Madison, which I cannot take, so I hand the phone to Sharon. Sharon is informed that my father is deceased. Sharon has to leave the service for our friend, and tend to my fathers’ body.

Oh, father, you really knew how to place your unique stamp on my life, didn’t you?

Through my relationship with my parents, I witnessed very early in life how women are oppressed, and how ignorant men try to dominate and control anyone or anything, including those that appear “unlike themselves and their own expectations”.

It took many years before my mother was able to stand up to my sometimes loud- mouthed, judgmental, aggressive, harsh, and insensitive father. It took me 61 years to face down completely my own internalized image of what a man is, as well. To finally see how completely that negative ‘male’ internal structure permeates human consciousness in general, and in my own unconscious mind, in all of its diverse, obvious and subtle forms, finally transformed me. My own repressed nature found the ability to communicate its message to me, and rather remarkably it has revealed itself in the form of the “divine feminine” and I refer to that activity as my “second birth” as a human being.

My father died on September 15, 2017. Dad died in his own bedroom on a Friday evening, and had the look of awe and wonder in his eyes and face. He had found his promised land, where loneliness, depression, and dementia disappears, and where ‘bums’ are converted back into the saints and angels that they always were, but were rarely recognized by others as being so. It took nearly my entire life to release my own misunderstanding and judgement towards my father, and allow for him to express himself in the only way that he knew how to, while still providing a loving protection for him in his time of greatest need.

I know all too well the effects of getting the “bum’s rush”, which is the cultural response to my own social insecurities. I now try to celebrate the saint and angel that lives within me, and within all of humanity’s children, which continues to be released from within me as I release my past, looking for its own unique new expression in this strange new world. I thought that my life’s work was over when I became sober and had a series of spiritual healing experiences beginning in 1987, and continuing for six years afterward. Now I know that my real life’s work has only just begun.

Note:  The Clackamas Country Police and Medical Examiner made life hell for Sharon and I, upon viewing my father’s death bed.  Sharon had cleaned up the bed sheets because father emptied his bowels after death.  Because Dad had a slight wound on the back of his head from a fall earlier in the week (he fell off of a chair when the leg broke) the police treated his bedroom like it was a crime scene.  We were forced to sit through SIX HOURS of investigation and interrogation, all because Sharon wanted to make dad’s death bed a more sacred setting for all of us.  Sharon wanted to make sure that I did not have to witness the fecal mess upon arrival, since I was already traumatized by having to leave a funeral, where I was a pallbearer for a best friend, to attend to my father’s body.  I don’t think that I have ever been more traumatized by any combination of events in my life.  The second injury caused by the ignorance and insensitivity of the police department is understandable, yet very painful.

We who knew and loved you in all phases of your lives miss you both, Mom and Dad. Now being an “orphan” with no children of my own has opened new vistas of understanding for me. The self that I fashioned as a response to my upbringing has no value now. I unconsciously chose a less colorful persona as a direct response to my fathers’ flamboyance, and now I release that choice, to open the door to a new, more conscious way of being in this world.  Who, or what, am I now? I am a mystery, even to myself. I need not be anxious, though the transition times from what  I thought I was to who I am predestined to become can create anxiety. I am to be forever walking into the unknowable present moment. Living into the Truth of that which is now is the new story of my life. If there is only One Mind, it can only be experienced by a journey through the Unknown.

In retrospect, My father only appeared to cast a shadow over my life. It was up to me to find my own unique voice, in my search for my own truth, so that I could arise from my own self-imposed shadows, and be with him as a partner on love’s endless journey. Those who did not learn to love my father, missed out on one of my life’s most precious gifts, yet there are many other opportunities to bring light into our own lives. The healing journey that I had with my father could be considered miraculous by some, yet it is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yes, that healing will die with me, as I have no heirs. Yet, the love that we shared, as a family, will live forever in the mind and heart, of God. 

Dad, I will love you until the final day.

The Mystery of Psychic Connection: Love as a Bridge Between Souls

Throughout Marty’s illness and decline, I continued to experience phenomena that challenged my understanding of the boundaries between self and other. Through some mysterious mechanism of consciousness, I felt Marty’s presence within my own sensitive, susceptible awareness. This was not imagination or wishful thinking—it was a tangible experience of shared consciousness that arose from the depths of love, compassion, and concern for his wellbeing.

This psychic attunement carried both gifts and burdens. On one hand, it allowed me to understand his experience with an intimacy that transcended ordinary communication. I could sense his fear, his sadness, his moments of peace, and his desperate longing to somehow make sense of what was happening to him. On the other hand, this connection meant carrying the weight of his suffering within my own consciousness, experiencing a kind of vicarious dying that tested the very limits of my emotional resilience.

The experience taught me that true empathy is not merely an intellectual exercise—it is a form of conscious participation in another’s reality. When we truly open our hearts to someone else’s pain, we risk being transformed by that pain. We risk discovering that the boundaries we imagine exist between ourselves and others are far more permeable than we had ever realized.

Throughout this period of heightened sensitivity, I continued to carry a sense of transcendence, as if a higher vibration of being was carrying me forward. My powers of insight, awareness, understanding, love, and compassion seemed to operate at their peak, as though Marty’s approaching death had somehow activated dormant capacities within my own consciousness.

This state of heightened awareness revealed the profound interconnectedness of all suffering and all healing. Every act of compassion, every moment of genuine presence, every choice to remain open-hearted in the face of pain contributed to a larger process of collective healing that extends far beyond our individual lives and relationships.

The Spirituality of Witnessing: Finding Sacred Purpose in Presence

As I reflect on these experiences years later, I have come to understand that one of the most sacred roles we can play in each other’s lives is that of witness—the one who sees, who remembers, who holds space for the full spectrum of human experience without trying to fix, change, or escape from what is unfolding.

Being present with Marty during his dying process required a kind of spiritual courage that I had never before been called upon to demonstrate. It meant sitting with the reality of impermanence, allowing the full weight of mortality to penetrate my consciousness without retreating into denial or distraction. It meant facing my own terror of death while simultaneously holding space for his terror, his sadness, his rage, and his moments of unexpected peace.

The witnessing role is not passive—it is an active engagement with the mystery of existence itself. Every moment of authentic presence becomes a form of prayer, a recognition of the sacred nature of life even in its most difficult expressions. When we truly witness another person’s journey through suffering, we participate in something far larger than our individual lives—we become agents of healing in a world desperate for genuine connection and understanding.

This understanding fundamentally altered my relationship with my own suffering. Instead of viewing pain as something to be avoided or quickly overcome, I began to see it as a teacher, a initiator into deeper levels of compassion and wisdom. Every experience of loss, every moment of heartbreak, every encounter with the harsh realities of human existence became an opportunity to develop the kind of empathy that can truly serve others in their darkest hours.

The Alchemy of Trauma: How Suffering Becomes Service

One of the most profound realizations to emerge from this period of intense loss was the understanding that our deepest wounds, when consciously engaged and allowed to heal, become our greatest sources of strength and service to others. The very experiences that once threatened to destroy me ultimately became the foundation for a more authentic and effective capacity to support others in their own journeys through trauma and loss.

The trauma of watching both Marty and my father die within a week of each other initially felt like more than my psyche could bear. The convergence of grief, the overwhelming practical demands, and the surreal nature of such concentrated loss created a state of consciousness that felt both dangerous and sacred—dangerous because it threatened the stable structures of my identity, sacred because it opened doorways to deeper truths about the nature of existence.

I was to experience several panic attacks in the subsequent three-month period which added a profound layer of psychological suffering to me. Yet, in the months that followed, I slowly integrated my life experiences and began to recognize patterns of healing that had previously been invisible to me. The same openness of heart that had made me vulnerable to such profound grief also made me capable of accessing levels of compassion and understanding that had been previously beyond my reach.

This process taught me that healing trauma is not about returning to some previous state of innocence or invulnerability—it is about transforming our wounds into wisdom, our pain into compassion, our personal suffering into universal service. Every scar becomes a place where light can enter, every broken place becomes a source of strength for others who are breaking in similar ways.

The recognition that trauma, when consciously engaged, becomes a form of initiation into deeper service fundamentally changed my relationship with my own difficult experiences. Instead of viewing them as unfortunate accidents or cosmic punishments, I began to see them as sacred preparations for the work I was being called to do in the world.

The Language of the Heart: Communication Beyond Words

One of the most challenging aspects of supporting both Marty and my father through their dying processes was learning to communicate on levels that transcended ordinary language. Both men struggled with articulation—not just the physical difficulty of forming words, but the existential challenge of finding language adequate to express the magnitude of their experiences.

How does one communicate the terror of approaching death to someone who still believes in the illusion of permanence? How does one share the strange beauty and unexpected gifts that emerge in the shadow of mortality? How does one express gratitude for a life well-lived while simultaneously grieving all the experiences that will never be?

I learned that in these sacred spaces of transition, the most important communication happens through presence itself—through the quality of attention we bring, through our willingness to sit with discomfort, through the love we radiate simply by choosing to remain open-hearted in the face of the ultimate mystery.

The eyes became our primary language. In the final exchanges with both my father and Marty, words were often inadequate to carry the full weight of what was being communicated. It was through sustained eye contact that we shared our deepest recognitions—the acknowledgment of love that transcends role and history, the recognition of shared humanity in the face of mortality, the gratitude for having been able to touch each other’s lives in meaningful ways.

This experience taught me that the most profound healing often happens in the spaces between words, in the silence that holds all possibilities, in the presence that says without speaking: “You are not alone in this. You are seen, you are loved, and your life has mattered.”

The Community of Grief: Healing in Relationship

While grief is ultimately a deeply personal journey, I learned that it is not meant to be traveled in isolation. The community that formed around both Marty’s and my father’s deaths became a crucial part of the healing process—not just for me, but for everyone touched by these losses.

Sharon, my wife, became not just a witness to my grief but a partner in the deeper transformation that these deaths made possible. Her willingness to support my care for my father demonstrated the kind of love that makes genuine healing possible. Her presence during the most difficult moments provided the stability and grounding that allowed me to remain open to the full intensity of the experience without losing myself in it.

Perhaps most importantly, I learned that healing grief requires both solitude and community—quiet spaces for personal integration and processing, as well as opportunities to share the story and be witnessed by others who care. The balance between these two needs is delicate and constantly shifting, but both are essential for moving through loss in a way that promotes genuine transformation rather than mere survival.

The Inheritance of Wisdom: What Death Teaches About Life

Each death that we witness closely becomes a teacher, offering lessons that can only be learned through direct encounter with the ultimate mystery. From Marty’s journey, I learned about the courage required to face our fate as human beings—the willingness to stare directly into the abyss of our own mortality without flinching or retreating into denial.

His decision to engage with Death with Dignity, while initially feeling like a betrayal, ultimately taught me about the sacred nature of personal autonomy and the importance of honoring each person’s right to determine the terms of their own existence. Even when those choices cause pain for those who love them, they represent a fundamental expression of human dignity that must be respected.

From my father’s death, I learned about the transformative power of forgiveness—not as a moral obligation or spiritual practice, but as a recognition of the divine essence that exists within every human being, regardless of the roles they have played or the wounds they have inflicted.

Both deaths taught me about the preciousness of time and the importance of expressing love while it can still be received. They taught me about the illusion of permanence that governs so much of our ordinary consciousness and the liberation that comes from truly accepting the temporary nature of all earthly relationships.

Most importantly, they taught me that death is not the opposite of life but its completion—the final movement in a symphony that gives meaning and poignancy to every note that came before. Without the reality of ending, nothing would have weight or significance. It is the temporary nature of our existence that makes every moment sacred, every connection precious, every opportunity for love and service urgent and meaningful.

The Practice of Presence: Cultivating Sacred Attention

The experiences of 2017 fundamentally altered my understanding of what it means to be truly present with another human being. I learned that presence is not a passive state but an active practice that requires tremendous courage, commitment, and skill.

True presence means being willing to feel what the other person is feeling without trying to change or fix their experience. It means sitting with discomfort without reaching for distractions. It means holding space for the full spectrum of human emotion—fear, anger, sadness, joy, despair, hope—without judgment or the need to push toward resolution.

This kind of presence is rare in our culture, which tends to prioritize problem-solving and emotional avoidance over genuine witnessing and support. We are taught to offer advice, to find silver linings, to help people “move on” or “get over” difficult experiences as quickly as possible. But what I learned through supporting both Marty and my father is that the greatest gift we can offer someone in crisis is simply our undivided, loving attention.

The practice of sacred attention requires us to develop tremendous tolerance for uncertainty and discomfort. We must learn to resist the impulse to fill silence with words, to provide false reassurance, or to project our own fears and anxieties onto the person we are trying to support.

Instead, we must learn to trust the intelligence of the heart—both our own and that of the person we are serving. We must believe that healing happens not through our interventions but through our willingness to create safe, loving space where natural processes of integration and transformation can unfold.

The Ripple Effects: How Individual Healing Serves the Collective

One of the most profound realizations to emerge from this period of intense loss and transformation was the understanding that individual healing is never merely personal—it always serves the larger web of relationships and community of which we are part.

When I chose to extend compassion to my father despite our difficult history, I was not just healing my own wounds—I was breaking generational patterns of emotional abandonment that had been passed down through family lineages for decades or perhaps centuries. This single act of conscious choice created ripples that extended far beyond my own experience.

My son witnessed this process and learned something about the possibility of choosing love over resentment, healing over perpetual woundedness. Future generations of our family will inherit the benefits of this healing work, even if they never know the specific story of how it began.

Similarly, the way I chose to support Marty through his dying process, despite the pain and challenges involved, contributed to a larger cultural conversation about how we as a society can better support people who are facing terminal illness. Every act of authentic presence, every moment of genuine compassion, every choice to remain open-hearted in the face of suffering adds to the collective wisdom about how to navigate these universal human experiences.

This understanding fundamentally changed my motivation for engaging in healing work. It was no longer about fixing my own problems or achieving some state of personal peace—it was about contributing to the larger project of reducing suffering and increasing love in the world.

When we heal ourselves, we heal our relationships. When we heal our relationships, we heal our communities. When we heal our communities, we heal the world. This is not metaphor or wishful thinking—it is the practical reality of how transformation actually works in the interconnected web of existence.

The Art of Letting Go: Release as Sacred Practice

Perhaps the most difficult and ultimately most liberating lesson from this period was learning the art of letting go—releasing attachment to outcomes, to timelines, to the way we think things should unfold. Both Marty’s and my father’s deaths required me to surrender any illusion of control over the process and learn to trust something far greater than my own will or understanding.

Letting go does not mean becoming passive or indifferent—it means engaging fully while holding lightly, caring deeply while remaining unattached to specific results. This paradoxical stance requires tremendous spiritual maturity and practice to develop.

With Marty, letting go meant accepting his decision to pursue Death with Dignity even though it felt like abandonment. It meant supporting his choice even when I disagreed with it, honoring his autonomy even when it caused me pain. It meant releasing my attachment to being included in every aspect of his journey and trusting that his decisions were emerging from a wisdom deeper than my own understanding.

With my father, letting go meant releasing decades of accumulated resentment and disappointment, choosing to see him through the eyes of love rather than the lens of historical hurt. It meant surrendering my attachment to receiving the acknowledgment or apology that I had always hoped for, and instead offering the gift of unconditional presence without expecting anything in return.

The practice of letting go is ultimately about recognizing that we are not in control of life’s fundamental processes—birth, death, love, loss, healing, transformation. Our role is to participate consciously and compassionately in these processes, but not to direct them according to our personal preferences or timelines.

This recognition is initially terrifying because it strips away the illusion of control that we use to manage our anxiety about existence. But ultimately it is profoundly liberating because it frees us from the exhausting burden of trying to manage outcomes that are fundamentally beyond our influence.

The Integration: Living the Lessons Daily

Years have passed since that transformative period of 2017, and the question that remains is how to integrate these profound lessons into the texture of daily life. How do we carry the wisdom gained through such intense experiences of loss into our ordinary interactions and responsibilities?

The answer, I have discovered, lies in understanding that every moment offers an opportunity to practice the same qualities of presence, compassion, and courage that were called forth during those peak experiences of transformation. Every conversation becomes a chance to truly listen, every encounter with difficulty becomes an opportunity to choose love over fear, every day becomes a practice in living with full awareness of life’s preciousness and impermanence.

The empathy developed through witnessing death up close translates into greater sensitivity to the ordinary sufferings of daily life—the coworker struggling with divorce, the neighbor dealing with chronic illness, the stranger whose rudeness might mask deep pain. The capacity to remain present with extreme discomfort makes it possible to stay open-hearted during smaller conflicts and disappointments.

The understanding of mortality’s reality makes every moment more vivid, every relationship more precious, every opportunity for kindness more urgent. When we truly accept that nothing lasts forever, we stop waiting for the “right” moment to express love, to offer forgiveness, to extend ourselves in service to others.

Perhaps most importantly, the recognition that individual healing serves the collective good transforms every choice we make into an opportunity for service. Every time we choose consciousness over reactivity, love over fear, healing over perpetual woundedness, we contribute to the larger project of reducing suffering in the world.

The Continuing Journey: Healing as Lifelong Practice

The experiences of 2017 were not the end of the healing journey but a profound deepening of it. They revealed that healing is not a destination but a way of traveling—a continuous practice of opening our hearts more fully, extending our compassion more widely, and allowing ourselves to be transformed by every encounter with love and loss.

The specific traumas that shaped those months—watching friends die, caring for a deteriorating father, navigating the complex emotions of grief and forgiveness—were unique to my personal story. But the universal themes they illuminated—the power of presence, the healing potential of forgiveness, the transformative nature of conscious suffering, the interconnectedness of all healing—offer guidance for anyone willing to engage their own wounds as gateways to wisdom and service.

This is the fundamental truth I have come to understand: our greatest wounds, when consciously engaged with love and support, become our greatest sources of strength and service to others. The very experiences that once threatened to destroy us can become the foundation for our most authentic and effective contributions to healing the world.

The journey continues. Each day brings new opportunities to practice presence, to extend compassion, to choose love over fear. Each encounter with suffering—whether our own or that of others—offers the chance to deepen our capacity for empathy and service. Each moment of conscious choice contributes to the larger healing of our communities, our families, and our world.

A Living Testament: The Ongoing Call to Compassion

As I conclude this reflection on one of the most transformative periods of my life, I am struck by the ongoing nature of the call to compassion that these experiences revealed. The lessons learned through witnessing death, practicing forgiveness, and choosing love in the face of profound loss are not meant to be stored as memories but lived as daily practices.

Every person we encounter is fighting battles we cannot see, carrying wounds we may never understand, longing for the same recognition and love that sustained me through my darkest hours. The capacity for empathy developed through conscious engagement with trauma becomes a gift we offer to the world simply by showing up with an open heart.

The willingness to remain present with suffering—whether our own or that of others—becomes a form of service to the collective healing our world desperately needs. In a culture that often promotes emotional avoidance and superficial solutions to deep problems, choosing to develop genuine capacity for witnessing and supporting others in their pain becomes a radical act of love.

The understanding that individual healing serves the collective good transforms every choice we make into an opportunity to contribute to something far greater than our personal wellbeing. When we heal ourselves, we heal our lineages. When we extend compassion despite our own wounds, we model a different way of being human for everyone in our sphere of influence.

This is the testament I offer: that healing from trauma is not only possible but can become the foundation for extraordinary service to others. That forgiveness, even in the most difficult circumstances, opens doorways to love we never knew existed. That presence—the simple gift of conscious, loving attention—may be the most powerful healing force available to us as human beings.

That death, far from being the enemy of life, can become our greatest teacher about what truly matters. That grief, when consciously engaged, can break our hearts open in ways that make us capable of loving more fully than we ever imagined possible.

And finally, that every moment of conscious choice to remain open-hearted in the face of pain, to extend empathy beyond our own experience, to choose love over fear, contributes to the healing of our world in ways we may never fully understand but can trust are absolutely real and infinitely meaningful.

The journey continues. The call to compassion remains. May we all find the courage to answer that call, not just in moments of crisis but in the sacred ordinary moments of every day, transforming our own healing into service to the healing of all beings.

 Book #4:  2017-A Year Of Great Loss, and Hope

A New Easter Sunrise

Over the years, I have become deeply disturbed by the developments within our shared world, within my individual consciousness, and the points of connection between self and other, through language, religion, and philosophy, that have created oppression, repression, and the resultant physical, emotional, and social disease.  Starting within myself, I have seen how a lifetime of oppression, and repression, had brought about a sequence of serious illnesses, physiological as well as spiritual.  I saw how a dark force, common to all of humanity, lived, moved, and had its being enshrined within my own heart and soul.  I also saw how the medical, economic, religious, cultural, political, and spiritual traditions had failed in their understanding of humanity, and it’s basic, innermost needs of a safe belonging, of being loved, valued and listened to.

Virtually all men and women have experienced oppression, repression, and the resultant diseases of the spirit at some point in their lives, and we have been both the victims, and the conscious and unconscious perpetrators, of this behavior. We have all attempted to manage our symptoms in our own unique, yet all too often broken and dysfunctional ways.  I have wanted to help myself, my father and several of my male friends, to develop greater insight into these issues over the years, but I did not find a consistent interest being expressed by others in exploring these issues with me.  But my friend Marty did begin to show great interest in my Facebook posts beginning late in 2016, and this opened the door to a different level of sharing between the two of us.  Concurrently, by this point in time, all other women and men had either ceased responding to my Facebook posts, save my wife and my friend Jim H., or had stopped following or unfriended me.

Together, Marty and I shared over twenty years in a couple’s group (three couples who were long term friends), many weekend trips, nights out for dinner and entertainment, and then the book club that we also shared together for the last several years, Marty and I were quite friendly with each other, yet rarely spoke at great  length or depth, or showed extraordinary interest in developing a deeper friendship apart from our wives.  I noted how his wife organized and dominated his life over the years that I had known him, and how she would all too often speak for him, or even verbally run over him in group meetings.  It was common knowledge that when his wife was present, Marty would not consistently reveal himself and his own story, and he would instead defer to his wife through his silence.  My own experience of his wife was that she was usually quite willing to listen to what I had to say initially, then she would often fill whatever empty space appeared with herself, rather than wait for me to finish my story and whatever message I might be trying to deliver. At this point, much like Marty, all further talk from me would end, and I would just listen to her, no matter what important items I might have to share with her or the group that we might be attending together..

This brings me to January 11th of 2017, when I had my first ‘seizure’.  I awoke at 2:45 in the morning, and went into my office and sat down.  Suddenly, I lost all ability to move, and to even think, though I remained quite aware during this approximately one minute process.  It was then that I became aware of a “black mass”, almost the size of a golf ball, in the left portion of the brain area of my inner field of body awareness.  This was the first time that I had awareness of the energy field of my body since July of 1987, when I had my first, and only, experience of detecting my own “life energy field”.  I became quite concerned by this whole experience, though I kept it to myself initially.  Every subsequent time I looked internally, I could still see the dark mass.  In February, I had yet another seizure, this time much milder, and in a public setting, while playing cards at Jim’s, who was a mutual friend of both of us (and another member of the couple’s group).

I did not talk about the seizures, or the black mass, initially, because I thought that I might be losing my mind. I later began talking about it with my wife, and two friends, and it was theorized that it might be related to something spiritual or psychic in nature.  But I came to know it as “death”, at least in a spiritual sense.  I saw that there was no negotiating with it.  Prayers, meditations, affirmations, reading, talking with others, nothing seemed to have any impact upon the dark mass.  I knew that some sort of death was coming my way, though I felt little need to discuss it with a doctor.   I did tell my family doctor that I feared that my own death might precede my father’s, when I took my ill father to see her about January 4th of 2017.

On March 5, 2017, Marty suffered a major seizure and was hospitalized at OHSU. , Marty had been in a four-year recovery phase from malignant melanoma, a process first diagnosed in late 2012.  He appeared to have been successfully treated with Interleukin II therapy, a powerful immunotherapy regimen.  Now, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  My wife Sharon and I visited him two days prior to its surgical removal.  Marty and I talked about our seizures, and I was struck by the similarity of his seizures with my own, though mine were relatively tame by comparison.  I told Marty that my perception was that Death was making itself known to me, through the dark mass that I could “see” in my own energy field.  I was also beginning to see a relationship between our problems, but I was hesitant to tell Marty about it, though I told him that I hoped that his brain mass did not indicate a death for him.

That next day, Wednesday, at noon, I had another episode of such intensity, and duration, that I dared not even attempt to get up from the couch.  I had previously arose from the couch, and briefly lost consciousness, so I was all shook up, yet I still had no desire to get a doctor involved.  Sharon came home later that afternoon from her creative writing class, and found me quite compromised.  She listened to my story, and accepted my decision not to seek further medical attention, since this was perceived as a spiritual crisis, while she offered her own love and care. She monitored my blood pressure, and when she noted when my breathing became shallow, to offer me a paper bag to breathe into, lest I sink into a panic attack.

Each time I tried to get off the couch, I became quite dizzy.  I continued feeling quite physically subdued, and some sort of anxiety reaction was also happening with my body/mind.  I was also losing my ability to talk.  It took all of the power that I could muster to force words out.  It was reminiscent of a time 31 years before, when for two days I had an event that prevented me from speaking during a portion of my trip through the underworld.  I lost my voice for two days when confronted with the reality that there were dangerous people I was associating with, and this fact had finally, and powerfully, struck home with me.

The present time, I actually felt like my consciousness was trying to escape, and it took all of my resources just to hold it together.  I characterized this present event to Sharon White as almost losing my mind, while having an almost neurotoxic component to it.  I did not want anything to do with another neurological exam, having been through that horror several years before, when I had experienced excruciating headaches.  I tried to go about my normal activities, while being grateful that I did not have to provide care for my disabled father, whose care that week was taken over by others.

Thursday came, and I had not improved much.  It also was the day that Marty’s tumor was being removed.  I had dual concerns, for Marty, and for myself.  I went about my limited daily activities as best I could, but I became quite conscious of my own fear and anxiety around Death, both of self, and of other.  I continued to listen to the occasional taped “spiritual wisdom” tapes of some of my past teachers, hoping to hear something that might bring me comfort. Well, I listened to Jack Boland, a nationally renowned speaker and master of the recovery process.  I owned a tape where he referred to me personally, said he knew me, probably better than I knew myself. He then stated that he wished pain, not peace of mind, to all who had not yet fulfilled their interior spiritual obligation to cleanse their hearts, as this is the great precursor to any lasting spiritual progress . Those who understand this statement UNDERSTAND.  And here I thought that I had already performed that process!  How wrong I was.

Thursday evening came, and after yet another nearly sleepless night, I got up and sat in the family room, and awaited for Sharon to join me .  My life’s message was bubbling up within me, and I felt a compulsion to share it with my world.  Yet I also knew that there were few, if any, people presently in my life who had the time, or even the interest, in listening to what Spirit was trying to “pour through me”.  As I lay out on the couch, feeling my own emotional/spiritual death about to overtake me, I cried out in despair to Sharon, to please share my message, since I didn’t believe that I had the capacity to deliver it in a way that others could hear, or understand.

Sharon looked at me with acceptance, love, and compassion.  Sharon had been listening to my story for close to thirty years, and she had witnessed me sitting on my voice for most of that time.  She then stated unequivocally that my message was my own, and must be spoken through me, or not at all.  Even my tears, and begging, would not change her mind.  I was in such pain and agony, that I knew that I could not go on with my life in any kind of healthy way, and I did not know what to do.

I had the experience of a lifetime of people experiencing me as less of a human being than I am, starting with my own diseased father, followed by a steady progression of angry, sometimes hateful, judgmental male and female power figures, with a few very notable exceptions, and I did not know how to act or feel differently.   My voice had been silenced by myself and others, even in many settings where spiritually aware, conscious people gathered to celebrate ‘connection’.

This loving act on Sharon’s part by refusing to speak for me was instrumental in the recovery of  my ability to speak and to write.  I could not let myself die again emotionally and spiritually, so I asked my Spirit how to best deliver my message.  A prayer from my past, first created from a dream in 1992, formed in my mind and began with “Grandfather, Great Spirit, Thank You”.  All of a sudden I was COMPELLED to write, and I did not stop the process until fifteen pages of a story poured through me. My Spirit chose the format of a parable, perhaps knowing that it would be discarded, without reading, by those who already believed that they knew me.  But the curious ones, the ones who had an inner Spirit that had not been yet stymied, would read, and appreciate, this aspect of the message that I now felt compelled to give to my world.

It took less than two days to write, and it was the first story I have ever written.  I was never a writer, and before recovery from alcoholism and drug addiction, most of the insight that I had was irrelevant to recovery and healing, and certainly was not worth “writing home about”.  While hospitalized for a month in 1984 for alcoholism, the journal that I was required to write about my daily insights seemed to be written by our society asking for permission to continue to be dysfunctional, rather than me getting in touch with my pain, and making progress with healing.  People pleasing stories may be easier to read and write, but they sure lose their allure when one finally decides to move into the neighborhood of truth and real insight into self.

The dark mass in my body of energy disappeared upon completion of my story, coincidentally at about the same time that Marty’s tumor had been surgically removed.  To this day, I remain healed of that darkness, though I am forced out of bed frequently now, to write, and to share with, the One who listens.  Yes, I have finally learned that I need to listen to myself, more than just listening to other “authorities”.  Some nights, I may only sleep 3 or 4 hours, and so I get out of bed to write until my wife Sharon awakens at 5 am.

As a result of this process, I had an insight that is extremely difficult to talk with others about, an insight about my relationship with Marty and his disease in the final year of his life.  I saw how I had become attuned to Marty on a psychic level.  Some have called this connection radical empathy, some have called it telepathic, some have called it just plain fucking mysterious, and some would call it insane thinking on my part.  For me, this is a natural outcome of “prayer” as I defined it earlier following my experience with Gary Johnson of my electrical apprenticeship program.

Somehow, Marty’s structure of consciousness, his ego mind, part of his sense of self had been transmitted to me, and I “felt his presence” within my own sensitive, susceptible consciousness through my love, compassion,  and concern for the man.  This is how I was able to sense the dark, golf ball sized mass in my own brain. It was not my cancer, it was Marty’s.  And I was also finally able to articulate the forces of oppression and repression within both of us for the first time.  I never had the capacity to communicate around the two “black holes” or tricksters, revealed by the teaching from the Master on July 21, 1987, that were embedded within my own field of consciousness before this time.  Somehow, through the mapping of Marty onto my peace of mind, a bridge of words was created to describe the vast matrix whose complete description had eluded me for all of these years.  The light of my own awareness, shown through Marty’s matrix of consciousness, created the shadows, or words, words that ached to reach from the unknown to the knowing parts of myself.

During this period of time, Sharon and I attended Matthew Fox’s Cosmic Christ Workshop in Tacoma, in April 2017.  After Friday evening’s seminar about mysticism with the Master Spiritual Teacher, Matthew Fox, we returned to our hotel room, to rest up for the next morning’s follow-up workshop on the Cosmic Christ. I had quite the deep, peaceful sleep, which lasted six hours for me. Prior to awakening, I had a most interesting, powerful dream. What was/is fascinating about this dream is how absolutely awake I was, while having the dream.

In the dream, I opened a door, and walked into a room that was well lit.  The room seemed neither familiar, or unfamiliar to me.  Inside of the room there was a man standing, who was also neither familiar or unfamiliar to me, as well. He greeted me, holding a cup out to me in his hand. He gently offered it to me, and for a moment I considered what it’s contents might be. I then knew that if I drank from it, I would become “intoxicated”, but of a different nature that was still consistent with the path of “sobriety” I currently walked upon. I then noticed a table, where an opened map laid open upon it. The man walked with me to the table, still holding the cup.

I looked at the map, and it was a topographic style map, similar to what I might use for traveling and/or hiking with. There were two distinct areas to it. The path or road, on the right side of the map, had only one dark, solid line drawn from the bottom to the top of the map. But, the section on the left side of the map had several dotted lines that only remotely “paralleled” the route on the right side of the map. I had no judgement about each of the path styles, yet I remained curious about the several dotted line paths, which intersected each other, while also “snaking” their unique individual routes up the map. I noted also that the “dotted line” paths also did not ever cross the path of the solid, dark line, though all of the paths had no distinct starting, or end point.

At the Cosmic Christ workshop Saturday morning, Matthew asked if anyone had a dream that they wanted to share in the big group. Not being a “realized person”, I felt uncomfortable sharing the dream. But when it came time for a break, I took a book to Matthew for signing, and shared my dream with him. He refused to tell me what it might mean, but he had a smile on his face, and told me to let it tell me it’s meaning.

On our drive home, Sharon took controls of the car, and I started telling her the dream again. It was then that the horripilations began in earnest, and the full meaning came through me. A complete mystical understanding, and teaching, was built into that dream, and it was then I realized that I had indeed drunk from the cup of the Spirit. Yes, I became quite “intoxicated” with Spirit, and I knew then that we had truly been blessed again by the Master Teacher.  I was later to finally realize that this “map” was how I was supposed to represent my life’s story, in the form of a book to be written by me.

This dream was a complete spiritual teaching, and for that, Great Spirit, I thank you, and my gratitude to you will be expressed through the life that you live through me, for now and all time to come. Yes, mysticism, the heart of all vibrant, evolving religions, also can be a personal reality. It is not, however, for those clinging to structured understandings of life.

We met with Marty and his wife at Marco’s restaurant one day on the week following the workshop. Marty’s recovery from the surgery to remove the brain cancer was going well.  I continued to carry a sense of the Transcendence, it was as if a higher vibration of being was carrying me, and my powers of insight, awareness, understanding, love, and compassion were at their peak.  At our lunch the group was to discuss options for hiking in the future, among other activities for sharing friendship activity.  Sensing his own death may be close, Marty wanted to engage in activity that he had delayed over the years.  He wanted to  prepare to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, so our discussion revolved around that activity.

Yet, we also came to discuss the Cosmic Christ workshop.  I wanted to speak from the energy that was uplifting me, and the amazing dream that I had, but Marty’s wife made sure to dominate the discussion.  Even when I tried to share some of the teachings, she grabbed her phone, and started Googling information, the very information that was being delivered from me.  It was typical of her, and it was offensive.  I understood at a very deep level what Marty experienced with this woman, and my heart opened at a much deeper level for Marty.

On a late April couple’s group meeting at Marty’s home, I was able to talk about my experience of “transcendent energy” for the first time with Marty, with Jim also present for the discussion.  Marty’s wife had disappeared into the back bedroom with Jim’s wife for awhile, so we were able to talk at length about a subject that Marty’s wife would have balked at, or run over with her own knowledge or Google obtained information.  Marty was genuinely interested in what I had to say, as well as what I had to say about the potential for spiritual healing.  His own father had a spiritual experience prior to his death, and Marty wanted to have a taste of the divine experience, if possible, in the lead up to his own death.  I promised Marty a copy of a meditation that I had prepared, based on the spiritual experience I had on July 21, 1987.  I text messaged to Marty the following day, after a remarkable dream.

Text message to Marty

I hope that the guided meditation will be of some benefit to you.

Meditation Experiment–As a direct result of the  “transcendent experience” of July 21, 1987, I developed a “thought experiment” for you, Marty. This is a both a teaching, and an interior journey, and it might be useful for accessing the One Real Teacher, which lies deep within all of us.

This is my own unique verbal bridge, from the deepest part of myself (which is non-verbal in nature) to my conscious mind, and will not work for most others, who must make their own personal ‘direct connection’.

This is only a template, to be filled in by your own unique journey towards Truth. It only points in a direction, and this ‘meditation’ is definitely not for everybody.

THE MEDITATION

After quieting the body by sitting down comfortably, let us breathe consciously, and deeply, for a few breaths. Usually, the following of our breathing will quiet the mind a bit, which is important if this “experiment” is to bring any results.

Let’s now ask of our self if we are ready to listen for the truth of the moment. Are we willing to travel to a new place in consciousness, and conscious awareness, that perhaps we have never traveled to before?

Ask our self if we can “let go of all thought controls” that keep us in the past, that keep us in judgement of self, or other, that keep us from experiencing a deeper appreciation for what this moment might be able to bring to us?

Now visualize for a moment that we are driving a car, heading to a direction that we feel quite familiar with. Before arriving at the usual destination, ask our self what would happen if we just “LET GO OF THE CONTROLS”, even if it is for just one moment?

Is it possible?

Keep trying, until we can see our self actually letting go of the steering wheel. As we let go of the steering wheel, imagine, now, that the car “disappears” that was around us, and find that we are now being carried into some new, as yet, unexplored realm of experience.

If it is still familiar territory in our interior visual field, we will need to restart the thought experiment, or just give up altogether on this particular thought experiment, and find a different path to the interior dimensions.

If we have “LET GO OF THE CONTROLS”, we are now finding that we are being “guided” by a “teacher” or a “messenger”, who has not revealed who or what it is, what kind of form it might take, or why it might, or might not, exist for us in this new moment.

Yet we know that there is no need for fear, even though we are now being “guided” into a complete mystery, and “unknowable” experience.

There is a sense of exhilaration, because we are no longer secured to our “body of knowledge” anymore, which may also feel like we are having an “out of body” event.

We are free, yet we do not yet know what we are being liberated from. Stay in this “unknowing state”, while still being “guided by our inner teacher”.

We now pass by an amazing, infinite array of interconnected, interlocking “membranes”, which are neither “light” nor “dark”.

We seem to “float through, and then underneath” this web of “who knows what?” – then  we reach a place of absolute still, and calm. {Much more will be revealed later, when we have developed the interior fortitude to face our individual and collective demons}

If we are really “there”, we find a silence, which is so quiet, and peaceful, that it may “startle” us initially, yet we quickly settle into it, and appreciate its essence and nature.

A “voice” may appear within our now quiet minds, and may begin to speak “through us” rather than “to us”. We will become the mouthpiece for a teaching, or a message, that we have never heard before, yet we are willing messengers for this new moment.

We begin to recognize an incredibly happy, joyful, laughing voice, and we know we are right where we are supposed to be, in a state that is so natural, and normal.

We might wonder why it was so “unknown” in our past, but we save all questions for later, so as not to miss the rest of the experience.

“Follow the new paths of consciousness” we hear, and speak within our hearts and minds simultaneously, directly and powerfully to ‘our self’.

“No teacher can give to us our salvation, we must work it out for our self”.

“Think no thoughts, especially time based thoughts (memories) about the “you”, as any “YOU”, cannot ever be real here”.

“To return to the “UNKNOWN”, we must eliminate all time based thoughts about our self, and “THE OTHER”.

We now know that this moment, outside of time, has all of the information that we will ever need, and does not need our input to reveal itself and its real, eternal nature.

As the “teaching” ends, we are shown those forces which have attached themselves to our energy fields, which provide “companionship” yet they provide no lasting spiritual value, and will inhibit our future growth and development.

FURTHER FRUITS FROM THE TREE OF LIFE

Be easy on our self, as it will not be immediately obvious what the nature and purpose of these inner/interpersonal forces are.

They served a purpose, yet they will have to leave. But, first, we have meet them directly, to get to know them better, while further dealing directly with our “conscious” world, and the life we live in it.

Welcome to our Real individual, and collective, self. There is no room here for “you and me”, “us and them”, there is only room for the ONE.

This will trouble us greatly when we return to our ‘normal’ consciousness from this experiment. This is normal, and we will learn from the tension created by this dynamic.

Eventually we learn that we dream through the “collective” mind of mankind, and the “collective” also dreams through us. Yet there is also One Other Option, which has eluded most of Mankind.

As we travel back to this place, over and over, over many years, if necessary, we find what we have always been looking for.

We also find what has been holding back the rest of mankind for all of time. Many of the very structures of thought that have been ‘worshiped’ or unconsciously accepted are seen to be the source of the Shadow within mankind’s heart and soul.

This journey is not for those who want to continue to just worship the past, and all of its dead thoughts, and heroes.

This thought experiment is a technique for shaking the mind free, even if just for a moment, from its lifetimes of its ‘knowns’ or certainties.

Truth does not come into a mind that has already been crystallized into a structure that does not permit curiosity, and insight.

If we are sincerely seeking Truth, prepare for a real shock.  If our minds have not been shocked, we have not yet met our goal.

“YOU WILL FIND WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR”, just don’t give up looking before the Real miracle appears, OK?

Otherwise, we will only find a continuation of our past, as it extends into an all too familiar future.

The gap between self and other is the source for all judgement, hatred, and illusion. That gap is the “YOU”, which is only a mental creation, and “YOU” can never be real, in any absolute sense. As I look out from the place where I stand in life, as far as I will ever see, until eternity, is my self.

How will I see my self today?  “I will find what I am looking for”.

“God” laughs WITH us, when we finally recognize the insanity of our perceptions, and allow love and healing to fill in the space between “YOU” and me.

If we seek truth, beauty, and wonder with all of our heart, we will find what we are looking for.

“The Devil” laughs AT us, when we don’t, and we all suffer accordingly.

A happy, spiritually healthy life involves tuning into what I really want to find, for in the tuning, there is a turning.  Then, all that we will ever see, unto eternity, is our real Self.

As the wise ones advise:  To change my world, I first change myself.

I anticipate that the process will take a bit of time to work so that it is apparent to you.  Daily, or hourly, practice might be appropriate, unless your spirit tells you otherwise.   We are all blessed by our sharing last evening, so thanks to you and Eddy for providing a wonderful setting for all of us.

Now Marty, to bring you up to the present, I awoke this morning at 2:45 am, and I had a profound “sense of the presence”, whatever that means.  I could almost feel all of us gathered together again, and I asked for the “blessing” for all of us.  I have no concrete proof if such an internal process actually reaches anybody outside of my “field”, but I then entered a dream state, and something profound occurred.

I dreamed that we were all together in some sort of  noisy “industrial plant”, and there was an electrical system that needed reconditioning.  As I awoke, I was “told” that your security lock needed to be removed from the “electrical panel” that I was working on  (me, with you and Sharon witnessing).

I was wearing sound proof headsets, to protect me from the “industrial noise”.  I also observed others who had already performed their “work”, noting the discards in the nearby “dumpster”. I also saw how I needed to integrate my actions with their work, though it felt like we might be getting into each others’ way at times.

Symbolically to me, it is obvious what my subconscious was communicating with me.

Letting go of the controls, trusting in “the process” and turning over our “work” to “others”, even if for a moment, is difficult while being overwhelmed with the daily “noise of the mind” and the activities of our lives, and threats to our health and well-being.  But, even if we succeed in “getting the work done”, whatever that means, and how it might express itself, we have to suspend our fear and lack of trust in the process, as we still have to turn over the “operation” to others (trust in a higher power within our isolated self and its limiting ideas, all the while knowing that power resides within our heart and soul).

Marty, you have a resistance to your own healing.  You must remove the self-protective mechanisms and controls that you, and perhaps your wife, have layered over your consciousness for many years, or, perhaps, for your entire life.  These controls lock you out of your own greater good.  The very state of consciousness that made the melanoma possible, and helped support its presence and growth, is still embedded within your mind and heart.  Infusions and medications, though potentially helpful, alone will not get the job done.  If the supporting structure embedded within your ego is not dramatically altered, or transformed, then the conditions for the continuation of the growth and spread of the cancer have not been sufficiently altered either.

My “higher power” has ultimate confidence in you, and sees the absolute present beauty of who you are, how you are “innocent” and  Not Responsible for this melanoma wounding, and it has also seen the wonderful potential for your future life.  Once again, there are no guarantees, but I see this for you.

I plan on living into this dream with you, for a long time to come, Marty.

Thanks again for a wonderful evening,

Blessings to you!

Marty was able to maintain good health for only a few more weeks.  I gave to him a copy of a meditation that I had created, but it had little positive impact for Marty.  My intention was to help him release his understanding of who he was, and for him to have an experience of his divine nature at the deepest, most healing levels.  Marty was a man of highest intellect, character, moral and ethical integrity, yet he had not ever experienced the release of his great creation, his ego, into the great Unknown, though he certainly desired to reach that place in consciousness.

Marty, Sharon, and I went hiking to Dog Mountain in the Columbia River Gorge, on the Washington side, about three weeks later.  Marty had just started on a new targeted drug therapy, with the hopes that the drug would keep the metastatic cancer at bay.  We took our time hiking this great, challenging hike, and Marty persevered, and made it through the hike with great spirits.  He was so encouraged by his performance that it was only natural for all of us to begin the preparation for a great Pacific Crest Trail hike, to fulfill one of Marty’s dreams.

Two days later, he began losing all use of his left leg and arm, and then became wheelchair bound.  It was postulated that he was experiencing a reaction to the new medication, Keytruda, which caused unexpected inflammation of his brain, and damage to his nervous system. The potential metastases to his brain had already caused concern to Marty and his wife, with the fear that it would impinge on his sense of self, and on his competent, highly intelligent, insightful, loving mind.  Yet at this stage, Marty remained fully present.

Dying, death, and transformation continued to be a subject of interest to Marty, but now it took on a special urgency.  Because of the complications of the medicine, Marty lost much of his treasured independence.  He lost the desire to scan Facebook for any insight into his friends or the concerns of the day, as all of his energy became devoted to just getting through the day with as much peace of mind, and with as little chaos, as is possible under the absolutely overwhelming conditions of his declining life.  We all gave up on the idea of hiking, lest he somehow regain his physical function again.  He was prescribed anti-inflammatory medicine to help reduce the brain swelling which had caused his disability, and he continued on anti-seizure medicine, just in case.

Marty communicated to me his sense of being inarticulate, in relation to the new experiences of his deteriorating state brought about by metastatic melanoma, and the encroachment upon his critical brain centers which had already begun. A life transitioning from being

highly engaged with the culture and the world, and immensely supportive of his wife while doing so,

physically healthy and active,

spiritually, intellectually and technologically stimulating and expressive,

at times exciting and challenging,

occasionally joyous, and,

regularly immersed in family and social interaction,

to one that is

physically inactive, and almost home bound,

threatened with the loss of intellectual competence,

challenging in anxiety producing ways, and

humiliating, depressing, and emotionally painful, and

without normal joy and hope for the future, and

devoid of physical intimacy with the wife,

immersed in family connections, but now not under the old rules, and

a myriad of other less than happy adjectives,

And, then attempting to describe the changing experience, while still in the middle of it, is a most difficult proposition.”

A story came to my mind after our morning’s meditation, of which I sent to Marty in text message form, and I include parts of it here as a small record of our journey together.  The message is as follows:

“Marty, all of your descriptors are perfect, and they will change, as you change. While in meditation, the following images came to my mind:

Life can be like a lifelong adventure hike (perhaps the Pacific Crest Trail of everyday life?). On one side of the trail we are witnessing the unbroken beauty of nature and of our own wholeness and connection to it, and the joy of unfettered movement of an innocent mind and healthy body while walking through the magic and mystery of the unknown. Yet, on the other side of the trail, a wicked forest fire has erupted, obscuring our view, threatening our safety and freedom, and taking us out of the beauty and wonder of the new moment. Its flames are now, more than gently, lapping at our back side, burning away at our past, burning away at our clothing, at all of our hidings and holdings, and at all the knowledge and memories that we cling to, and hold so dear.. When you search for names to characterize this process, I understand at the deepest level why it is hard giving it a new name, or calling it “good” or perfect while still being so painfully “burned” by one aspect of it.

Losing independence in life and in decision making is a most difficult proposition.

Losing the ability to get out of bed and go to the bathroom in the middle of the night by oneself can be demoralizing.

Losing the ability to plan for the day to day exigencies of life can make one feel less than empowered.

Losing the sense of intimacy with one’s partner, who is now more or less the primary caregiver, and not the lover, feels a bit like love has abandoned us for now.

Losing strength and mobility, and being dependent on another for all movement around the house, and now, around all of life, feels like life is almost stripping us of our dignity.

Losing control of one’s bladder and bowels, and wearing supplemental underwear, and the insertion of pads onto our beds to trap our incontinence, can feel like adding insult to injury.

Losing the use of the left arm and leg, and then not having others respect one’s sense of loss, feels like the world has become insensitive to all suffering individuals.

Losing the desire to keep living on dying’s terms, while all of the other losses kept accumulating and accelerating, can make the thought and actions related to Death With Dignity an attractive option.

Yet, your journey, with this measure of suffering becoming folded into it, is part of humanity’s unbroken wholeness, of which we all remain a most treasured, though challenged, part of. Can you begin to trust that Love itself is always guiding, and coming out in its many new, challenging forms? Love is soon to become your new and only garment, and any holding back will only increase your pain.

Marty, our hike on the path continues, and the “forest fire” always burns (it burns for all of us). Hope and expectancy tells us to keep walking, because the “view ahead is always changing”. But, what was our past continues to burn away in uncertain and many times anxiety producing ways. Around one of those next bends in the trail, there is only the unknown, bringing whatever is to come. And, also around that same bend, the “fire” will have burned away all that is unlike your true nature, revealing who you were “in the beginning, before the World was”. Giving it a name is the challenge unique to all of us. The articulate ones write great books, and attract lots of attention to their words. You don’t need that.

There are already many fine works available for the curious to read on the subject of death and dying, but your life is now your greatest teacher. Now that we finally have realized that facts and knowledge alone are not enough support to make all of life’s decisions with, we can willingly enter through the doorways to a new spiritual awakening, populated by creativity, intuition, and insight, where transcending many of the troubling aspects of the ego, and finally accepting the inevitable deaths of our bodies, becomes more likely.

Transformation, and death, can be so closely related that many people have profound spiritual experiences on the final stretch of their life’s path. Yes, I had a “death” 31 years ago, and people who knew me before the change, and then afterward (and who were not my direct family members) witnessed them. I was accused of being a “walk-in” by a friend from the 90’s (one of those “new age friends” I met in one of our men’s group meetings  from Living Enrichment Center), and I too was at a loss of words to articulately describe the death and dying process that I went through, let alone this subsequent “resurrection” that I am currently living through.

Thank you for reaching out to me in your time of greatest need. I am honored that you regard me as “the best thing you have done recently” when you got me to become involved in the OHSU Men’s Cancer Survivor’s Writing Class with you. To have a published author and Dr. in Philosophy, a highly intelligent and sensitive facilitator and several others over the past few years giving mutually positive, life affirming feedback on all of our creative writings, rather than the mixed bag that many have grown accustomed to receiving in our normal life experiences, is a revelation of sorts. Thank you for honoring and respecting the words that we all write, and the words that we directly speak to each other. Thank you for involving me in a process where I can listen with my heart and mind at the deepest level to those creative urges and surges that we all share in. Thank you for allowing me into a process where I can give you extra love and attention, and draw you away from the trials and tribulation around the home long enough to give you a sense of release, and relief.

You and me, we are both on the same path, though I experience it differently right now than you do. I “die daily to all that was myself”, through a process of personal inventory, mindfulness, and insight, though small parts of the old me pops up and reminds me that I am still human, and part of this glorious mess that we call humanity. Yet, right now, what seems to be different between us is that I have, more or less, a fairly secure sense of continuity between the past and the present, and I still experience the “illusion of control”. Of course, your fine engineering mind rebels at all thought of loss of control, even while personally witnessing the dramatic effects of that powerfully humbling experience.

It is really messed up to finally find ones place in life, one’s most healthy relationships with new and old friends and family, where healing and acceptance FINALLY reside, TO FEEL LIKE WE HAVE FINALLY BEEN INVITED TO LIFE’S PARTY, AND THAT WE TRULY BELONG, and then have a disease process creating conditions that feels like a rug is being yanked out from under us, the very rug that sustains our connections, and our future. It can feel, at times, like life itself is rejecting us, while our body continues the profound ejection process of our life force.

I parked myself on the outside of humanity for much of my early life, because I never saw or felt the welcome mat set out for me, by my early experiences of family, or many of my early relationships. And I was not skilled enough to create a welcome mat for myself among the diverse groups of people that I met through school and work in my “pre-30 year old” life. Most relationships with males were troubled, and too many men seemed to be dominated by the aspect of the Common Knowledge Game that included judging all others unlike ourselves as bad, ignorant, stupid, ugly, and undeserving of further positive regard, unless there was some obvious economic or personal power gain to be made from the relationship. I gravitated towards girls as friends, as a child, and then women as a maturing human, as they did not play the “put down” game so profoundly as my male peers and authority figures did (at least the women I met and befriended did not). I clung like a drowning swimmer to an inner tube to any male friendship where I was accepted, more or less, for who I was, without having to accomplish superhuman feats of accomplishment to just “fit in”.

Toxic Masculinity is the cause of so much suffering in the world, and the cause of some of our own suffering, and, at times, I am still repulsed by the baseness, cruelty, and ignorance of many males. The spawn of Toxic Masculinity is Toxic Religion and Toxic Capitalism, and thus the whole world suffers with us. I will try not to get too political, but the election of the POTU$ was a gut/sucker punch to us. We have been victimized by this type of male energy, as well as most women and children (though many do not understand the “following the herd” and the sexual dynamics behind it), and, when I was younger and more unconscious, I probably victimized others with my “masculinity” as well.

My past unwillingness to talk or write much stems from being shut down for much of my life, by others who did not want to listen, or did not have the time to care, and my unconscious involvement with the Common Knowledge Game, where I let the opinions of others, or my perceptions of the opinions of others (another deadly creative twist of the illusory mind) drive my own unique expression nearly into the grave. Your story of your relationship with your father resonated with parts of my own past, and self-esteem issues certainly arose through our fathers’ own lack of insight, and limited ability to be emotionally present in supportive, meaningful ways.

Thanks you for caring, and for listening with your heart. And know that I give to you all that I am, and all that I have, as well. I hear you, Marty, and I know that there is much challenge ahead for you. Yet, “ahead” will not be done in isolation, or away from your family, and your friends. The miracle for both of us is how our hearts merged at this most troubling of times. This is one of the “great unknowns to be experienced” around each bend of our life’s path. You will experience many more “great unknowns”, as the release process continues.

I will walk with you, in freedom, to whatever extent we can,

I walk with you, in pain, while we must,

I will walk with you into the unknown, where we will eventually recognize nothing but Spirit, as we release ourselves from our bondage to our deteriorating minds and bodies,

I no longer will burden you with thought experiments for personal transcendence.

I will no longer advocate for prayer or meditation for you, nor will I withhold from you any potential benefit derived through my own relationship to those processes,.

I will walk with you into death, each in our own time, and in our own way,

I will integrate part of my individual destiny with your own, and, ultimately, join with Destiny itself.

I am grateful to have you as a friend. I am also grateful to share with you in the good intentions and prayers of our spiritually inclined/religious friends and family.” We all mean well, perhaps with some of us needing more targeted training in supporting you in the way that has the deepest meaning and significance for you.

It is quite appropriate that my wife, Sharon, chose for her lone published book the title

“Whose Death Is It, Anyway?”

It is all of ours (end of letter)

I began to accompany Marty to his Men’s Cancer Survivor Support Group creative writing group, through OHSU, in late June.  Marty had wanted for me to join it several years earlier, but I never felt that I had anything to write about, even though I was also a malignant melanoma survivor, and I could not justify going there because of it.  But now that Marty needed friendship and support, I felt honored to join with him, and to share some writing time with him and his writer’s support group.

Marty communicated to me, during our weekly drives to the Men’s Cancer Support Creative Writing Group at Oregon Health Sciences University, that he and his wife were having insurmountable issues with their relationship.  They no longer were intimate, and had not been for quite some time, and Marty struggled to feel love or affection for his wife anymore.  He wanted a divorce, yet was powerless to do anything about it, since he has been so severely weakened by his malignant melanoma, and its effects on his mind and body.  He believed that his wife is insane, and I find it hard to disagree with him, based on my own observations.  Marty was starting to have some unexpected hallucinations, where he would wake up from his sleep, and yet his dream world would continue into his “waking world” for awhile after waking up.  He and his son and daughter-in-law wanted him to be relocated to a neutral care facility, where he can receive high quality care, and not be exposed to his distressed and neurotic/psychotic wife.  His wife insisted that if Marty is moved, she will move into wherever he is relocated to, and sleep next to him on the ground, if necessary.  Marty felt trapped, and also felt that the cancer treatment that he was now receiving will have no positive outcomes, so he needed to plan for his own assisted suicide through the Death with Dignity process.

Near the end of August, Marty related to me how it would be better to die quickly, so that more money would be available for his wife after his death.  I was shocked and surprised by his lack of self-worth, and I called him on that.  I told him that even if he needed to be relocated to a professional care facility, or to a hospice house like the Hopewell House, the money spent would be minimal, compared to the substantial amount that he had accumulated through sales of homes and properties.  HE WAS WORTH EVERY PENNY THAT HE SPENT ON HIMSELF.  Marty just could not accept that.  He had already spent $840 on his end of life drugs, and he felt that the amount spent on the medication would also continue to be a financial burden upon his wife.  He also stated that to continue to live would be to only add to his wife’s nightmare of her own distress and insanity.  He stated that he had to die, so that she could live.  Now, I was distressed, and I felt like I was a helpless witness to a self-imposed crucifixion process

His wife considered herself a minister, and a teacher, and a leader, for those on “the spiritual path”, and she had this understanding of herself for close to thirty years. She was quite the planner, and was also studious, and read everything readily available to support her knowledge, or need for knowledge, in areas revolving around her main concerns in life, or in her teaching arenas. She had quite the rigid understanding of the facts, and, in fact, her “facts” became her idols, of which she trusted, at the exclusion of any teaching, or learning, that those around her might try to impart to her, either unintentionally, or through a need to help her to see more clearly. She was pretty specific about who she would accept her “facts” from, as well, always seeking authority figures, and not fully trusting anybody who did not already have an established reputation.  She had little or no sense of humor, and was devoid of all capacity to embrace the “unknown” or the present moment, as it fruitlessly tried to present itself to her every moment of her existence.

When her husband began his dying process, I became actively involved in her life, and their shared life, on a level that I never anticipated I would. A defining story came near the end of her husband’s life, when I was providing care for him up to two times per week. She rattled on endlessly about how to best care for her husband, even though I was already an established help mate, and quite successfully navigating the unknowns, and the difficulties, with his care. Her husband became quite unhappy with her care for him, and he considered her incompetent, and uncaring, and he informed me that he wanted a divorce from her, as she was so “insane”, and there presently was little or no love being shared between them. Yet he was helpless, and powerless to do anything about it, as his fading life force had removed all options for change for him.

Yet, she would not stop her irritating teaching mode of existence, forcing me to finally confront her.

“Please stop trying to teach me about stuff that I don’t need to know, or don’t want to learn? Can’t you trust that your husband and I are successfully navigating these difficult times together, and that we can manage without your endless control?”

“Oh, Bruce, you are just going to have to treat this like it is an AA meeting. I have to give you this teaching, as I have no choice. Just continue to listen until I am complete, and then take what you like from it, and leave the rest.”

“Actually, I don’t want or need any of your teaching, or your lessons. You teach fear, and distrust of me, as well as the Unknown, and i have grown weary of your intellectually dominating behavior, as has your husband. Please get into your car, and leave for a while, so that we can all breathe a little easier.”

It only took me 23 years to speak my truth to this knowledge dominatrix. My love for her husband, and my attention to his needs and greater good, took precedence over my own feelings of inadequacy in confronting his wife about her terror of death, and her alienating, crazy making communication style. Her spiritual dementia needed to be challenged, lest I lapse into deeper degrees of anxiousness, powerlessness, and unreality. Confronting a difficult reality takes more energy than most of us care to bring to the table, yet, not doing so diminishes our own standing in Truth, Life, and Love, and that was my experience up to that point.

In the absolute, All that we ever see, unto eternity, is our own self. As I look upon the world, and all of my relationships with the people, the land, the animals, and inner and outer space, I see an evolving landscape that demands collaboration and involvement by ALL PEOPLES, and representation for those beings who do not have a voice in such matters. This is a landscape that demands that I make my own unique impression upon it. I must first confront the demons within my own mind and heart before I strike out against the “outer world”, lest I project unhealed images and intentions upon the unsuspecting population.

I had very poor training since birth in how to successfully navigate group energy, up to, and including, the whole of society that we all participate in. As a boy, when family discussions turned into arguments, many times I found myself either raising my voice against the angry voice of my father, or retreating into submission and fear at the threat of being attacked for being contrary to the flow. And, I internalized that I was probably wrong anyway, and would be punished if I stepped out and asserted myself too much. I learned that I could undertake less obvious means of rebelling against authority, sometimes through indirect, or obvious, self, or other, destructive behavior.

Passive/aggressive tendencies have haunted me most of my entire life, and becoming “self-aware” has gone a long way to keep me from employing those unskilled coping mechanisms unconsciously, though I am still occasionally haunted by their presence. Having undertaken the inner work of insight, and maintaining mindfulness, and identified those sources of suffering within myself, does not instantaneously remove all of the darkness within. But is also does not remove from me the responsibility to call out those who are the external agents of oppression and repression, no matter how much I might love them or want to protect them, or even to protect myself from the ramifications of asserting what is right, true, or proper in any situation.

So I spoke out, and she actually consciously and considerately listened to me.  She still felt obligated to give me the latest details on Marty’s care, even though I did not need them.  I continued to help with small tasks around their home, once or twice a week. I continued to attend, and participate with him in, the men’s cancer survivor writing group at OHSU, until two weeks before his assisted suicide.  Of course, my survival from melanoma went much better than his, as mine has not yet metastasized, and hopefully will not in the future.

I came to deeply miss the only man who responded to my philosophically challenging Facebook posts.  My heart aches for the married couple Sharon and I have shared so many outdoor adventures and community memories with over the last 25 years.  Somehow the disease in our shared lives, and individual lives, and our own inability to transcend their emotional and spiritual impacts, led to another form of death, the end to our friendship.

Love goes before all of us “to make the crooked places straight”, but while chaos’s clouds obscure the view, it is hard to see the path. Being open to each moment as it unfolds in its own unique way, and being present with self through insight clears the fog, and keeps the door open to love’s unfolding mystery.  But, It remains a mystery to me, how to plan for and successfully navigate the rivers of life that carry us into death. Reading more books, and gathering more information, is not going to get the job done for me. I try to remain open to the mystery, though it still troubles my heart. I may never heal of that, but miracles are still possible.

Death really sucks for those with much life left to live, period. I am not fooled by the promises of a “reward in the afterlife” offered by some. That reward is only a painkiller to be ingested by the magical thinkers who struggle mightily with the concept of death itself. The thought of an after-life vacation in “heaven” is more addictive than opiates, and drives national and international irrationality and insanity.  It is our eternal struggle.

“And, in the end, even death shall be conquered”.

I am not “in the end”, obviously. “Fear of death” can be conquered without it being masked by even more illusions of thought. That is the path of today’s spiritual warrior. I guess that I somehow signed up for the course. The only study materials are supplied through a committed involvement with life, on Life’s terms, and not on my ego’s terms.  I am no longer allowed to just audit the course, now that I am in the final stretches of my own life. I just hope that my “final stretch” is an engaged, joy dominated experience. I do have some control over that

Marty chose to exercise his right to the Death With Dignity process on September 10, 2017, without ever informing me of his decision.  What he had informed all of us was that there was to be a party at their home on Saturday, Sept 10, as a celebration of life, and to honor him and his wife for their successful life experience.  The evening previous to his final day, Sharon White, Anne LaBorde, and myself had been planning to attend the Michael Franti and Spearhead concert, which we had tickets for.  Sharon and I look forward to Franti’s concerts every year, as he is the musical advocate for all that we embrace with our hearts and soul. Sharing this common theme of celebrating and honoring the dignity of all people, and living and loving life together as one infinite family in God’s Kingdom (No religion necessary, thank you!), is what continues to give me reason to wake up every day.

My friend for 20 years, fellow book club member and creative writing partner with the men’s cancer survivors’ writing group, and our hiking partner was to leave our planet somewhere between 6 and 7 Sunday evening. His mission was to enter the Mystery, and the Unknown. Nobody was to know that Marty was dying the next day. We were all supposed to participate in some sort of celebration of their marriage, and their shared life. I was unsure whether to cry, vomit, or run away.   I saw that he had regained full use of his left arm and hand, and he was starting to regain feeling in his left leg.  Thus, I was stunned and surprised and even hurt by his decision to proceed with his Death with Dignity option.  His main fear, however, was that future metastatic lesions in his brain would take away his sense of self, and rob him of control over his future dying process, so it was time to die now, while he still had freedom of choice in such matters.

I first sat next to Marty for a couple of minutes, then I gave him “my message”. He apparently did not know that I knew about his decision to abort his mission today. He was relaxed and quiet, and he listened well to me, and to those who talked with him. I was previously told that I was to be included in his final “death with dignity” process, but due to unknown reasons he shelved my support at the last minute.I still am a bit confused, and my heart is hurting. Crazy making communication around his “assisted suicide” is understandable, but that still does not protect me from its emotional and spiritual fallout. My stomach almost lost its contents, but not my heart.  I just KNEW that he was healing, yet my knowledge had no power or authority to sway Marty’s decision making around his own life and death process.

We attended the Michael Franti concert that evening, after making an early exit from Marty’s “celebration of life”.  I cried almost the whole way through Franti’s song, “Life is Better With You”, when Michael played it that evening.  Life was better with Marty in it, now we all must deal with life without Marty.  How absolutely devastating of an experience it must have been for Marty’s wife and for his son Chad.

Marty took nearly twenty hours to die, using the medication prescribed to him by his doctor, ultimately dying on September 11, 2017 (yes, 911).  We were not included in any preparation, planning, execution, or support for Marty or for his process of dying.  Sharon, a hospice nurse, and expert on Death and Dying, was almost totally shunned by Eddy during the last three months of Marty’s process, resulting in creating almost insurmountable rifts in the 30 year friendship.  The only reason that I was present was due to a direct request, I mean DEMAND, from Marty to his wife that she accept me into their household during this most difficult of times.  If it had been up to her, she would have excluded me completely, as well.

So I really was dealing with a lot of difficult issues.  I would not have considered myself to be the most appropriate person for these life experiences, yet I found a way to remain engaged with all of the following situations:

1). the care for, and eventual death of my father, on the day of Marty’s funeral, and the difficulties in the management of his estate,

2). the challenges in supporting the protracted dying process, and the eventual death of my good friend Marty in the week prior to my fathers’ death

3). dealing with the (hopefully) temporary insanity of the wife of my now deceased friend, and her ongoing spiritual dementia,

Facing a two-fold challenge, with one coming from being fully present for a married couple we have known and loved for a generation and the other for the continued care of my disabled father. A terminal diagnosis for the husband, coupled with the wife’s death terrors, obsessive compulsive nature to prove her own worth and to also protect and honor her partner, in the face of their collapsing lives, kept me engaged with the unknown, as my good friend lost parts of his wonderful life, and mind, on the way to a Death with Dignity.  Being “fully present” as a life witness, while being a loving friend, in the face of his deterioration and potential death, and with his partner’s fear, anxiety, neurosis, and potentially, own emotionally self-destructive attitudes and behaviors, placed me in a position for “accelerated understanding and spiritual growth”, and generated unexpected anxiety for myself..

I used to say “growth is highly overrated” in a humorous manner when I feigned aversion to situations known to create opportunities for personal evolution. I looked for real humor in the face of the adversity, and I kept coming up short. I missed the healthy version of my friend, while I learned to embrace the deteriorating version. I  experienced some shock in the face of his accelerated change and his wife’s emotional collapse.   It is said that “when the student is ready, the teacher appears”.  Apparently, the teacher was Death Itself, appearing as Marty, and as my friendship with him and his wife.

Eulogy for my friend, Marty

(I wrote it, but it was not used by his wife)

I never knew what I was getting involved with when I offered to you all of my heart in friendship this year, having withheld so much of myself over the years. 2017 was the year when I finally learned how closely two male human beings could connect, and ultimately become “one” on a journey of exploration and discovery on the way to your own death this past Monday, at 1:24PM.

You are/were an important missing piece in my own journey of self discovery. I tried to bring you along on the journey into the Unknown, deep into the Mystery of Life. You introduced me to Death in a way that has changed me forever. We walked together while we still could, while you still had hope for your Miracle. Another definition for Miracle now lives in my heart, and Soul. When our human knowledge parading as Truth is unveiled for the lie that it really is, insight, intuition, and Love are finally enshrined in our Heart.

Through your death, I have been Destroyed, and I am now Renewed.

Rest in Peace, Marty.

I have included, below, one of Marty’s Last Creative Writing Stories below, from the OHSU Men’s Cancer Survivor’s Writing Group, August 25, 2017. I finally joined him in this group in July, after avoiding the commitment with him for 3 years. He called my acceptance of joining the group one of the best things that he did for the two of us.

He apparently died to me after the September 1st Writing Group meeting, obsessing with preparing his car’s GPS and OnStar system for his wife the whole drive home after the writing group. He was, basically, unresponsive to me on the day before his death.

Here is Marty’s final creative effort, a story of release from societal expectations, rigid attitudes,  structure, repression, and the lifelong oppression of the human spirit into the infinite freedom of Spirit:

We visited the Riverview Cemetery last week, Doyle and I. Truth be told, I dragged Doyle there with me. I’m a green burial plot owner, and I wanted to see my plot and its surroundings in the morning sun from the East.

Although the hour was early, a couple of parties were already at the site, evidently an early graveside service and a couple visiting a recently- interred loved one with their dog. I was also looking for a sign of completion – a sign that Eddy and I had completed the arrangements for a “final rest” in a good way.

I looked up the hillside and remarked to Doyle, “Look, a coyote loping through the midst of the people and their pets with such obvious self-confidence. You can always recognize a coyote – even if you don’t think you have ever seen one before. They are never frightened – just there, immune to danger and above the fray.”

Yes, I recognized my sign, the age-old sign of the trickster, the shape-shifting presence of the coyote. May he safely inhabit this place forever. (end of story)

Marty, though I miss you, you are now safe, healed, and whole.

A New Story Needs To Be Told (August 2017)

The fatal flaw with all philosophies touting the coming of a new age of peace and enlightenment is that they fail to embrace a fundamental flaw in human character and reasoning (the flaw which is typically male in nature, with a few exceptions). All “teachers” who promote the “light”, without first addressing the required walk through the personal and collective “darkness”, are offering up shallow containers for those who need to drink deeply from the waters of the Spirit. We are left thirsty, and confused, as to why we do not reach the “promised land” as offered by others who are supposedly “in the know”.

When Jesus of Nazareth stated that “the poor will always be amongst us”, he was talking about those who were poor economically, emotionally, and spiritually. He knew that men repressed their feeling nature, and tried to oppress others who attempted to express it, as well. He was referring to a basic defect in character, or nature, which permeates the intellect of men, and the way men communicate within themselves, and with their external worlds. Men use their philosophies to justify greed and selfishness, and to give themselves permission not to feel for others less fortunate than themselves. He knew that male energy, and all patriarchal cultures, in general, are out of balance, having repressed so much of our basic, human (feminine) nature that we can no longer access our innermost divine/human nature, where all love and healing bubbles up from.

Built right into the very fabric of life, is death itself. Our own cells within our bodies are constantly dying off, and being replaced by others so that we can continue to live, and even evolve (or regress as the situation may dictate). So also should not all of our old thoughts die off, to be replaced by newer, more vibrant creations, if we are to continue to live, and grow, and even evolve?

Women, especially those who have carried the life of “another” in their wombs, know at their deepest level the experience of physical creation, the bringing forth real life into our shared world. It is not just the fertilization of the egg that brings life; it is also the carrying and internal nurturing of the developing fetus for almost nine months, then delivering the viable, complete life form to the world. Women know, at the deepest level, that their babies have ultimate value, regardless of what the “egg fertilizer” might say or do to try to imply otherwise.

It is then that the parents begin to practice whatever are the socially or culturally acceptable norms for raising the child, coupled with their own ‘insight’, from the baby’s birth through its young adulthood.  The spiritually unaware male figure, try as he might, never quite catches the “spirit of the creation”, and begins the process of impressing his own disfigured consciousness upon the unsuspecting developing human being.  Yes, the “sins of the father” meaning, the errors in spiritual understanding of the entire culture, and the individual father, are inculcated into the baby.

I have had a very painful “rebirth”.  Yet, this birth is what I have been looking for my entire life (and, perhaps, many lives, if reincarnation is true-who knows for sure?)  I refuse to raise my “New Born Child” according to the established norms of our diseased times. I will use all of my human resources to communicate, as best I can, the unfolding new reality bubbling up within my heart and soul. I will not oppress, or repress, the ever unfolding new reality, of the self that I am, and that I am to become. Toxic Masculinity, Toxic Capitalism, and Toxic Religion are not welcome guests in our home, though they continue to “stand at the door and knock” at the interior doors for all of mankind.

Please save yourself

April – Grandfather Great Spirit, Thank You

Grandfather Great Spirit, A Story Of Recovery

On March 22, 1987, I finally made the decision to live. My grandparents provided their loving presences, and home, for me for four days, while I detoxified from sixteen years of drug abuse and alcoholism. Over the course of my lifetime, they had already provided a constant, unwavering loving presence for me, even while I felt no love for myself, or my life. My grandfather eventually came to represent the very presence of God’s love for its children over the course of our shared life, and that love helped to prepare me for the engagement to the real purpose for my life.

The following story was written following my own ” near-death” experience in March, and is my message of gratitude and love, to give back to all who have helped me to “prune my thorns”. Thank you, Grandfather Great Spirit, for your presence continues to daily guide me into my own promised land, which I gladly share with all who are receptive. Though I was never meant to be your spokesman, my spirit demands that you be honored, in the only way that I know how.

Grandfather, Great Spirit, Thank you,

 by Bruce Paullin

Long ago, there lived in a cottage far outside of the limits of the city, a gardener and his wife. They were both quite dedicated to their simple, quiet life of country living, being surrounded and embraced by all of its natural beauty. They developed quite a nursery, and they were able to provide a sustainable living for themselves through the sales of the plants, trees, and flowers that they raised. Eventually, they had one son together, whom they came to worship, from the moment of his birth. The family lived a normal, happy life, and learned how to love, enjoy, and respect each other at the highest, most loving levels through all of their years together. But, as their beloved son reached the age of maturity, he started to stray from the high standards set for him by his parents. After a series of unproductive discussions, and then an avalanche of angry arguments, their son left in a storm of bitter, angry words to lead his own life in the city, with the son vowing to never come back home, leaving his shocked, grieving parents alone.

 The parents still had so much love to give to their world, and they contemplated how they might give that to others, now that they had the extra free time. The idea came to dedicate a major portion of their property to creating a garden space, and their time came to become devoted to the planting of their gardens, of which a portion they had committed to many types of flowers. The wife had always admired the beauty and complexity of the rose-bush, so they dedicated a major section to roses, as well. They knew that the roses required utmost care and attention, to be able to unfold into their greatest natural beauty, so for many years, they carefully monitored and managed their rose garden. Weeds were not allowed to grow up around their prized bushes, nor were the bushes themselves allowed to grow haphazardly, thus the rose bushes were trimmed back perfectly at the start of each new growing season, with them remaining fascinated by each gentle step of all of their rose bushes growth. Each little bud that appeared was nurtured and cared for, and those that did not manifest their true, beautiful nature were trimmed back, to make room for those who could. Of course, each bush had its thorns, which nature provided so as to protect the vulnerable buds, and flowers, from its natural enemies. The gardeners respected natural law, and also understood that wayward thorns would cause harm to themselves, or to their inattentive admirers, so all of the thorny branches were cut back, enough to preserve their natural beauty, while exposing all of their beautiful flowers for all to see and admire.

 Over the years, their rose garden became quite renowned for its beauty and magnificence, and it came to be visited by people from all around the area. People loved to both admire each unique rose-bush from a distance, as well as to come close to each bush, and bath their senses with each budding flowers’ sweet fragrances and essences. The couple had become master gardeners, with their spirits merging with the offspring of their heavenly garden. They truly grew together, the gardeners and the rose bushes, and all who came to witness their creations admired, and honored as one, the creators and the creations. The couple’s secret was that they channeled the same love that they had reserved for their only son, to give back to their prized roses. They had long ago stopped asking why their only son did not respond the same way of the flowers, as the pain was just too great to bear, though they continued to follow his life from afar.

 The years passed by, and the aging couple could no longer manage their large rose garden with the love, care, and attention of the past. They gradually focused on fewer, and fewer, rose bushes, as their mobility had become quite limited, and their energy quite low. Finally, they only had the energy left for one bush, to which they dedicated the last of their energy. The flow of admirers to their garden had long ago stopped, as word had spread of the deterioration of the garden. The couple had their memories, which still brought them great satisfaction, while caring completely for that last bush, which was closest one to the door to their cottage. All of the other bushes continued to grow unattended, becoming wild and unruly, and eventually overwhelmed the rest of the garden. In their heart of hearts, they remembered that this final rose-bush represented the love that they had for their son, whom long ago they had stopped hoping that would ever return to them. Reports of the success of their son still trickled in, carried in by their very occasional visitors, with a rumor being reported that they might even be grandparents, but who knows for sure? Every attempt to contact him had continued to be spurned.

 One morning, the husband woke up, to hug and caress his wife, as he had every morning, for the last fifty years. Yet, this morning, there was no response from his wife. Death had finally found his wife, and he cried out in anguish, being absolutely devastated. He could feel his own life force slipping away, as well, and felt an urge to finish his own business, as his time was extremely limited. He grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote one final message, and placed it in his shirt pocket. He then grabbed a hidden shoe-box, in which he had stored all of their life savings, and then he limped out to the garden shed, and grabbed a shovel, and went to his rose garden one final time. Behind their last prized rose-bush, he carefully dug a grave for his beloved, with the prized rose-bush intended to become her headstone. He also dug a hole in front of the next rose-bush, which was currently in such a sad condition, yet, it might take on new significance in an unknown future, he thought, should his final prayer be answered. He placed the shoebox in the ground, and buried it, tamping the dirt down firmly so that it was not obvious that anything was buried there. Then he proceeded to bury his beloved wife, and when he placed the final scoop of dirt, he laid his weary, worn out body upon his wife’s burial mound, pressed his tear washed face to the loose dirt, and life then drifted away from his body into eternity, his body sharing his wife’s headstone for now.

 A couple of days passed, and when the postman noticed the mail had not been picked up, he walked to the cottage door to inquire about their health. The door had not been locked, so when nobody answered, he looked inside and saw that it was empty inside. He then walked around the outside of the cottage, and came upon the couple’s resting place. He knew, in that moment, that he was now a witness to love’s most sacred and beautiful expression that he had ever seen. He became overcome with grief, initially, then he felt admiration and love for this beautiful couple, of which he only knew so superficially before, through the exchange of pleasantries at the mail box.

The postman called the appropriate authorities, and the gardener’s body was removed and taken to a local mortuary. The police contacted the son, who expressed no interest in claiming it. The manager of the mortuary knew that he would have to treat the body as “unclaimed”, which meant an anonymous burial. The manager was so moved by the face of the deceased man, who even in death, seemed to give off a special radiance, that he contacted the postman who had found the body, to see if he knew of any next of kin besides the son.

The postman was quite troubled by the call, and began to regret calling the authorities to the body, thinking that he should have just buried him instead. But, he knew that, in his position, he might be able to help. His manager helped him with sending a system wide communication to all local and regional postal carriers, requesting that if they delivered mail to anyone with the same last name as the deceased, to please let them know immediately. As luck would have it, he received two replies. There was a family that lived on the far side of town, as well as a PO box address had been recently rented in the main downtown office, with the same last name.

A phone call was placed to the home, but the woman who answered knew of nobody with the name of the deceased. She remembered her estranged husband telling her, long ago, of the death of his grandparents before his birth, so the man could not him. Well, there was one final hope, and that was with the recently opened PO box. The postman requested information from the post office box registration form about its purchaser. He noticed the registration showed a first name of Gary, with a middle name, Brian, which was the same first name of the deceased. Could this be a relative, or was this just a coincidence?

The postman fashioned a post card with information about the dilemma around claiming the body, and had it placed in the PO box of Gary. Unless Gary was a relative, Brian’s body would be cremated and stored in an urn, and he would be forgotten for all of time. It all felt so wrong to the postman, that this deceased man of such obviously good stature would be treated with such indifference by his world.

Gary finally began to awake, but the searing headache and accompanying nausea  that seemed to dominate  his morning wake up calls discouraged him from quickly arising from his cot in the shelter. “How on earth can I continue going on like this?”, thought Gary, as he tried to muster enough energy to dress himself, from the clothes that he had carelessly strewn about the floor next to his cot the night before.

He briefly thought of his estranged wife and son, and the horror of their final rejection of him that still stung deep to his core. He also briefly thought of his mother, whom he still loved, and deeply missed, and his father, whom he had alienated himself from many years before. His last communication with his father was so horrible and ugly, that he cringed whenever he thought of it, so he tried not to think of it now, even ten full years after leaving his parents in an explosion of mutual anger and animosity. What possible reason is there to go on, now that he had no family, employment, or friends, and he had no hope for the future?

 His last employer had just fired him two months ago, for his performance and attendance had been lagging as of late, and now he had nothing to look forward to doing, except to stew in his own misery. He attempted to hide from that suffering through his favorite chemical cocktails, which had stopped providing relief long ago. But, habits that die-hard were making him die harder, and the pain had to stop, even if it meant stopping his own life.

He looked into his wallet, and saw that he had little money left to finance his daily binges. The shelters’ walls felt like they were closing in around him, ready to trap him in this prison for all of eternity. With panic descending upon him, he urgently thrust himself outside of the shelter door, in search of, who knows what? What is there to find, when a person has given up hope for his life, and for finding his life’s true purpose? Maybe, he thought, his purpose is to die, to somehow provide a dark lesson plan for others, perhaps even for his son, on which path that they dare not follow, lest they lose their own sanity, and life, as well.

“Well, I must find some more money, either through begging, borrowing, or stealing”, he thought to himself, as this looked like the only option now, as his income sources had dried up.

He then remembered that his past employer was to send to him a final severance check, and a dark light went on inside of him, telling him that with this income he could buy a gun, and end this drama forever. His heart began to race, and cold sweat erupted all over his body, and he knew that he had better start self-medication soon, or he would not even have the composure to complete any necessary transactions. He made his way to the main post office, where he had recently rented a box for his mail. This PO box was the only place that he could call his own now, and he felt so small, and insignificant, and did not even attempt to ponder the why’s or the what’s about his life, as these internal inquiries always came back empty.

Upon opening the box, he was disappointed to find no severance check from his employer, and helplessness and misery continued to overwhelm him. But, he noted a small post card from a mail carrier from an outlying rural area of the county. He read the card, read and understood the request of the carrier, and was immediately struck by how indifferent he was to the plight of the mail carrier.

“Why should I care about some unclaimed body?” he thought, even though the deceased had the same last name as his own.

His mothers’ parents lived across the country, and he rarely saw them as he grew up. On his father’s side, he had lost those grandparents, even before he was born. He knew of no other family members with a similar last name, so he cast the card into the garbage on the way out the door.

How was he going to end his life today, now that he had no money to try drink himself to death like he had done daily for the past two months, or to purchase a gun for one final solution to his problems? In his helplessness and desperation, he called out once again to a God that he never understood, or believed in, in yet another vain attempt to find a solution to a problem that he could not understand. He was quite accustomed by now, to talking with people who could not listen to him, and seeking love from people who had no love to give, so the deadly silent answer he received back from the God of his misunderstanding felt almost normal to him by now.

As he drifted along the sidewalk, the idea came to him to go to the mortuary, and to see if the deceased man had any assets that he could falsely claim as his own, so that he could finish his own business as well, and perhaps join the stranger on his own personal death slab.

 The mortuary was on the other side of town, and since all that he had was time, and misery, he thought that the time spent walking to the mortuary might pay off, if he could deceive the people about who he was. Gary eventually made it to the mortuary, tired and anxious, and entered the double front door into the foyer, seeking someone to talk with. That moment the manager was walking by, and engaged Gary in conversation, asking him what he could do for him. Gary then, while still uncomfortable from his unfulfilled cravings for drinks and drugs, stated that he may be a long-lost relative of the deceased, and asked if he could have any assets that the man may have had on his body at the time of death. The manager eyed him closely, and was struck by a vague similarity between this disheveled young man, whom he estimated to be around 30 years old, and the deceased man lying on a cold slab in the far back room of the mortuary.

“Let me take a look at your identification, sir, if you will, please”, asked the manager.

Taking the photo identification, he saw that the man before him had the same last name as the deceased, as well as a middle name the same as the first name of the deceased, and he thought,

“Perhaps this man really is related”.

The manager took Gary to the back room, and led Gary to the body. Gary took a deep breath, and began to look at the body, first starting at the feet, and gradually making his way to the man’s head.

“I am only here for the money,” he reminded himself, as he began the distasteful process of attempting to look concerned, while viewing the stranger’s body.

But, a feeling a recognition began to bubble up with Gary’s mind, and he became surprised, when he recognized, in spite of the deceased man’s wrinkled face, his own fathers’ eyes, nose, and chin on this deceased man,

“How could this be?” he thought. “Is this man a long-lost uncle of my father, or, perhaps an unknown twin of my deceased grandfather?”

Nothing made sense to him, and his anxiousness and his racing heart gave way to a sense of grief, and loss, and his heart hurt, unlike any hurt that he ever felt before.

“Why don’t I know this man? He must be related to me!” he thought. He then repeated his constant litany of complaints against life, which included such dark thoughts as

“This man, even if he is family, never loved me or cared about me. Why should I care about him?  He is dead, and so am I. Why did life do this to me?  I must be some sort of aborted child of god, or some red-headed step child of an unloving family, and universe that needs to punish me for being myself. Why should I even care about anybody, anyway, because nobody ever listened to me, acknowledged me, or cared for me in any meaningful way that I could recognize?, Anyway, I don’t remember what love feels like or looks like, and maybe my curse is to never make its acquaintance, or to have my voice heard by anybody who cares.”

But, Gary’s curiosity was tickled a bit, and he found the energy to ask the manager if anybody else had come to look at the body. The manager had answered no, and Gary then felt some other difficult feelings, which felt unsafe for him to express with the manager of the mortuary.

For some unknown reason, he felt anger rising to the level of his consciousness, and he also felt the sense of betrayal yet again, at the hands of his father, which he had already previously experienced in a myriad of other ways, This made him feel worse than he could ever remember feeling before, and he felt that he could not be wronged one more time. He had already walked out on his father several years before, after he was once again publicly humiliated by him at a major social function that was honoring his successful dad, and his fathers’ efforts in the community.

“Hmmm, maybe I won’t wait for the alcohol to kill me now, perhaps its time to become proactive in my demise, for I can no longer live this lie that my life has become”, he thought to himself.

“The closer I get to any truth about my life, the more miserable I feel, and this can’t go on any longer.”

He then sealed the deal in his mind, making the decision that it was time to take whatever money his grandfather may have had left, buy a gun, and end it all.

“Do you think that the county records would have any useful information for me, if I were to go there and make an inquiry?” asked Gary.

The manager replied that there could be little harm in asking a few questions of them, and then encouraged Gary to make the trip to the building where all county records were stored. It was beer thirty, to be closely followed by Gin eighty proof, to be followed by a blackout, hopefully, if Gary’s daily life plan went according to the standards set by his previous two months of life, so whatever mission he was on, he needed to quickly finish. Finding enough money to finish the job was his only intention, at this point.

 As he walked to the house of records, Gary vaguely recollected stories his dad used to tell him about his ancestors. His great-grandfather had immigrated to America fairly early in the last century, and had adapted his original family name into a unique name for himself and his family, and all of his ancestors to follow. He also heard a few stories about his great-grandfather’s alcoholism, and how that disease disfigured and punished the family horribly. The children were beat within inches of their lives, and his wife was eventually beaten to death by his great-grandfather during a drunken blackout. Well, he thought to himself, at least I did not beat my wife and children in the style of my great-grandfather, though he then intuited that he might have beat them up in other, less obvious ways.

His last name must still be a fairly uncommon name, only shared by direct family members, as far as he could reason. After an exhaustive search of the records, it was found that the only record available about family name, other than that was recorded for his father and for himself, was another deed that was recorded with that same, unique last name, some fifty years before. But, there was no record of this home owner’s death.  Gary had been told since he could remember that his grandparents had died,  years before his own birth, so nothing made sense, except for the fact that, perhaps, his own father had lied to him his whole life about his origins.

 With more questions than answers, Gary returned to the mortuary, with a copy of the original deed to the deceased man’s home. Gary then asked the manager as to the location from which the body had been picked up from. The manager went to his office, and after a brief search returned with the original paperwork generated through the processing of the incoming body. The addresses were identical! Still feeling cold-hearted, and rejected one final time, Gary acknowledged that this must be a relative, and could he please have his wallet now?

The manager called an associate, who located the box where all of the contents in the deceased man’s pockets were being held. Gary was led back to the same large chilled room in the back of the complex, where Gary was also presented with the man’s possessions. Gary hesitantly walked back over to the man, and gazed upon his old, broken body again. He then began to cry uncontrollably. Gary had not cried in years. and this emotional outburst was totally unexpected, and uncharacteristic, of how he had learned to behave. Gradually, as the tears subsided, the identity of this man became obvious to him.

Gary informed the manager, that the man had to be his grandfather, and that he wanted all of his grandfather’s possessions. The manager delivered the contents within the man’s pockets, which included a wallet with $22, and a sealed letter that was in his front shirt pocket. The manager handed the note to Brian, who then promised to take it outside to read it, He really was heading to the liquor store first, however, to spend the last $22 on the cheapest booze that he could find, so that he might have enough to poison himself to death, since he did not have enough money for a gun. On the way back to the park, where Gary occasionally drank by himself, Gary stopped to open up the letter to read it. Even though the note had been written by a feeble old man, the writing was quite legible, and so Brian sat down, sans his best friend alcohol, which he would purchase later and finally began to read it.

Dear Grandson,

You do not know me, but oh, how I know you! I am your grandfather. I know that this must be a shock to you, to have to hear about me under such conditions, but this is the way of our world sometimes. I do not know what path that you had to travel to get here, to finally find the truth about you, and your life. But I also know that it is what was necessary to get you to this point in this first place, where you can finally “hear my voice’, even if it must be from the grave.

Your father was a fine son to me, and he had such a wonderful countenance all through his childhood. His smile brought such joy and happiness to your grandmother and me, and we thanked our Creator daily for the miracle of his beautiful life, and the open heart that he was blessed with. Like all growing children, he needed guidance and direction, which we gave to him lovingly, and without reservation, whenever he lacked direction, or when we saw that he was straying from his unique path of goodness. He was so open to learning that he was naturally a great student, and he devoured knowledge, much like a hungry teenage kid devours a pizza. Our sense of pride in his development, and his accomplishments at home and at school, never waned during all of those years. Nobody ever loved their son more than we loved your father, and you need to know that now, so that we can rest in peace.

I still do not know what caused your father to turn so aggressively against us, when he turned 17 years old. He was an advanced student and was already preparing for his college education, and we continued to affirm his goals, and together we celebrated all of the goodness that was unfolding in his life. Yet, he began to spurn our attention, and rejected all of our advice, and help, even though we could see that something was troubling him, and that he should consider talking through his issues with those that love him, so that he might avoid some of the same adult issues that I had faced, such as avoiding the alcoholism that poisoned much of our family tree. We encouraged him to avoid the temptation to drink, and also for him to socialize with those who heading the same direction as he was in life. But, he found himself a girlfriend, who had other ideas besides supporting a man who had ambition and a desire for higher education. His concentration on his studies eventually faded, to the point where he no longer was interested in pursuing his college degree.

We encouraged him to seek help from others, since he no longer wanted to look to us for his support. His girlfriend became his number one messenger for his guidance and direction, and her message was quite contrary to all that we had tried to teach your father, and we expressed our concern several times. But your father’s mind was made up, and in an angry spell he totally rejected us, and struck out on his own, heading into the city to find his work. Of course his work ethic still stayed with him, which enabled him to climb to the heights of his profession. Yet, he was so bitter and angry with us for trying to help him that he rejected us for all time, with no opportunity for us to reconcile.

 For you to be reading this note, your path must have brought to you some grief and suffering, and perhaps you even feel wronged and betrayed by your father. And, you have every right to feel that way. Yet, it is now up to you to manage your life. By now you must have learned how to prune away the unwelcome thorns from your  minds’ eye, and you have pulled all of the useless weeds from your heart that try to choke out your sense of purpose, and the potential for peace, and love in your life. For if you have not done this most important gardening of the soul, then your life will reflect the chaos and misunderstanding that curses the lives of all who have chosen not to manage their own internal gardens. Your beauty is there for all to see, and for you to see, but the work of the gardener is never complete. There are always new seasons to prepare for, new buds to blossom into beautiful flowers, as well as the need for the removal of those painful thorns that stick us, and our loved ones, in their hearts if we have not managed our gardens like the master gardeners that our Creator made us to be.

 Your grandmother and I lived in the country, besides the great forest, where we had our own little piece of heaven. Our cottage has sheltered and protected us for 50 years, and it was the place that we raised your father. Please stop by sometime and visit your grandmother there (I do not know where the others will bury me, but please insist that my beloved wife stay where she now is). Her headstone is the most wonderful rose-bush that we ever cared for. Though the rose-bush could not love us back like the son we once shared with our great Creator, it came to reflect the glory back to us, that our Creator gave to us in all of our beginnings.

 Grandson, I do not know what the future holds for you. But I do know that our hearts hold your essence near and dear, for all eternity, as our hearts also hold our long-lost son. Please love your father, and show to him the fruits of the spirit that our great Creator gave to you, in the beginning, before this world of pain and suffering arose. I know that the future will bring wholeness to you, if you can make the journey back to your grandfather’s and grandmother’s home. Our hearts have always been open, and waiting for you, and your father.

If your heart leads you to our home, with patience, you will find your own unique buried treasure, a treasure so precious, so tender, so loving, that your whole being will feel like a joyous explosion has levelled all of your past heartache and fear. If you find your treasure, your will find our blessing, and this will provide for you in all ways for all of your time to come.

Life does not always deliver beautiful flowers to our doorsteps, my grandson, but with loving attention and care, we can help each other to blossom from within and reveal the beauty that our Creator imbued us with in the beginning. By ourselves, in isolation, we are doomed to a life devoid of hope, and of love, so stay in touch with your people, for you will help each other stay whole.

Finally remember that all that you give to your life, you give to yourself, as well. All that you receive from life, you also receive for all of humanity.  No matter how great your vision, or how limited it might become, all that you will ever see, unto Eternity, is yourself. How will you see yourself today, my beloved grandson?

Blessed be you, who have finally read this message. More blessed be the world, when you finally understand it.

Love,

Brian, your grandfather

Gary was absolutely blown away from his reading of the letter. The constant tension around his chest, and near his heart, that he had felt all of his life had begun to loosen, and he was confused by the change in his feelings as the pain in his heart started to give way to something so precious, so powerful, and so healing, that he could no longer stand up by himself. As Gary began to collapse, the manager grabbed Gary and attempted to hold him up, but Gary, in a rare moment lacking self-consciousness, wrapped his arms around the manager to first stabilize himself, and then to give the man the first hug he had ever given another human being.

“Kind sir, please prepare my grandfather for transport back to his home, where I plan to bury him next to his wife”, Gary requested, though he had no idea how he would ever afford to deliver on his intention. He grabbed the $22 that the manager had given him, and added the $16 that he still had, and asked the manager if he could put this money down on delivery fees to have his grandfather transported back to his home.

The manager thought for a moment, and then remembered an old hearse that he had mothballed in a warehouse close by, and he ordered his assistant to retrieve it, and make it ready for transporting the grandfather’s body.

“You may keep this hearse as long as you need it, Gary. Just make sure that you keep in touch, and let me know how everything works out for you”.

Gary was blown away by the generosity of the manager, and as graciously as he could, he thanked the man, and when the hearse was ready, helped transport his grandfather’s body out to the hearse. Brian’s body was carefully placed in the back, and with the copy of his grandfather’s deed, he sought the homeland for which his grandfather wanted to be buried.

Arriving at his grandparents’ property, he was stunned by its beauty, and its placement in relationship to the forests, meadows, and nearby streams and mountains. A sense of gratitude for life, and a sense of awe for his new surroundings, came to replace his desire for alcohol and drugs. He eagerly walked around the property, admiring all of the wonderful landscaping that dominated his grandparents property, though everywhere he looked, there was signs of neglect, with the property needing major work just to get it looking organized again. He walked into the cottage, which had a welcoming feel for some reason, and he was immediately struck by another feeling, a feeling that he had finally found his true home, and his real family, even though they were now dead. He walked from room to room, admiring his grandmother’s artwork, and all of the early family photographs showing his father happily engaged in activities with his grandfather. Walls were filled with articles from the local paper about his own father and his myriad accomplishments, and shelves were still filled with his father’s trophies from his high school sports participation.

“Well, if I am to live here, I had better either learn how to forgive my father, or I am going to have to throw all of these memories away,” he thought to himself. Forgiveness was an unknown concept up to now, best left for those who really could give and receive it.

 Walking outside, and around the cottage just around the front door, Gary spotted his grandmother’s grave mound, and its most wondrous headstone, a perfectly manicured rose-bush, filled with blossoming roses. Though tears began filling his eyes, he began to feel such an overwhelming appreciation for his grandmother, that he had to get down on his knees before her grave, and from his heart he spoke of his regret at having never met her, or his grandfather. He also began to realize that there was much to be done around making some changes in his life, and making some amends to all whom he had harmed while on his darkened path.

“But, first things first”, he thought.   His grandfather’s body needed to be buried, and though he did not like hard work, having never held a shovel in his life, he sought one from the shed, and walked back to the grandmothers’ gravesite.

He thought of all of the work that lie ahead, and he felt overwhelmed by the prospect of caring for this piece of property, as he had no money, or experience, in managing a country home with a yard. How could he ever afford to pay for the taxes or the upkeep, let alone feed and clothe himself? His city life had made him quite ignorant as to the ways of nature, and of caring for plants. His city life had also made him quite ignorant of the ways of caring for his own self and his soul, though he now suspected that he was more in control of this than he had previously realized.

 Walking to the unruly rose-bush besides his grandmothers’ grave, he began to lose hope again, and he felt powerless, and foolish forever thinking that he belonged here. Yet, his grandfather’s letter had left a measure of hope in his heart, so he committed to finishing the business of the day, which was to bury his grandfather, and then he would have to figure out what to do next, including, perhaps, finishing the business of ending his own life. Perhaps he should dig two graves?

 He started shoveling the dirt that was behind the chaos that now was the second rose-bush. He pushed the shovel into the ground, and though the shovel felt uncomfortable in his hands, he quickly learned how to more efficiently press the shovel into the earth, for maximum load movement. The strain on his back was quite unfamiliar, yet he grew to appreciate the movement that he was making, and the results began to show. As the hole stretched closer and closer to the wayward thorny branches of the bush, he noted that the ground was softer, and the dirt seemed to fly right out of the shovel with little effort! But then, he struck something that appeared to be out-of-place, a soft spot among the hardened soil. Curious, he bent down, and brushed away the dirt from some flat, unrecognizable surface.

“Why, what is this?” he thought, as he grabbed a box from the ground. Opening it, he found a deed to the cottage and property, a checking account book, and many thousands of dollars in stray cash.

It was then that he remembered his grandfather’s note, and the promise of finding buried treasure, should he find his way to his grandparent’s home. He thought that his grandfather had a more poetic intent than just this cold, hard cash, and time would prove that to be true. Yet, in the interim to finding the real truth of his grandfather’s message, he found a concrete way to stay connected with his new home, and he felt supported, for the first time in his life, by Life itself.

Several months passed, and Gary became devoted to his grandparents land. He worked hard each day into the evening, cleaning and upgrading the home, and all of the surrounding property to the best that he could. He had to learn as he went, as his life training was so limited, that he had no background. On his free time, he went to the bookstores, and purchased all of the books he could find about growing flowers, and pruning rose bushes. He wanted to be an expert from the beginning, but as life would have it, he had a lot to learn, and made many mistakes in attempting to recover his grandparents’ sacred rose garden. But he was not deterred, and he saved his best effort the bush that served as his grandfathers’ headstone. With all of the love, care, and concern that he could muster, he pruned each branch as if it was his own child, to carefully reveal the inner buds of beauty that the bush had tried to reveal to the world, but in the past was stymied by the proliferation of all of its thorny branches.

Gary felt whole for the first time in his life, and he wanted to share it with somebody. He no longer felt the need to remain isolated, as he felt, for the first time in his life, a sense of purpose, and he had a peace of mind that he never believed possible for himself. Who would possibly be interested in sharing these gifts with him??

His amends letter had reached his wife, and his son, late that summer. His wife had not heard from Gary for over 8 months, and she could hardly believe the message that she was reading. But, her heart mysteriously began to break open, and she felt compelled to take her son, and drive to the cottage on the outskirts of the county, and visit with her estranged husband.

 Gary waited beside the mailbox, awaiting for his wife and son to arrive. He was feeling some apprehension, though he knew that this was the path of his heart, and that there was no going back. He was prepared to make amends for all of the harm he had caused, through his own ignorance, and his own brokenness and unhealed life.

His wife and his son were blown away by the change they witnessed in Gary.

”It must be some sort of miracle!”, his wife thought, that Gary could undergo such a profound change of mind, and of heart, and be the person that stood before them now.

“What has happened to you Gary, you are so changed, you now appear to be so happy! And, the hairs on my arms, and on the back of my neck, start to tingle whenever you speak to me! What happened?”

“Well, I can hardly believe that this could be happening to me, but I think that I am having an experience with God!”

Gary then proceeded to tell his story, and though he never believed in God, nor would his old mind ever let him, he felt like he had been touched by the very hand of the Creator, and he felt the inner assurance that his search for truth had found unexpected results.

Their relationship began again, with a new emphasis on love, understanding, and change. His wife and son moved in with him, and together they finished rebuilding their grandparents’ piece of paradise. Several years later, the rose garden, having been returned to its original stature, attracted people from far and wide, and once again their property became a sustaining operation, and they had no further issues with successfully managing the property.

Their family continued to thrive, and they continued the sometimes difficult process of fine tuning their own minds and hearts, while helping their other family members tune themselves to the higher vibrations, as well. Communication no longer was threatening to Gary, though sometimes he still struggled with old thoughts from the past that suggested that he was not being heard. Because he was open about his issues, his wife was able to give loving guidance whenever his behavior suggested that he felt that he was not being heard, even when he really was. His wounds, or his thorns, were always going to be with him, but his wife was there to help him trim back the thorns, whenever they threatened to scratch.

He daily stopped by his grandparents’ grave, and gave his respect, and his love, to both their gravesites, and to the rose bushes that adorned their resting place. Yes, there was order in his life, and in the universe as a whole, and others outside of the family came to recognize his growth and evolution.

Gary grew to become respected, and honored in his community, even though he felt like he had nothing to do with it, giving all credit to the change that his grandfather stimulated within him.

Word of his life and his new energy reached far and wide, and finally fell upon the once deaf ears of his long abandoned father, who was in failing health. His mother had died two years previous, and now his father was in need of extra support in his old age, and he was moved to a nursing home, where he received adequate care, though his heart was unhealed, and he continued to ache for all of the love that he had lost in his life. He was inconsolable, and the medical staff felt helpless as to how to help him. A member of the staff, not really knowing of the estrangement of the father and son, heard of the great life that the son was leading, and wondered why there was no connection. She proceeded to contact Gary, who she had read about in the county newspaper, to see if he could help in any way to give his father a higher quality of life in his final days.

“Whoa, I could never give that man what he needs!” thought Gary, and his own spirits started to sink, as he contemplated his own unwillingness to help, his almost indifference to the plight of his father.

But something clashed inside of his heart. His life was now devoted to his family, and to his land, and to providing beauty and a new sense of appreciation for the wonders of creation for all who visited his family’s land.

“Yet, does not this man also deserve the same opportunity to be blessed by the gifts that my grandfather gave to me? And, was not this property his own home over fifty years ago?”

 Gary consulted with his wife and son, and they discussed at length the potential risks, and rewards, of extending their hearts and lives to the man who so frequently and rudely damaged Gary’s sense of self- esteem when he was young. Gary knew that, in the spirit of fairness, and in a tribute to his new sense of spiritual integrity, he now felt compelled to extend the hand of love to his father, in his final stretch of days. His father arrived by ambulance several days later, and the family prepared the home for their newest family addition, devoting the family room to Gary’s father’s care. Gary’s father was severely compromised mentally, having lost his short-term memory. But his father also remembered many of the good times that father and son had shared together. so they focused on the good times, while Gary continued to trim his own internal thorns back, that tried to prevent love’s vision from appearing. Daily, Gary would wheel his father out into their beautiful garden, where his father delighted, and felt somehow completed, and made whole, by being there. Eventually Gary left his father in front of the two prized rose bushes nearest the house, not telling him that his own parents’ bodies were buried, with the bushes as their headstones.

 Gary’s father always requested to be left at those bushes, and Gary was more than happy to wait by his wheelchair’s side, as his father gazed, with pure love in his own heart, at the treasured shrubs. And, as his own father neared his death, Gary felt, for the first time in his life, a complete and total unconditional love for the man who was now appearing as his father, knowing inside, with the complete authority of the spirit that resided within him, that his father was so much more than the role that he played in life. Gary finally recognized that the Creator had appeared as his father, and for the first time in his life, he felt grateful for his father’s life.

On the final day of his father’s life, Gary wheeled him outside, to one more time view the prized rose bushes. Gary told his father that his parents were buried there, and that they had always saved a place in their hearts, and on their property, for their once estranged son.

Gary’s father looked up into Gary’s eyes, and, with his own eyes filled with tears they exchanged loving looks, and acknowledged the perfection of love that all of them now shared together.

Gary’s father final wish was to be buried beside his father, and when the end arrived, he was lovingly placed in his own resting place, beside the father, and mother, who had awaited his return all of this time.

 The third rose-bush, because of the extra love and attention paid to it, became a most beautiful creation, and truly belonged alongside the other two prized bushes. The family felt honored, and blessed, and vowed to also be buried beside their now beloved father, and grandparents. The cycle of life, and of love, had once again become fulfilled. Healing was the greatest gift of all, returning to everyone the joy of sharing and togetherness, and they continued to be blessed, and to bless others, with the all of the gifts of the spirit that were to follow.

We are all master gardeners, and we are all rose bushes. While we help trim the thorns from those we love, we must also be willing to have our own thorns trimmed back. This is the essence of cultivating the spirit of creation.

 Thank you to my loving wife, Sharon White for her constant encouragement and support, as I continue to heal from my original brokenness, which tries to tell me that my voice will never be heard. I have been heard, and in that hearing, I am healed.

“My peace I leave with you, not as the world giveth, give I unto you”.    Jesus of Nazereth

Matthew Fox Workshop and Dream

April 1 2017 Dream

After Friday evening’s seminar about mysticism with the Master Spiritual Teacher, Matthew Fox, we returned to our hotel room, to rest up for the next morning’s follow-up workshop on the Cosmic Christ. I had quite the deep, peaceful sleep, which lasted six hours for me. Prior to awakening, I had a most interesting, powerful dream. What was/is fascinating about this dream is how absolutely awake I was, while having the dream.

In the dream, I opened a door, and walked into a room that was well-lit.  The room seemed unfamiliar to me. Inside of the room there was a man standing to the right of the entrance. He greeted me, holding a cup out to me in his hand. He gently offered it to me, and for a moment I considered what it’s contents might be. I then knew that if I drank from it, I would become “intoxicated”, but of a different nature that was still consistent with the path of “sobriety” I currently walked upon. I then noticed a table, where an opened map laid open upon it. The man walked with me to the table, still holding the cup.

I looked at the map, and it was a topographic style map, similar to what I might use for traveling and/or hiking with. There were two distinct areas to it. The path or road, on the right side of the map, had only one dark, solid line drawn from the bottom to the top of the map. But, the section on the left side of the map had several dotted lines that only remotely “paralleled” the route on the right side of the map. I had no judgement about each of the path styles, yet I remained curious about the several dotted line paths, which intersected each other, while also “snaking” their unique individual routes up the map. I noted also that the “dotted line” paths also did not ever cross the path of the solid, dark line, though all of the paths had no distinct starting, or end point.

At the Cosmic Christ workshop, Matthew asked if anyone had a dream that they wanted to share in the big group. Not being a “realized person”, I felt uncomfortable sharing the dream. But when it came time for a break, I took a book to Matthew for signing, and shared my dream with him. He refused to tell me what it might mean, but he had a smile on his face, and told me to let it tell me it’s meaning.

On our drive home, Sharon White took controls of the car, and I started telling her the dream again. It was then that the horripilations began in earnest, and the full meaning came through me. A complete mystical understanding, and teaching, was built into that dream, and it was then I realized that I had indeed drunk from the cup of the Spirit. Yes, I became quite “intoxicated” with Spirit, and I knew then that we had truly been blessed by the Master Teacher.

I don’t expect anybody to understand this dream, except Sharon and I, and Matthew Fox. It is a complete spiritual teaching, and for that, Great Spirit, I thank you, and my gratitude to you will be expressed through the life that you live through me, for now and all time to come. Yes, mysticism, the heart of all vibrant, evolving religions, also can be a personal reality. It is not, however, for those clinging to structured understandings of life.

A Day In The Life, August 7, 2017

I awoke around 4:00 am, a time of day considered “too early to wake up” by most people. After our morning meditation and dialogue, Sharon White and I then drove towards my aunt Susie’s home, around 7:00 am, so that I could walk Sharyn’s companion dog Ruby. Sharyn was aunt Susie primary caregiver, until taken down by disease last week. My Sharon now has to make sure Susie takes her medication, drinks some water (she is chronically dehydrated, as she hates water, or drinking, for her own peculiar reasons). Sharyn was the one daughter that could tolerate my aunt, and she also happened to have taken the role as her caregiver for over one year (this has been a mixed blessing, as she has immense emotional and physical problems, but at least we were relieved of our sometimes daily commitment to her care while also caring for my disabled father). The rest of aunt Susie’s family have plausible reasons as to why they have no time, or desire, to attend to her needs. Then again, so do we, but someone must step up, and so we do once again. But, Sharyn took ill last week, and has now been hospitalized for 11 days. She is now diagnosed with terminal cancer, which has enveloped her entire midsection, including the pancreas and liver.

At the Webster and Jennings Road intersection, on our way to Susie’s, I notice a person in a fetal position lying alongside of Webster. I stop our vehicle, and Sharon gets out and check’s for signs of life. We find that the person is of Native American heritage, and is also quite alive, though recovering from some sort of drug experience (undoubtedly opiate related). A neighbor comes over, photographs the young man, and states that the house he was asleep in front of is a drug house (big surprise?). Sharon talks with him, and sees that he is OK. We take our leave, and head to Susie’s.

I walk Ruby at 7:30, as I have for the past 10 days (sometimes coming back two or more times a day). Ruby is a beautiful 13 year old canine companion to the now dying Sharyn. Sharon finds that she is now Susie’s primary caregiver once again until OPI (Oregon Project Independence) gets another available caregiver on site. Sharon also has become an integral part of the communication network incorporating Sharyn’s brother and her sons and rest of the family, at least those few left with any care and interest in this collapsing household.

There is time to go work out at our athletic club, then we visit Sharyn in the hospital. We spend close to two hours discussing her gut wrenching and heart breaking diagnosis and prognosis. There are tears and anguish expressed, and somehow I remain engaged and attentive to all that is unfolding before me, no matter how distressing the energy becomes.

I receive a phone call from Mr. and Mrs. C, and we attempt to troubleshoot a computer issue. I was to install a new thermostat for their home today, but they cancelled because of his family coming in from Texas. I will still be with Mr. C most of Friday, as per usual lately, to be present in friendship and love while he fights terminal metastatic melanoma. The cancer dominates him, impacting him, and his wife, on all levels.

We leave from the hospital, and head over to my father’s home, to confirm his care and condition. He is another poor water drinker, though he responds well to encouragement, at least in that moment. Hot days lay him low, and even with air conditioning, he has lower energy than normal. Madison, now his primary caregiver when Pam and I are not scheduled, will see to his evening’s needs.

We prepare for a dinner with our number one grandson. He is not on a winning streak, and at 20 years of age, he has a poor relationship with telling the truth, and taking personal responsibility. His deception just paid him some dark dividends, when his other grandfather opens up his grandson’s letter from California, (where grandson had lived the last eight years, prior to coming up to Portland in February, after some “unknown issue”), and finds that he was prosecuted for shoplifting and carrying a concealed weapon the past year. The mother intentionally withheld that information, because her MS is getting worse, and she needs for him to stay local to provide future care/assistance to his mother. She feared telling the truth would have both sets of grandparents turn on her son, and not trust him (huh? She thinks the way to gain trust is by withholding information, which explains well why our grandson is such a polished liar and manipulator, he learned quite well the tools of the dark trade while living with his mom).

We have dinner, and discuss integrity, honesty, character, and telling one’s truth. I see that this young man, who has just been kicked out of his other grandpa’s house due to dishonesty and lack of success in finding full time work, is about to embark on a life’s journey with a most difficult search for truth. He may not make it. I drive him to the train station this afternoon, where he is heading back to California, to take up with the same friends that he got into trouble with.

There will be another hospital visit today, and the shocked family will be there.

I never anticipated retirement life would be quite like this. Whatever happened to more than one vacation a year? We had more vacations when we both worked full time!

Sharon and I are truly on a journey into the unknown.

I hope and pray that our grandson will not be seen in a fetal position sleeping along some California by- way. His “truth” will guide him into great, pain wracked lessons, if the past is any indicator of the future.

When the student is ready, the Teacher appears.

Not all lessons bring joy, but understanding does follow. I hope that we all have the necessary access to our reservoir of “life force” and wisdom as our civilization moves down its oft times unpredictable and dangerous course.

(excerpt from the song Truckin’, by the Grateful Dead)

You’re sick of hangin’ around and you’d like to travel

Get tired of travelin’ and you want to settle down

I guess they can’t revoke your soul for tryin’

Get out of the door and light out and look all around

Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me

Other times I can barely see

Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it’s been

Truckin’, I’m a goin’ home. Whoa whoa baby, back where I belong

Back home, sit down and patch my bones, and get back truckin’ on

Please, save yourself

Marty and Me, Again, July 24 2017

I am feeling a little challenged this morning. The challenge comes from being fully present for a married couple we have known and loved for a generation. A “two months to live” diagnosis for the husband, coupled with the wife’s obsessive compulsive nature to prove her own worth, and to also protect and honor her partner, in the face of their collapsing lives, keeps me “engaged with the unknown”.

How can I help?

Being “fully present” as a life witness, while being a loving friend, in the face of his deterioration and potential death, and with his partner’s fear, anxiety, neurosis, and potentially, own emotionally self-destructive attitudes and behaviors, has placed me in a position for “accelerated understanding and spiritual growth”.

I used to say “growth is highly overrated” in a humorous manner when I feigned aversion to situations known to create opportunities for personal evolution. Now I am looking for real humor in the face of adversity, and this morning finds me coming up short.

I miss the healthy version of my friend, while I learn to embrace today’s version. I have experienced some shock in the face of his accelerated change and his wife’s emotional near collapse.

We were preparing to hike parts of the Pacific Crest Trail later this summer, and we did a 6 mile wilderness hike just 6 weeks ago to test equipment, and prove fitness. We all passed, with flying colors. Two days later, he began losing all use of his left leg and arm, and he is now wheelchair bound. The mets to his brain are impinging on his sense of self, and his competent, highly intelligent, insightful, loving mind.

Now, I help with small tasks around their home, once or twice a week. I attend, and participate with him in, a men’s cancer survivor writing group at OHSU, as of last week (my survival from melanoma is going much better than his, as mine has not yet metastasized, and hopefully will not in the future).

I miss the only man who responded to my philosophically challenging Facebook posts, now knowing that he no longer has the energy to sort through all of the Facebook chaos, of which I inexplicably remain a small part of. Why I continue to post has to do with my own need to heal, and to express myself, even if there are no positive returns to be gained from the endeavor.

My heart aches for the married couple Sharon White and I have shared so many outdoor adventures and community memories with over the last 25 years. Love goes before all of us “to make the crooked places straight”, but while chaos’ clouds obscure the view, it is hard to see the path. Being open to each moment as it unfolds in its own unique way, and being present with self through insight clears the fog, and keeps the door open to love’s unfolding mystery.

But, It remains a mystery to me, how to plan for and successfully navigate the rivers of life that carry us into death. Reading more books, and gathering more information, is not going to get the job done for me. I try to remain open to the mystery, though it still troubles my heart. I may never heal of that, but miracles are still possible.

Death really sucks for those with much life left to live, period. I am not fooled by the promises of a “reward in the afterlife” offered by some. That reward is only a painkiller to be ingested by the magical thinkers who struggle mightily with the concept of death itself. The thought of an after-life vacation in “heaven” is more addictive than opiates, and drives national and international irrationality and insanity.

It is our eternal struggle.

“And, in the end, even death shall be conquered”.

I am not “in the end”, obviously. “Fear of death” can be conquered without it being masked by even more illusions of thought. That is the path of today’s spiritual warrior. I guess that I somehow signed up for the course. The only study materials are supplied through a committed involvement with life, on Life’s terms, and not on my ego’s terms.

I am no longer allowed to just audit the course, now that I am in the final stretches of my own life. I just hope that my “final stretch” is an engaged, joy dominated experience. I do have some control over that!

I love you both, Mr. and Mrs. C.

“I will be with you always, even unto the end of the world”

“And, in the end, even death shall be conquered”.

Please, save yourself

Inspired By Friendship With Marty

The writing that follows was inspired by my long term friendship with a man diagnosed with terminally malignant melanoma.  His energy is now devoted to just getting through the day with as much peace of mind, and with as little chaos, as is possible under the absolutely overwhelming conditions of his declining life

Mr. M. communicated to me his sense of being inarticulate, in relation to the new experiences of his deteriorating state brought about by metastatic melanoma, and the encroachment upon his critical brain centers which had already begun. A life transitioning from being

1. highly engaged with the culture and the world, and immensely supportive of his wife while doing so,
2. physically healthy and active,
3. spiritually, intellectually and technologically stimulating and expressive,
4. at times exciting and challenging,
5. occasionally joyous, and,
6. regularly immersed in family and social interaction,

to one that is

1. physically inactive, and almost home bound,
2. threatened with the loss of intellectual competence,
3. challenging in anxiety producing ways, and
4. humiliating, depressing, and emotionally painful, and
5. without normal joy and hope for the future, and
6. devoid of physical intimacy with the wife,
7. immersed in family connections, but now not under the old rules, and
8. a myriad of other less than happy adjectives,

And attempting to describe the changing experience, while still in the middle of it, is a most difficult proposition.”

A story came to my mind after our morning’s meditation, of which I sent to Mr. M in text message form, and I include parts of it here as a small record of our journey together.

“Mr. M , all of your descriptors are perfect, and they will change, as you change. While in meditation, the following images came to my mind:

Life can be like a lifelong adventure hike (perhaps the Pacific Crest Trail of everyday life?). On one side of the trail we are witnessing the unbroken beauty of nature and of our own wholeness and connection to it, and the joy of unfettered movement of an innocent mind and healthy body while walking through the magic and mystery of the unknown. Yet, on the other side of the trail, a wicked forest fire has erupted, obscuring our view, threatening our safety and freedom, and taking us out of the beauty and wonder of the new moment. Its flames are now, more than gently, lapping at our back side, burning away at our past, burning away at our clothing, at all of our hiding and holdings, and at all the knowledge and memories that we cling to, and hold so dear.. When you search for names to characterize this process, I understand at the deepest level why it is hard giving it a new name, or calling it “good” or perfect while still being so painfully “burned” by one aspect of it.

Losing independence in life and in decision-making is a most difficult proposition.

Losing the ability to get out of bed and go to the bathroom in the middle of the night by oneself can be demoralizing.

Losing the ability to plan for the day-to-day exigencies of life can make one feel less than empowered.

Losing the sense of intimacy with one’s partner, who is now more or less the primary caregiver, and not the lover, feels a bit like love has abandoned us for now.

Losing strength and mobility, and being dependent on another for all movement around the house, and now, around all of life, feels like life is almost stripping us of our dignity.

Losing control of one’s bladder and bowels, and wearing supplemental underwear, and the insertion of pads onto our beds to trap our incontinence, can feel like adding insult to injury.

Losing the use of the left arm and leg, and then not having others respect one’s sense of loss, feels like the world has become insensitive to all suffering individuals.

Losing the desire to keep living on dying’s terms, while all of the other losses kept accumulating and accelerating, can make the thought and actions related to Death With Dignity an attractive option.

Yet, your journey, with this measure of suffering becoming folded into it, is part of humanity’s unbroken wholeness, of which we all remain a most treasured, though challenged, part of. Can you begin to trust that Love itself is always guiding, and coming out in its many new, challenging forms? Love is soon to become your new and only garment, and any holding back will only increase your pain.

Mr. M, our hike on the path continues, and the “forest fire” always burns (it burns for all of us). Hope and expectancy tells us to keep walking, because the “view ahead is always changing”. But, what was our past continues to burn away in uncertain and many times anxiety producing ways. Around one of those next bends in the trail, there is only the unknown, bringing whatever is to come. And, also around that same bend, the “fire” will have burned away all that is unlike your true nature, revealing who you were “in the beginning, before the World was”. Giving it a name is the challenge unique to all of us. The articulate ones write great books, and attract lots of attention to their words. You don’t need that.

There are already many fine works available for the curious to read on the subject of death and dying, but your life is now your greatest teacher. Now that we finally have realized that facts and knowledge alone are not enough support to make all of life’s decisions with, we can willingly enter through the doorways to a new spiritual awakening, populated by creativity, intuition, and insight, where transcending many of the troubling aspects of the ego, and finally accepting the inevitable deaths of our bodies, becomes more likely.

Transformation, and death, can be so closely related that many people have profound spiritual experiences on the final stretch of their life’s path. Yes, I had a “death” 31 years ago, and people who knew me before the change, and then afterward (and who were not my direct family members) witnessed them. I was accused of being a “walk-in” by a friend from the 90’s (one of those “new age friends” I met in one of our men’s group from LEC), and I too was at a loss of words to articulately describe the death and dying process that I went through, let alone this subsequent “resurrection” that I am currently living through.

Thank you for reaching out to me in your time of greatest need. I am honored that you regard me as “the best thing you have done recently” when you got me to become involved in the OHSU Men’s Cancer Survivor’s Writing Class with you. To have a published author and Dr. in Philosophy, a highly intelligent and sensitive facilitator and several others over the past few years giving mutually positive, life affirming feedback on all of our creative writings, rather than the mixed bag that many have grown accustomed to receiving in our normal life experiences, is a revelation of sorts. Thank you for honoring and respecting the words that we all write, and the words that we directly speak to each other. Thank you for involving me in a process where I can listen with my heart and mind at the deepest level to those creative urges and surges that we all share in. Thank you for allowing me into a process where I can give you extra love and attention, and draw you away from the trials and tribulation around the home long enough to give you a sense of release, and relief.

You and me, we are both on the same path, though I experience it differently right now than you do. I “die daily to all that was myself”, through a process of personal inventory, mindfulness, and insight, though small parts of the old me pops up and reminds me that I am still human, and part of this glorious mess that we call humanity. Yet, right now, what seems to be different between us is that I have, more or less, a fairly secure sense of continuity between the past and the present, and I still experience the “illusion of control”. Of course, your fine engineering mind rebels at all thought of loss of control, even while personally witnessing the dramatic effects of that powerfully humbling experience.

It is really messed up to finally find ones place in life, one’s most healthy relationships with new and old friends and family, where healing and acceptance FINALLY reside, TO FEEL LIKE WE HAVE FINALLY BEEN INVITED TO LIFE’S PARTY, AND THAT WE TRULY BELONG, and then have a disease process creating conditions that feels like a rug is being yanked out from under us, the very rug that sustains our connections, and our future. It can feel, at times, like life itself is rejecting us, while our body continues the profound ejection process of our life force.

I parked myself on the outside of humanity for much of my early life, because I never saw or felt the welcome mat set out for me, by my early experiences of family, or many of my early relationships. And I was not skilled enough to create a welcome mat for myself among the diverse groups of people who I met through school and work in my “pre-30 year old” life. Most relationships with males were troubled, and too many men seemed to be dominated by the aspect of the Common Knowledge Game that included judging all others unlike ourselves as bad, ignorant, stupid, ugly, and undeserving of further positive regard, unless there was some obvious economic or personal power gain to be made from the relationship. I gravitated towards girls as friends, as a child, and then women as a maturing human, as they did not play the “put down” game so profoundly as my male peers and authority figures did (at least the women I met and befriended did not). I clung like a drowning swimmer to an inner tube to any male friendship where I was accepted, more or less, for who I was, without having to accomplish superhuman feats of accomplishment to just “fit in”.

Toxic Masculinity is the cause of so much suffering in the world, and the cause of some of our own suffering, and, at times, I am still repulsed by the baseness, cruelty, and ignorance of many males. The spawn of Toxic Masculinity is Toxic Religion and Toxic Capitalism, and thus the whole world suffers with us. I will try not to get too political, but the election of the POTU$ was a gut/sucker punch to us. We have been victimized by this type of male energy, as well as most women and children (though many do not understand the “following the herd” and the sexual dynamics behind it), and, when I was younger and more unconscious, I probably victimized others with my “masculinity” as well.

My past unwillingness to talk or write much stems from being shut down for much of my life, by others who did not want to listen, or did not have the time to care, and my unconscious involvement with the Common Knowledge Game, where I let the opinions of others, or my perceptions of the opinions of others (another deadly creative twist of the illusory mind) drive my own unique expression nearly into the grave. Your story of your relationship with your father resonated with parts of my own past, and self-esteem issues certainly arose through our fathers’ own lack of insight, and limited ability to be emotionally present in supportive, meaningful ways.

Thanks you for caring, and for listening with your heart. And know that I give to you all that I am, and all that I have, as well. I hear you, Mr. M, and I know that there is much challenge ahead for you. Yet, “ahead” will not be done in isolation, or away from your family, and your friends. The miracle for both of us is how our hearts merged at this most troubling of times. This is one of the “great unknowns to be experienced” around each bend of our life’s path. You will experience many more “great unknowns”, as the release process continues.

I will walk with you, in freedom, to whatever extent we can,

I walk with you, in pain, while we must,

I will walk with you into the unknown, where we will eventually recognize nothing but Spirit, as we release ourselves from our bondage to our deteriorating minds and bodies,

I no longer will burden you with thought experiments for personal transcendence.

I will no longer advocate for prayer or meditation for you, nor will I withhold from you any potential benefit derived through my own relationship to those processes,.

I will walk with you into death, each in our own time, and in our own way,

I will integrate part of my individual destiny with your own, and, ultimately, join with Destiny itself.

I am grateful to have you as a friend. I am also grateful to share with you in the good intentions and prayers of our spiritually inclined/religious friends and family.” We all mean well, perhaps with some of us needing more targeted training in supporting you in the way that has the deepest meaning and significance for you.

It is quite appropriate that my wife, Sharon White, chose for her lone published book the title

“Whose Death Is It, Anyway?”

It is all of ours.

Please save yourself

Blessed Longing,

by Goethe

(Translated by John O’Donohue)

Tell no one else, only the wise

For the crowd will sneer at one

I wish to praise what is fully alive,

What longs to flame toward death.

When the calm enfolds the love-nights

That created you, where you have created

A feeling from the Unknown steals over you

While the tranquil candle burns.

You remain no longer caught

In the peneumbral gloom

You are stirred and new, you desire

To soar to higher creativity.

No distance makes you ambivalent.

You come on wings, enchanted

In such hunger for light, you

Become the butterfly burnt to nothing.

So long as you have not lived this:

To die is to become new,

You remain a gloomy guest

On the dark earth.

Dad and Marty’s Death

“As you have been with me in life, so I will be with you in death.”

I “heard” this statement in my heart, and whispered it to Marty’s body at his graveside service Saturday morning, with Jo and Jim accompanying me to his graveside.

Dad’s caregiver called me to report Dad’s death at the exact moment I was to place Marty’s body into the hearse, Saturday morning. Sharon had to rush from the funeral procession to tend to Dad’s body, while I completed my pallbearer duties.

Oh, Dad, you always knew how to try to take command of a situation, didn’t you!?

Two men who have so dramatically shaped my life recently are now gone.

To truly become “one” with love for another is dangerous, and destructive to the ego mind. To not fully love one another is dangerous, and destructive to the heart, to the body, and to each other.

I have been destroyed, and I am also being renewed.

Where do we all go from here?

As we leave our history, we may enter into the mystery.

The Unknown is always calling out to us from within,

Listen carefully, and be transformed.

Day Of Marty’s Death, September 11, 2017

As I lie here on our driveway, and pet and caress our cat Patches, I marvel at the mystery of love and connection, and the diversity of life that expresses it, each in its own unique way.

I also reflect on the life, and the death, of my friend. As of 7:00pm this evening, he will be pronounced dead as a result of a Death With Dignity process.

I still marvel at the mystery of love and connection, and the diversity of life and how life expresses itself.

I also grieve for the death of my longtime friend, fellow book club group member, hiking partner, weekend vacation partner, couples dinner group participant (for the last 18 years), men’s cancer survivor writer’s group member, and one of the very few men in this universe who cared about what I had to say.

The way it all ended still leaves me somewhat disoriented, as if I have been on a spinning chair for the day. This morning was excruciatingly painful for me, as I contemplated our friend’s final day of life, after sharing time with him and his friends yesterday.

I do not pretend to understand this process fully.

I still marvel at the mystery of love and our interconnections, the diversity of life, and the infinite possibilities for its expression.

Wasn’t there any other possibilities? Perhaps a miraculous exception to the rule of life and death? Maybe a redo?

After the negotiations have been completed, I once again marvel at the mystery of life and love, life’s diversity, and the courage that it takes to face our fate as human beings.

Please save yourself, before its too late.

Marty C. Eulogy

I never knew what I was getting involved with when I offered to you all of my heart in friendship this year, having withheld so much of myself over the years. 2017 was the year when I finally learned how closely two male human beings could connect, and ultimately become “one” on a journey of exploration and discovery on the way to your own death this past Monday, at 1:24PM.

You are/were an important missing piece in my own journey of self discovery. I tried to bring you along on the journey into the Unknown, deep into the Mystery of Life. You introduced me to Death in a way that has changed me forever. We walked together while we still could, while you still had hope for your Miracle. Another definition for Miracle now lives in my heart, and Soul. When our human knowledge parading as Truth is unveiled for the lie that it really is, insight, intuition, and Love are finally enshrined in our Heart.

Through your death, I have been Destroyed, and I am now Renewed.

Rest in Peace, Marty.

I have included, below, one of Marty’s Last Creative Writing Stories below, from the OHSU Men’s Cancer Survivor’s Writing Group, August 25, 2017. I finally joined him in this group in July, after avoiding the commitment with him for 3 years. He called my acceptance of joining the group one of the best things that he did for the two of us.

He apparently died to me after the September 1st Writing Group meeting, obsessing with preparing his car’s GPS and OnStar system for his wife Eddy the whole drive home after the writing group. He was, basically, unresponsive to me on the day before his death.

Here is his story:

We visited the Riverview Cemetery last week, Doyle and I. Truth be told, I dragged Doyle there with me. I’m a green burial plot owner, and I wanted to see my plot and its surroundings in the morning sun from the East.

Although the hour was early, a couple of parties were already at the site, evidently an early graveside service and a couple visiting a recently- interred loved one with their dog. I was also looking for a sign of completion – a sign that Eddy and I had completed the arrangements for a “final rest” in a good way.

I looked up the hillside and remarked to Doyle, “Look, a coyote loping through the midst of the people and their pets with such obvious self-confidence. You can always recognize a coyote – even if you don’t think you have ever seen one before. They are never frightened – just there, immune to danger and above the fray.”

Yes, I recognized my sign, the age-old sign of the trickster, the shape-shifting presence of the coyote. May he safely inhabit this place forever. (end of story)

Marty, you are now safe.

Life Was Better With You

LIFE IS BETTER WITH YOU

Sharon White, Anne LaBorde, and myself attended the Michael Franti and Spearhead concert Saturday evening. Sharon and I look forward to his concert every year, as he is the musical advocate for all that we embrace with our hearts and soul. Sharing this common theme of celebrating and honoring the dignity of all people, and living and loving life together as one infinite family in God’s Kingdom (No religion necessary, thank you!), is what gives me reason to wake up every day. We transitioned from attending a party celebrating our friends Marty and Eddy’s marriage, and life, to attending the high spiritual/social energy Michael Franti concert at Edgefield Manor.

I cried almost the whole way through this song. The song “Life Is Better With You” was the song I was to play (with Sharon) at Eddy and Marty’s celebration of life event earlier that day. 30+people were invited to their home, to give the couple some social support (it was also Eddy’s birthday). Eddy had been the primary caregiver to her husband for the first three weeks after Marty became paralyzed in his left arm and leg, a direct result of his cancer medication, but now the task was shared by many (every Friday for me).

Upon arrival at their home, Sharon was secretly informed that Marty was using his “death with dignity” option the next day, Sunday. A party celebrating life and their marriage took an unexpected turn for me, and my world started spinning. My friend for 20 years, fellow book club member and creative writing partner with the men’s cancer survivors’ writing group, and our hiking partner left our planet somewhere between 6 and 7 Sunday. His mission was to enter the Mystery, and the Unknown.

The song “Life is Better With You”, should have been worded “Life was Better With You”.I felt like a rug was pulled out from under me. I refused to deliver the song, and sat under their dining room table for a while, watching others give creative gifts to the couple, such as song playing, acting, poetry recitation, etc. The party had become surreal for me, and the whole event felt “out of phase” with reality. Nobody was to know that Marty was dying the next day. We were all supposed to participate in some sort of celebration of their marriage, and their shared life. I was unsure whether to cry, vomit, or run away. Instead, i first sat next to Marty for a couple of minutes, then I gave him “my message”. He apparently did not know that I knew about his decision to abort his mission today. He was relaxed and quiet, and he listened well to me, and to those who talked with him. I was previously told that I was to be included in his final “death with dignity” process, but due to unknown reasons he shelved my support at the last-minute.

I still am a bit confused, and my heart is hurting. Crazy making communication around his “assisted suicide” is understandable, but that still does not protect me from its emotional and spiritual fallout. My stomach may yet lose its contents, but not my heart.

I love you, Marty. If there is such a thing as “life after death”, I hope that it is not only the life that is left for those still living in the wake of your death. My heart says that there is more to life, but my head still lags behind, and affirms that this life is all that there is.

I am missing you. I await the message from the Mystery, from the infinite reality that is Unknown to us as human beings.

Beryl Donald Paullin Eulogy

First of all, we want to wish our deceased mother a symbolic Happy Birthday.  Today would have been her 87^th birthday, had she lived.  It is remarkable to note that Dad and Mom are being buried together on the date of her birth.  This was arranged by our Loving Universe, as we had nothing to do with the scheduling.  I can almost hear Dad yelling “what’s the hold up here!”   After all, it has been 12 days since his death.

We want to thank everyone who is here today.  Your presence honors our father and mother, and the rest of our family, and we are all grateful to share these moments with you today.  Our father is the main connecting link that continues to hold us together.  And, after today, with his death severing that link, this may be the end of many of our connections with each other.  It is up to each of us to renew, or ignore, our past ties to my father, and to each other.

There will be no ministerial service today.  The last time that I remember Dad being present in a church was to witness my baptism in 1987, which also corresponds to the last time I was in such a structured church environment, as well.  Dad avoided going to church, having never been convinced that church attendance had any relationship to a connection with God. He stated that if he ever walked into a church, it would probably fall onto him.   His church was his love for nature, its beauty, the wildlife, hiking through woods and meadows, hiking the deserts in Arizona, the trails of the Columbia River Gorge, or any of thousands of places around America, and the world.  His church was also his love of his wife, his family, including his brother and sister, and his in-laws, his love of his dear friends, his love of his dogs, of which he had many.  He adored his dogs, and they supplied a constant supply of the unconditional love that his heart, and soul craved, and which his experience of his exterior life sometimes failed to supply him in sufficient amounts.  He loved the homes in which he lived, and prepared the grounds of each of them carefully, as if making each one a sacred offering to his creator.  His body of life was truly the temple of his living God.  He was the type of guy that, had he ever met Jesus Christ in person, if he noted lettuce in the Christ’s teeth, he would tell him about it.  He liked to state that “heaven was not ready for him, and that the devil did not want him either, as he would try to take hell over and run it the way it should be run”.  Dad lived his life “outside of the lines” so to speak, and he delighted in challenging other people’s assumptions, sensibilities and understandings.

I am about to read for about 15 minutes about the story of Dad’s life.  Like Dad’s life, the story is somewhat broken, yet still infused with love. Dad would have treasured the opportunity to talk on and on about any issue for 15 minutes without interruption, and our present political climate would have been a gold mine for him in his prime.  Yet, it is my privilege to be his substitute for this once in a lifetime monologue, giving my father his opportunity to deliver a final message through me.  There are some who thought that my father was a horse’s ass, but that is the limited view one gets when in second place, being passed by his race horse of a mind.  For those who would like to offer their objections, or counter stories, there will be opportunities to share about dad at North Clackamas Park, after this service.  Maps will be provided, and you are all invited to attend, eat some food, and share your experiences with each other. A man like my father, who lived a full life, could be talked about for hours, and not scratch the surface of all the people that he impacted, positively or negatively, and all of the experiences that he had, all of the humor that he shared, and all of the wisdom that he developed.

Dad was a product of the Great Depression, having been born in 1927.  His Father, Beryl, was a Fire Chief, respected within the community, and a horribly abusive alcoholic in his private life.  I know little else about him, other he also served in the military, during World War 1, and is buried in section K on these grounds.  He also did allow a man impacted by the Depression to live in their basement during a period of time. My father kept Pam and I away from grandpa Bruce until we were teenagers, that is how much my father wanted to protect us from the oppressive presence of his father.   While in our early teenage years, Pam and I did visit with Grandpa Beryl at his La Center home twice, and I visited him in the VA hospital prior to his death.  In his later years, he was sober, and seemed like a pleasant enough man.  Dad’s mother was the classic abused wife, suffering also through physical and emotional problems while married to “that Brute”, as my father referred to him.  I also know little about her, either, other than she had kidney disease, and she died shortly after my birth.   John Edward was his older brother (who preceded him in death) and Ed was removed from his home and placed at their grandparents’ farm in Oregon City at 6 years of age, after nearly being beaten to death by their father.  Gloria (or Susie) as most people now know her, was his younger sister, and both Susie and my father suffered under horrible abusive conditions for most of their childhood.  Both my father and my aunt displayed symptoms of PTSD for most of their lives, as well as being products of the age of which they grew up.

In 1943, at 16 years of age, Dad enlisted in the Marines, as he wanted to serve his country, get away from his family of origin, as well as he thought of himself as a “dummy” ,with no faith in his ability to successfully finish high school at Benson PolyTech.  His mother promptly collared the local Marine Corps recruiter, and forced dad’s return home from the service.  He re-enlisted in the Navy the moment he turned 18 years of age, and was assigned duty on two different warships, the West Virginia, and the Missouri, during his two years in the Navy.  Upon his return from active duty in 1947, he returned home, where he threatened his dad with death if he ever laid a hand on his mother again.  Dad moved on from that relationship with his mother and father, not seeing either of them again for quite some time.

He started college at the University of Portland, studying Psychology, Logic, Metaphysics, Philosophy of Mind, and other courses, from 1947-1952. He really wanted to understand the human mind at the deepest level, and his curious mind about other issues only left him in recent years.  But he had to delay his search for the truth about the broken human mind, as his now hyper-busy life got in the way of him finishing his studies of the human condition.  A side note here:  I was to later pick up his mantle, and I have made my own attempts to finish the job that he had started.  And, like my father, I rebel against the spiritual and philosophical authorities of the day, sometimes sharing with unwary Facebook readers, and those who have not already “unfriended me”, my insights.  Anyway, Dad formed a great friendship and relationship with Father Delaney, who taught at the University of Portland, and in whose name the Delaney Institute was named.   He struggled a bit with his school work, but he did stay at it over a course of five years, which did not result in a degree.

Dad still had a fire in his heart, and an incredible desire to succeed.  He worked harder than anybody around him, the sign of a classic “overachiever”.  He endlessly drove himself, and he was going to overcome his upbringing, and prove to the world that he had higher value than the poor self-esteem that his verbally and physically abusive father had inculcated him with.  His perfectionism and zealousness for order and efficiency was utilized to its best advantage in his future employment with the US Postal Service. That same attitude tended to, at times, challenge others, especially those that he attempted to help, or manage, as both a general manager with the Postal Service, and as a friend and family member.  A person with a passive/aggressive personality, like me, had the most difficulty with him.  Those who were self-assured or had found their own voice, and engaged him directly, had the best relationship with him, and he really enjoyed engaging with others in stimulating, challenging discussions. Those who took the time to get to know Dad, also found a way to love him, in spite of his sometimes rough edges.

He had several choices in his career, either as a policeman, fireman, or joining with the US Postal Service, of which he ultimately selected.  He also began courting my Mother, Corinne Beatrice Henry, who happened to be quite a “looker”, and also quite a hard-working young woman, as well.  Mom worked at the original Fred Meyer store in downtown Portland, among many other jobs over the course of her own career.  Mom’s parents were not impressed with my fathers’ parents for obvious reasons, and Dad had to overcome some real judgements to make inroads into that family.   My Grandpa Henry made my father mow his yard before he would even let Dad take Mom out, as part of their desire to prove that Dad really wanted to move forward with her.

Dad married mother in June of 1950, and they lived in NW Portland for several years.  Pamela came along in 1954, and Dad knew love in a way he never knew before.  Pam was a precious prize, and Dad delighted in her presence, and her life, until his death.   I came along in 1955, and Dad initially had trouble embracing who I was, as I had troubled early years, causing much disruption to the family lifestyle, because of  health issues.   Dad had a house built in West Linn in 1955, and spent the next nine years there, investing thousands of hours of work turning his property into his own outdoor temple.  He repeated the same process with his next two homes, as well, converting the landscapes into his own unique paradise.

First and foremost, Dad dearly and devotedly loved his new family, eventually including his in-laws, and all the new friends that they developed through the Oakey Doaks square dancing group.  These included, amongst several others,  Bob and Dorothy Fero, John and Cleone Edwards (who he also worked with at the Post Office), Dick and Eunice Jamison (who he also worked with at the Post Office), Joe and Sue Constans, and Bob and Diane West (both are here today), along with several others. He carried a lifelong friend, Roland Mills, who is here today, far into his adulthood, with Mom and Dad sharing many fond memories with Roland, and his first wife, Eloise, who is also here today. They attempted to continue their friendship with both parties after Roland and Eloise’s divorce.  In the very early years, My sister and I shared some fond memories of staying at their home while being baby sat by their daughter Cindy, watching horror, science fiction, and Elvis Presley movies with her, and her brother Gary.  Gary and Pam’s first deceased husband Jim Graham actually ended up working together for a while in the early 1990’s in the home real estate industry, resulting in the sale of the house to Sharon and I that we presently live in.

When dad was a young husband and father, he carried two jobs for a number of years because he did not like feeling in debt.  But he also loved to play hard, and he had many stories of being a top flight beer drinker in the local tavern scene, while also becoming quite the accomplished shuffleboard player.  He told a story that the owner of a tavern even served him a beer while he was in the bathroom.  Yes,  he became friendly with the suds during that time period.  His love of the suds translated directly to me, where I learned, quite early, how  wonderful  the flavor of beer was, and how wonderfully intoxicating it’s effects were.   He told the story of how when I was 5 years old, he left an open beer on the coffee table, and when he left the room for a moment, I lifted the beer up, and drank it all.  Within 30 minutes, I fell off of the couch, and dad and I both knew that I had a new, but dangerous, friend.  Dad took care to monitor his beer after that, and so did I.

Dad carried a tarnished understanding of how to discipline his children, though he later claimed that he eventually came to realize that he was repeating his fathers’ abusive behavior, as far as physical discipline was concerned, and thus he stopped.  His rebukes were quite powerful, and, at times, seemed to outnumber his praise and acknowledgement of us.  Early on, Pam and I suffered under the abuse of his belt too many times to recall.  But through all of that, I never lost my love for my father.  He was my hero, albeit a broken one. He loved my mother deeply, though at times unskillfully.  Fortunately for mother, dad never lifted a hand against her, though they both traded many barbs over the years.  A lot of it was just the way they communicated, thinking that they were being funny, and a lot might have been veiled aggression.   They shared much pride in their children, and being parents brought untold gifts, and meaning, to both of their lives, because of, and in spite of, all of the challenges and lessons that we presented to them as children, and then as adults, over the years.

Dad was an accomplished card player, stamp collector, avid fisherman, hiker, camper, traveler, scout troop leader, general outdoorsman, adventurer, and golfer, but retired early in life from hunting.  As a young man he hunted with his father, though he grew to be repulsed by the idea of killing innocent creatures.  One time while hiking in the Arizona desert with his dog Misty, they were confronted by a rattlesnake, and he had to draw his pistol and shoot the creature.  He regretted having killed it, which shows how his love for all life had taken over his soul.  He had a challenged understanding of cats, though, and was quick to punish wayward cats that strayed unto his property to assault and kill birds and squirrels.

Dad’s high point in his career was when he was promoted to Operations Manager of the Main Office of the US Postal Service, in Northwest Portland.  His career there spanned 35 years, and he developed many friends, and a few enemies, along the way to his peak.  He was respected by the Postmaster, though it was the Postmaster’s dissatisfaction with an aspect of dad’s personal life that encouraged dad to retire at 55 years of age.  Mother had a direct hand in that decision, as Mother had a lifelong investment in my father staying married to her, and she took charge of a situation that would have discouraged most other people.  So my fathers’ official retirement date was 1982, and a whole new world opened up to mother and dad.

Dad travelled extensively with mother in retirement.  They travelled around the world, and around America.  Eventually they settled upon their yearly snow bird excursions to Queens Valley, in Arizona, where they would park their travel trailer, and spend the winter in sunny southern Arizona.  He lived the dream, and learned to make mom his best friend, and travel companion.  Mother’s health had taken a downturn in 1978, when she learned that she had kidney disease.  Dad would admonish her about her weight, thinking that if only she would lose her extra weight, her health would be better.  Mom would do her best to comply, but, hey, that chocolate cake was just too hard to resist sometimes, and, anyway, she deserved it because she stayed so active.

In 1984, at the encouragement of the Employee Assistance Program where I worked, I checked into the Care Unit at the old Lovejoy hospital, where I spent 30 days in recovery from my own alcoholism.  I bounced around between relapse and attempted recovery for the next two years, finally having an “epic fail”, and I descended into full darkness. After a suicide attempt by me after the Challenger explosion in 1986, I fully entered the unknown, searching for my own truth, a truth that might bring light to me, and a reason to keep living.  After bouncing around a variety of challenging situations with the darkest characters our city had to offer, I was befriended, inadvertently, by an undercover federal agent.  When things got too scary for my new ally and his relationship to me, he physically placed me in his car, and drove me to my father’s house.  As he dropped me off, he told me “Bruce, I can no longer keep you safe.  your search for truth in the underworld is over, now search for your truth with your father”.  As I don’t want this eulogy to be too much about me,  I will stop the story here, perhaps somebody, when they write my own eulogy, can refer to it then, and develop it into the amazing story that it was, and still is.  Let us end this segment by stating that I became clean and sober in 1987, just in the nick of time.  My mother and father offered me meaningful and loving support for the next 2 and one half years, as I was homeless and jobless at the time.

I met the woman who I had been looking for my entire life in 1989.  Sharon is my soul mate, and she was to shape the second half of my own life in such a way that I could continue my relationship with my parents in a much more meaningful, loving way.  Together, we chose to move to within 2 miles of my parents in 1993, knowing that they would need us soon, as they continued their aging process.  As a result of moving closer to mom and dad, we also became connected in a new way with dad’s brother and sister, and they started becoming included in several family gatherings at our home, beginning in 1995.  I grew to really love my uncle Ed and aunt Susie during this period of time.  My uncle Ed captured my imagination and attention with his great stories of life, and family, and I saw why my father was so connected with him.  Uncle Ed had a perfect way of deflecting my fathers’ controlling energy, and my father finally accepted his brother for who he was, rather than who my father thought he could be.  Uncle Ed honored me from his own death-bed, actually remembering the date of my birth, which still brings a tear to my eye on occasion.

On the advice of our physician, Sharon and I began to share vacations with my parents.  Sharon and I were also avid outdoors people, and it was quite the compromise for us to tone down our physical endeavors to meet the energy level of my aging parents.  But the rewards were immense.  In the year 2000, My parents, Pam, my aunt Susie,  Sharon, and I traveled to Hawaii, celebrating their 50 year wedding anniversary there.  It was the trip of all of our lifetimes, and a memory that I will cherish until the day I die.  On this trip, my sister committed to getting her degrees at Oregon State University, which resulted in a total life change for her, as well.  My parents were never prouder than when we witnessed her getting her diploma, then going on to getting her Master’s degree, as well.

As a family group, we continued to travel a lot of North America together, taking cruises to the Caribbean islands, exploring the Yucatan Peninsula, climbing pyramids and exploring Mayan ruins, driving on the Pan American highway through and around Costa Rica, cruising the west coast of Mexico, and generally just loving life, and living it to the fullest extent we possibly could together.   I have been blessed beyond all of my ability to acknowledge the experiences, and they affirmed the value that we all had for family connections.

Two years prior to mother’s death, mother had noted dad’s cognitive deterioration, especially during his run in with prostate cancer.  I noted that dad had lost some of his sense of direction, and he could no longer drive to his hospital to get his radiation treatments, because of his easy disorientation.  Mom enlisted the potential aid of Eloise, to help in dad’s care, should he slip fully into Alzheimer’s.  But mom had a fatal infection, and that threw everything into a chaotic mashup.

Dad found inner strength in dealing with mother’s three day dying ordeal in the hospital.  He was an active participant in the final decision to take mom off of life support.  But, shortly after that, he threatened his own demise by use of firearms, and I had to hide all of the bullets from his rifles and handgun, should he have chosen to end his life.  I had to repeatedly advise him that it would be tortuous now for him to end his life, with all of the grieving that the family was already involved with.  He acquiesced, though I still kept all of his weapons unloaded, unbeknownst  to him.  While attempting to disarm one of his weapons, a rifle discharged, nearly shooting myself in the foot.

The death wish abated, and Dad somehow held his own for a while. He was able to maintain his sense of self, and his memory of his family, and his love of his home.  Around 5 years ago, after having backed over our mailbox twice, getting a big speeding ticket, and getting into a wreck which totaled mothers’ car, Sharon encouraged me to take him to the doctor and get a diagnosis.  He was tested, and it was determined that he was no longer competent to drive.  This ended life for me as I knew it at the time, and I had to eventually retire from my own career as an electrician four years earlier than I had wanted to.  Sharon and I became his primary caregivers, drivers, friends, cooks, house cleaners, spiritual advisors, and, generally, his sole means of support to maintain him in his own home, as Pam worked and lived in California, and could not find employment opportunities closer to home.  She remained on emergency call, and had to drive incredible distances to help in his care and maintenance.

It was tough watching my father deteriorate, yet, I found a way to love that man on deeper and more profound levels, as I continued to release my own expectations of how he should be, and how he should live.  His sole concerns became his love for his dog, Rocky, and maintaining residence in his own home until his own death.  He had lost all short-term memory, and was basically unteachable the last 5 years of his life, though he maintained his dignity, his sense of self, and his love for his children, including my wife Sharon.

The last conversation that I had with my father was 6 hours before his death.  This is what we exchanged with each other:

Dad, you are still in bed, and its 2:30 in the afternoon, what’s up, it’s such a beautiful day outside.

You know son, I am always tired now, but I am about to get up.

Well, Dad, this might be the last sunny day in a long time, so why don’t you get up, and go out on the porch and have a cigar?  I’ll put a chocolate bar on your table, and a drink for you.

I’ll get right up son.  By the way, who is caring for me this evening?

Well, Dad, Madison is caring for you this evening.

Oh, poor Madison!

Dad, Madison benefits by being with you, as you do with her.

I will be with you beginning this Sunday morning, and I will be with you for the next three weeks as usual.  You know we are planning one final trip to Hawaii with you, right?

Oh son, I am happy just staying at home.  I have everything that I need here.

Well, OK dad.  I am going to leave now, as I need to prepare for Marty’s funeral tomorrow.

When will I see you again, son?

Dad, it will be Sunday morning, OK?

OK, son, you know that I am dependent on you.  Please take care of yourself.

Oh, dad, you know that I am dependent on you, too.  You be careful too!

I love you, son.

I love you too, Dad.

I leave his room, not knowing this is to be our last exchange.

The next day, at 10:58am, as I stand in back of the hearse, as a pall bearer in Marty Crouch’s funeral, I prepare to receive Marty’s body to place into the hearse.  I receive a call from Madison, which I cannot take, so I hand the phone to Sharon.  Sharon is informed that my father is deceased.  Sharon has to leave the service for our body.

Oh, father, you really knew how to place your unique stamp on my life, didn’t you?

In retrospect, My father only appeared to cast a shadow over my life.  It was up to me to find my own unique voice, in my search for my own truth, so that I could arise from my own self-imposed shadows, and be with him as a partner on love’s endless journey.  Those who did not learn to love my father, missed out on one of my life’s most precious gifts, yet there are many other opportunities to bring light into our own lives.  The healing journey that I had with my father could be considered miraculous by some, yet it is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yes, that healing will die with me, as I have no heirs.  Yet, the love that we shared, as a family, will live forever in the mind and heart, of God.

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

“As you have been with me in life, so I am with you, in death”

Thank you, mom and dad, for loving Pam and I.

We love you, Dad. We love you, Mom

“I am destroyed, and I am renewed”

Thank you for listening to my version of my fathers’ story.

Now my sister would like to read some “Beryl-isms”

Cannon Beach, and the Conspiracy Of Silence

This is the second part of my continuing series on silence:

We arrived at the Oregon coast, at Cannon Beach, on a partly sunny Monday afternoon. We were quickly greeted by our very long-term dear friend from Arizona, June and her ten-year love interest, Michael (are you ever getting married?). After checking into our hotel rooms, and getting geared up for a walk, we headed out to the beach, to walk northward up the coast, past Haystack Rock. We engaged in our normal conversations, catching up on June and Michael’s activities, as well as giving them a brief download on what has been happening in our own lives.

As the walk progressed, we separated a bit into two groups, the guys and the girls, though we did not create a huge distance between the two groups in our walk. We continued to enjoy the scenery, the clearing blue skies above us, the seagulls swooping and gliding, the watching of and engaging with the other tourists and their dogs, while being continuously soothed by the constant breaking of the waves upon the sandy shore. Small talk continued between both groups, until I had to remove my shoes, due to extreme pain in my right foot.

The pain in my foot was accompanied by another unidentified discomfort, deep within my heart, which continued to trouble me. I looked at Michael, and I began to relate the experience of my friend’s very recent death, and how the notice of my own father’s death coincidentally occurred at the moment that I was helping to place my friend’s body into the hearse. I wanted to talk about the disturbing appearance of insanity in the marriage of my deceased friend, and it’s impact on my friend’s final days, and its impact upon my own being.

Michael looked up at the nearby mountains, appearing not too interested in what I was trying to say.  He attempted to redirect my attention away from myself, and the view away from the ocean. Suddenly, a strangely uncomfortable, unidentified feeling came over me, and I also felt like my heart was starting to beat harder. The skin on my face, and on the front of my body started to tingle, and I felt light-headed. I attempted to breathe deeper and slower, thinking that I had somehow lost my breathing cycle rhythm, yet a deepening, sickening feeling continued to creep through my mind, and through my body.

I sped up my pace, so that I could join up with my wife, who was ahead of us with June. I started to shudder a bit, and shake as if I was cold (there was a breeze, though it was sixty-five degrees, and not extraordinarily chilly). My condition continued to deteriorate, yet all that I felt comfortable with sharing with the group was about my sore foot, which was aching horribly. This foot would eventually need surgery, and I had delayed such surgery for quite a while, but it was not the only source for the pain that I was presently experiencing. Yet, in this group, it was the only pain that I could safely talk about.

We neared our hotel room, and the anxiety reaction that I was experiencing (yes, I finally named it ANXIETY) was threatening to overwhelm me. It was dinner time, so we walked over to the Mo’s restaurant that was connected to our hotel, and ordered dinner. Sharon was very light, and happy, and introduced a “spinner” to the dinner table, to try to keep lightness going, and bring humor and delight to our group. Yet I had lost my sense of delight, and humor, and my appetite, and I knew that I could not even eat dinner, even though I had already ordered a meal with the rest of the group. June commented that I looked like I had turned a gray color, and that I looked ill, and ill I was. I had to leave the table immediately.

I went back to our hotel room, took off my clothes, and lay down in our bed. The world felt like it was spinning around me, and my heart beat so loudly that it sounded like a drum was being bashed in my ears. I continued to try controlled breathing patterns, thinking that this was an anxiety reaction, but I really felt extremely ill, and I felt like a visit to the hospital may be in order. I became so concerned that I got my tablet and went to a medical portal to ask a doctor some questions about what was happening, and ask if I should be hospitalized. I was not sure if I was having an adverse neurological response to something toxic, preparing for a stroke or seizure, having the beginning of a migraine headache, or if I was losing my mind.

The response from the doctor brought some temporary relief to me, when he stated that I was having a stress induced anxiety reaction. OK, that sounded like something I might be able to manage, so I prepared myself to go back to dinner, and finish the evening with our friends. I felt much better, and looked forward to eating, as my appetite had returned from the dead, as well.

Everyone had already finished their meal, so I shared dessert with everybody. I felt good for a while, as we finished our evening together, and headed back to our individual units. But something was still active in my mind, and I began to again feel nauseous, with my heart beating wildly again, and, now, my body started shuddering like I was frozen. Sharon crawled into bed and held me close, I was shaking so violently, and her warmth, and presence, brought some comfort to me. Yet my foot ached like I had never experienced pain before, and I was definitely anxious about that pain, as well as something a bit more undefined, up to that point.

After two hours of holding me, Sharon had fallen asleep, yet I was so wired by my anxiety that I could not sleep, so I left the bed to lay on the couch, and listen to some meditation music. I felt like I might still be “losing my mind”, whatever that meant, or that I was having some sort of nervous breakdown. While meditating on what was happening to me, I came to realize that I really needed to communicate around the absolute insanity of the family activity revolving around the life and death of my dear friend, and, to a lesser extent, that of my father, as well. Michael had shut me down at the moment that I needed to talk most, thinking that by redirecting me away from talking about death, he was doing me a favor. Instead, by not communicating with him and the group what was troubling me, the anxiety reaction launched me off of the pad into outer space, and brought upon me a sickness, and a pain, that I had never experienced before in my life. Oh, that blessed pain and suffering, for it would lead me further down the path to my own ‘liberation’.

As I was awake all night, I attempted meditation upon my own source of pain and suffering, and what came to me was how most of what I know about myself, and my reactions to the world, was created by my fundamental relationship to my parents. I had never developed a complete sense of self in my early years (I will not call it Asperger’s Syndrome, or Autism, though it manifested similarly to ADHD) and my sense of self revolved around internalizing what my mother and father expected from me, what I could or could not give back to them to attempt to please them, and my defense mechanisms for managing the fallout when I failed to either please them, or protect them, or myself, from the results of the conflict that arose in our house when I either made yet another mistake, or when father overreacted to any situation that brought a sense of fear or threat into the home environment. There was also that aspect where I felt a need to “balance” whatever energy was being over expressed at any particular moment, which certainly added to my “passive-aggressive component” of self-expression.  It was as if I had two extra self-organizing personalities occupying my ego mind, my creations of who I thought my father and mother were, which was crowding out the “real me”, whoever or whatever that might be (if anyone, maybe there was never a real “me” present, only some sort of complex verbal construct?).

With the death of my father, it ended the era of subservience to his needs, and the need to “protect” my mother from my perception of his aggression towards her.. It also ended the era of incomplete grieving for my own mother’s death, as I had to immediately support my mentally deteriorating father when mother died, and I never completely worked through my own grieving process. I was finally an “orphan”, and all of the entanglements that kept me wound around their lives were now physically removed. My fathers’ spirit no longer needed to overshadow my own life, and now I was allowed to live fully into whatever, or whoever I am, or was supposed to be.

For me this is an extraordinary release, because my “ego” formed much differently that most of the rest of humanity due to unusual parental bonding issues just after birth, and through my first 4-5 years. Being placed on “formula” right after birth, and being placed in a chilly car in the garage at night so that my father could sleep better (I was just another “damned crying baby”) left me as a young being feeling abandoned, and lonely, from the beginning. Though I loved my parents, I certainly did not want to grow up and be like them. Yet, I was not able to offer to my developing self a viable alternative to being like my father, being extremely limited creatively, and my resultant dull, though at times insightful, personality reflected that darkness.

Up to this most recent point in my life, I have perceived the collective impact of toxic male consciousness upon my individual existence, with some insight into my own father’s sometimes toxic involvement in my own mind’s formation. I saw that I had two Tricksters roaming through the inner recesses of my heart and soul, and their continued presence, though they kept me from being lonely as a young being, kept me from developing into my greater good as an independent, free human being. In our world, there are countless examples of “self organizing systems”, and all creatures, and the minds of those creatures, are examples of that miracle in action. The bodies appear to be primarily organized through the pattern created by the history of that species, and it’s interactions with its earthly environment. DNA appears to carry that pattern within our very cells.

Yet the mind appears to have an extra self-organizing principle attached to it, as it organizes itself into a personal sense of being. That little mystery revolves around how well the organism feels accepted by, and connected to the environment that the body travels through. Thus, healthier senses of self arise, and are supported, by myriads of “successful” interactions with its social and physical environment. First and foremost is the beings’ acceptance and integration into the primary family cell, or group. If the young being does not get the requisite positive feedback early on, it faces tremendous odds against forming a happy, well-adjusted self organizing principle, or ego. My first 31 years of life reflected the internalized horror of a life suppressed by the “conspiracy of silence” created by my subservience to a damaged image of self, and other. My own true nature had been masked over, or silenced, through that process.

Who, or what, am I now? I am a mystery, even to myself. I need not be anxious, though the transition times from what  I thought I was to who I am predestined to become does create intense anxiety. I am to be forever walking into the unknowable present moment. Living into the Truth of what that is now is the new story of my life. There is but One Mind, but it is only experienced in the Unknown.

That next day at the beach, on Tuesday, I experienced the most beautiful perfect peace, and sense of wholeness, that I can recall. The rest of our shared day was characterized by a strong sense of the sacred, and I felt a deepening connection with everybody, and everything. The beauty of the ocean and it’s scenery, the beauty of our friendships, the taste of our food, even the continuing pain in my foot, all felt to me like lyrics of a heavenly song that was connected together by the rhythm of Love.

The conspiracy of silence has to be broken, again and again if necessary, and the silencing of my true identity through adherence to old, worn out patterns of behavior inculcated into me by our culture, our religions, our so-called teachers and teachings, and our misunderstandings of our parents, our God and creator, and our outdated sense of self have to end, for this present moment healing event to have any hope of transforming the heart and soul.

In this moment, I am no longer anxious, I am free.  I will find a way to manage future moments, if they bring anxiousness back to me.

“I” will not be denied. I will not deny your own excellence, and your own potential for greatness. Our shared sense of self, and our stories will support and highlight the rest of our continued existence on this plane of being.

May all sentient beings remain free from suffering.

May my own sentience guide me away from all temptations to bring suffering to self, and other.

Please, save yourself.

Depression, Anxiety, and Panic Attacks

I never chose this uneven life path of recovery from trauma, life chose it for me. I choose how to deal with the sights along the way, however.

The amygdala in our brains under duress from trauma creates new paths, leading in unhealthy directions, when these issues that arise through trauma are not promptly dealt with honestly and openly. For me, my number one intention for facilitating healing of myself is to avoid situations or people where poor communication and suppression of human emotions has become ‘normalized’. There are guaranteed negative outcomes associated with those interactions which have resulted in secondary damage and the potential for profound anxiety attacks.

I began to experience the “BIG THREE” of depression, anxiety, and the occasional panic attack, in the latter part of 2017, beginning about two weeks after the death of my father, and three weeks after the death of my friend Marty.

I grapple with (and sometimes continue to contemplate):

1). the care for, and eventual death of my father, and the difficulties in the management of his estate,

2). the challenges in supporting the protracted dying process, and the eventual death of my good friend Marty in the week prior to my fathers’ death

3). dealing with the insanity of the wife of my deceased friend, and her ongoing spiritual dementia,

4). a crippling foot problem characterized by the highest possible pain intensity,

5). cancelling a lifetime “friendship” with a high school best friend who had become physically, spiritually, and emotionally unavailable through the past 40 years,

6). becoming alienated last year from an alcoholic/bipolar nephew, and his family which we had been spending much time with, and not being able to talk to them about the issues, after a vicious divorce cycle,

7). an ongoing issue of dealing with and managing the health and safety of my elderly aunt (dad’s sister) who is disabled, and abandoned by the rest of her family, including her own daughter, and

8) TREASON (Trump Related Extreme Anxiety Striking Our Nation)

I now have intimate knowledge of depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, and I now consider myself a personal expert in these matters, albeit a reluctant one. It is inappropriate to keep these issues “secret”, as I tend to be as sick as the secrets that I attempt to keep. Remaining unconscious and victimized by these conditions is not a helpful option for me now, or anytime.

The following have been found to be helpful for me:

1). Seeking “professional help” from therapists or physicians/surgeons as required,

2). exercise (such as yoga, with emphasis on proper breathing techniques),

3). immersion in Nature (walks through parks, forests, deserts, etc. as available),

4). meditation (listening to relaxing music is useful, if the mind will not quiet on its own),

5). getting plenty of rest/sleep (not automatic or easy when in anxious states. Use of melatonin and non-caffeinated relaxation tea prior to bed is helpful),

6). honest and open communication with friends and family (hanging around people with positive, loving attitudes and behaviors is important),

7). insight (and taking my inventory, to use the parlance of 12 step groups),

8). prayer (focused intention/thought energy for personal and collective change, for those so inclined),

9). service to others who are less fortunate, and

10). medication (if necessary) can be helpful. Ibuprofen is effective for anxiety, as well as (in the short term) some “heavier hitters” such as Ativan and Xanax, or anti-depressants (FYI, I can’t stand Xanax).

11). avoiding obvious anxiety producing behaviors, like excess coffee consumption, eating sugar or high carbohydrate mix foods excessively, or over booking my day-to-day life,

12). continue to allow feelings to naturally arise, with no judgement.

13). continue without shame and guilt any unfinished emotional business, such as grieving for the loss of loved ones.

14). watch a few good comedies, or go see a good comedian (lighten up!)

15). Go to live music performances, and enjoy the presence of powerful positive group energy.

Post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a name given to one powerful variation of related symptoms, and therapy and techniques developed for its healing may be appropriate, as well (a form of acupressure called the “tapping” technique is quite helpful).

Writing into a personal journal or blog can be helpful. Posting to Facebook, with the hope or expectation that somebody who cares might read a posting and give meaningful feedback, is unrealistic, and can potentially be dangerous, depending on the state of mind of the writer at the time of posting. It is best to have friends and connections who respond directly, preferably in person, where our humanity shines the brightest and has the most healing potential. Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, or whatever other media vehicle that one may employ for communication in isolation just cannot get the job done, PERIOD. Just passing time without helping myself would never have allowed for sufficient healing either.

It really is distressing to experience the fear of losing my mind and sanity, the light-headed spacy-ness, extra fear around health issues, and the all around sense of discomfort and disease of being in a disturbed state of mind, and being. It comes to me in cycles now, with about two to three weeks of reprieve, followed by two or three troubling days. This coming from a man who knew perfect peace and harmony for most of the last 30 years of my life.

As I move toward healing, compassion towards myself and others is one of the intended outcomes. The absence of this only perpetuates the anxiety cycle.

For those who still suffer, please save yourself.

Death and Dying, With Recovery From Surgery October 19, 2017

Death is a short-term, medium term, and an eternity event. The sense of loss at losing my ability to walk, to run, to bike, to participate in group activities, to get up off of the couch without worrying about permanently damaging what little healing that I have accrued since my surgery last week, has created a new sense of identity, which is, at times when I lapse into unconsciousness, uncomfortable to me right now. After a good lecture from my surgeon yesterday, I realize that I need to take physical healing much more seriously.

Humility has been my companion as of late, and I have been dying to my 25 year accumulated pride in aerobic fitness. I once was a champion in road races ranging from 3.1 miles all the way up to 31 miles (5K to 50K), having run nearly 100 races over the course of my running career, with many top finishes in my age group, as well as all age groups. Also, Sharon and I raced in many Hood to Coast relay races, and I also participated in the 2002 H2C on a Masters’ team, the Time Bandits (this was an over 40 years of age team, and I was 46 years old at the time) that finished 10th out of 1080 teams. Those days are over, and I have “died” to the thought of ever racing again.

As an added memory bonus to all of those running days in the sun, plus several serious sun burns as a kid, are bouts of recurring skin cancer, of both malignant melanoma, and basal cell carcinoma, varieties. So far, I have only lost parts of my upper arm, and (next month) a small part of my left nostril to skin cancer. I certainly would like to “die” to further cancer outbreaks, without losing my body in the process.

Watching the parade of death, through the witnessing of the deaths of lifelong friends, either through the deaths of their bodies, or through mutual neglect and uncaring behavior, watching my father die, even before his body died, watching my friend Marty die, spiritually as well as physically, while witnessing his acceptance of the end through the Death with Dignity process, with heartbreak and gut-wrench watching our two dogs die in our home, one week apart, and now also watching my own body age, while my mind remains young and still adaptive to change, while engaging with the inevitability of death, in all of its sometimes most traumatic of forms, is a humbling, sobering proposition.

I may still walk again, without pain. I may hike again in Nature with Sharon, with, hopefully, minimal pain. I may run again, perhaps with some pain. I may bike again, perhaps with some pain. But, I am living, and I am loving life, though life is redefining my relationship to it right now. My mind remains young, but the body tempts me to think “older” thoughts, thoughts of resignation and defeat, which I have never considered to such degree since the earlier, immature days of alcoholism, drug dependence, and the suicidal thoughts of the 1970’s and 1980’s.

I am my body, yet consciousness itself tells me that I am more than my body. I am dependent upon my body to live, move, and have my being in this world. I love my body, I love this world, I love my life in this world, I love my wife Sharon White, I love what is left of my family, and the few friends that I have left, in this world. Yet, the world, at times, now appears to be pulling away from me. I cling to it at times, yet I also let it go, as well, for conscious, and sometimes unconscious, reasons.

I love life in my body. I also know that there still is life without this body. What I don’t know is if I, or anyone else for that matter, will recognize my life, without my body still being present. The life that I have created, and that life has created for me, leaves me meditating upon what I need to do to keep engaged with this world, while my “vehicle for consciousness” changes, deteriorates, and finally dies.

I am not seeking any answers for the questions of “eternity”. I am living into those answers. I am also living into the answers to the questions about what to do with the my experiences around short-term and medium term “death” that living a life on life’s terms means. Aging, with its potential for disease, sickness, and deterioration are not for the weak at heart. But, they are part of the process for spiritual growth, and enlightenment. Death is an integral part of those processes.

Today I choose the death that continues me on the process of spiritual growth and enlightenment. Today I am dead to the idea that I can take a walk without crutches, and without fear of causing more damage to my body. Today I am dead to the idea that my pain and suffering has significance and meaning to others, especially those who have no interest in my process. Today I am dead to the idea that I know what tomorrow may bring to my body, or to my life. Today I am dead to the idea that I can even make plans for tomorrow, make plans for vacations, make plans to help around the house, and around our yard.

Today I am dead to the idea that I need to know in advance what tomorrow may bring back to me.

Today I remain engaged with the present moment, where the past, and the future, are dead. Today I remain engaged with the part of death that keeps me alive, growing spiritually, and staying open to the mystery of the eternal unfolding of a human life experience.

Today, I am recovering from surgery, and I am physically disabled, though still spiritually whole. Yesterday, and tomorrow are only theories, best left for those who choose to die to this moment.

I choose not to die to this eternal moment. I also have to return back to this moment, each time I frequently forget my choice to remain free and happy.

Please, save yourself

November 21, 2017

I have had an anxiety reaction recently. This is difficult to talk about, as I have always considered myself such a “together” person, especially since I began conscientiously practicing recovery from alcoholism in 1987. Right now, I have a tight throat, and I am a bit dizzy, and easily irritated (totally foreign to me when I am whole).

I called my family physician this morning, and when Caroline (receptionist that I have known for decades) offered her condolences to me for dad’s death, I broke into uncontrollable tears. Prior to that call, I was sitting down, and wanted to close my eyes, but when I started to, I felt like I was about to fall into an infinitely deep, dark pit, where I would just disappear. That created its own fearful, almost panic based response from me.

Anyway, I have been using herbal anti-anxiety drops, to little avail. I just picked up a small prescription of anti-anxiety medication, which is not something that I take lightly. I prided myself on being able to maintain control under all circumstances, even when it might have appeared to others that I was not maintaining good conscious control.

I am humbled by this anxiety reaction. I started having it several days ago, and it just has continued to build in new, uncertain ways. I am seeing that unresolved grief issues with the loss of my parents and my good friend Marty has impacted me on unexpected levels of my consciousness. I had a similar reaction in early October, when I was at the beach with Sharon,June, and Michael. I had hoped that all of the issues had been resolved after writing a treatise on it, but no such spiritual luck for me.

I have already talked about my experience with the deaths of my family, friends, and dogs till I am almost blue in the face. Apparently, there exists an “inner story” that remains to be told, which will release me from the grip of this sometimes almost paralyzing anxiety. There is a part of me that still needs to die, so that I can become whole again. Stay tuned for what that part might be.

Well, just last week, Jo informed me that Eddy thought that Marty and I were “having a gay affair” or something to that effect, since there were elements of “secrecy” involved with how Marty and I communicated with each other. I was not welcomed by Eddy, but was requested by Marty to be involved more fully into his life during his “dying days” of late July, August, and early September. Marty had been reading my writings, with interest, and he tried to practice one or two “experiments in consciousness” that I had designed, based on my own experience of spiritual growth. Up to this time Eddy and Marty were joined at the hip, and Marty had not been allowed to explore ideas that Eddy and Marty had agreed to, in advance, to explore together. My process was to give Marty an opportunity to “free himself from himself” so that a new order of understanding and healing might become possible for him.

During the days when I provided care and companionship for Marty, and tended to his mundane needs of bathroom care and transportation, as well as fixing things around their house that Marty could no longer accomplish, I developed a deep love and sense of compassion for Marty. I also trusted in that love, to bring forth the best of Marty while he was in physical presence with me. This resulted in less than one minute of car entry and exit times for him, versus a 15-20 minute struggle for Eddy, each time she had to help him with transportation. I won’t go into any more details on this, other than to state that Eddy had a third grade understanding of the power of love, thinking that if Marty shared love with others (including pets) there would be less love for her.

The end result is that I felt an incredible betrayal by both Marty and Eddy at the end of Marty’s life process. Marty “cut me off” with less than 10 days to go before his death, not wanting for me to even know that he was about to take his own life through Death With Dignity process.

I am saving myself

Christmas Message, 2017

Merry Christmas to all, and may we all have a more enlightened New Year, sans TREASON (Trump Related Extreme Anxiety Striking Our Nation).

What can I say that has not already been said? A selfish, spiritually and socially corrupt, dangerous, sad, and pathetic excuse for a human being is now our POTU$, and there is nothing we can do about it, save wait for the next election cycle, or for Robert Mueller to finally strike gold (and HE IS CLOSE). There is little hope for “salvation” for our leader, and for those who stubbornly support this miscreant.

It is about all Americans modelling healthy, mutually supportive behavior, and voting for politicians who support the 99 percent of Americans who are not obsessed with wealth and material riches beyond reason. It is about helping those less fortunate than ourselves, and offering a helping hand to all who are in need, physically, emotionally, economically, and spiritually.

It is about living the real spiritual life, that our Christmas holiday is supposed to be based around. It is about loving our fellow human beings, our animals, our planet, and our Creator, and, while lifting ourselves up, lifting others up, as well

Even atheists have a Creator that lives in their thoughts, or they would not have any thoughts. And, whether we are Atheist or Creationist, or somewhere in between, if we don’t love what we are thinking, it is time to change the way we see and think about our self, and our relationship to each other, and to the world. And then we can consciously co-create with the rest of humanity in bringing about a new world order based on justice, kindness, love, and peace. This is the Real second coming of “Jesus Christ”, not the imaginary fairy tale of those superstitious, wayward pseudo-Christian religious dogmatists.

“It is easier to pull a camel through an eye of a needle, than to bring a rich man into the “kingdom of heaven” ”

Please, save yourself, and thus we can save each other, and our deteriorating world.