Part XIII: Death Becomes Us

Based on the provided chapter titles from “an electrician’s guide to our universe, and a life, love, and death upon its unlimited bandwidth,” here is a proposed logical arrangement that crafts a narrative journey for the reader.

This structure moves from the personal and tangible to the universal and philosophical, exploring themes of connection, loss, and the deeper meanings of existence.

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A Proposed Logical Order for Chapters

Part I: Foundations of Connection and Identity

This section establishes the personal groundwork of the narrative, focusing on formative relationships and the lessons they impart.

• Chapter 10: My Father, Beryl Donald Paullin – This chapter serves as a natural starting point, grounding the narrative in personal history and legacy.
• Chapter 32: Marty C. and A New Sunrise – Following the foundational relationship with a parent, this chapter can explore the impact of significant friendships and new beginnings.

Part II: The Unraveling of Connection and the Onset of Isolation

Here, the focus shifts to the broader, more challenging aspects of human relationships and societal decay, introducing the core concept of “Dissolution.”

• Rediscovering the Art of Listening – This chapter can act as a bridge, suggesting a fundamental skill that is being lost, setting the stage for the subsequent decline.
• The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection – Introduces the central philosophical framework of the book. (Note: This appears to be the same chapter as Chapter 66 and has another duplicate. These should be consolidated into one.)
• The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Aging Experience – Applies the core theory to the universal process of aging. (Note: This title is duplicated and should be consolidated.)
• Chapter 62: The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection Plus Further 50 Year Class Reunion Commentary – Provides a concrete, personal anecdote (the reunion) to illustrate the abstract concepts of dissolution. (Note: This title is very similar to “The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection” and “Chapter 66.” They likely contain significant overlap and should be merged or streamlined.)
• Further Exploration of the Three Degrees of Dissolution – This chapter can serve as a deeper, more analytical dive into the core concept introduced earlier.
• The Descent Into Isolation – Logically follows the exploration of dissolution, showing the ultimate consequence of fragile connections breaking down.
• No More Turning Away From the Weak and the Weary – Presents a moral or ethical response to the problem of isolation and decay.

Part III: Confronting Trauma and Embracing Transformation

This section deals with the active process of facing life’s greatest challenges—trauma, loss, and death—and finding a path through them.

• Chapter 60: A Beacon in the Darkest Times: A Tribute to the Trauma Intervention Program – Offers a practical look at community and support in the face of acute crisis.
• Chapter 63: The Long Goodbye: A Plea for Proactive Brain Health – Focuses on a specific, poignant form of loss associated with cognitive decline, bridging the gap between physical and emotional suffering.
• Chapter 64: The Art of Letting Go: When Life Becomes About Loss – Broadens the theme from the specific (brain health) to a universal principle of navigating a life increasingly defined by loss.
• Chapter 61: The Transformative Power of Releasing My Attachments and Expectations – Acts as the spiritual and psychological toolkit for “letting go,” offering a solution or a path forward.

Part IV: The Final Threshold: Understanding Life Through Death

The concluding part of the book contemplates the ultimate mysteries of life and death, bringing the philosophical journey to its zenith.

• Chapter 7: The Geography of the Threshold To The Unknown – Metaphorically explores the journey towards death, setting a contemplative and mysterious tone.
• Chapter 39: When Death Arrives: Understanding Our Universal Yet Deeply Personal Journey – Shifts from the metaphorical to the direct experience of death.
• Chapter 67: The Two Deaths: Spiritual Transformation and Mortal Acceptance – Introduces a nuanced, dualistic view of death, elevating the theme beyond the purely physical.
• Chapter 69: Death Becomes Us – Our Understanding of What It Means to Be Alive – This serves as a powerful thematic conclusion, suggesting that an understanding of death is essential to truly understanding life. (Note: This chapter has a high potential for redundancy with Chapters 39 and 67. Their content should be carefully integrated to avoid repetition.)

Epilogue/Meta-Commentary

These final chapters step outside the direct narrative to reflect on the purpose of storytelling and the role of the author.

• The Sacred Role of Scribes in a Civilization in Decline – A reflection on the author’s purpose and the importance of documenting these experiences and thoughts.
• The Neverending Story – A fitting final title, suggesting that while this book ends, the cycles of life, connection, and dissolution continue.

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Summary of Changes Made and Redundancy Notes:

• Logical Flow: The chapters have been rearranged to create a narrative arc, moving from personal foundations to broader societal and philosophical themes, culminating in a reflection on life, death, and storytelling itself.
• Thematic Grouping: The new structure groups chapters into four distinct parts, each with a clear thematic focus: personal connection, societal decay, personal transformation, and the philosophy of death.
• Redundancy Identification: Significant overlap was noted, particularly around the “Three Degrees of Dissolution” and the “Understanding of Death.”
• • The Three Degrees of Dissolution: The titles “The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection,” “Chapter 66,” and elements of “Chapter 62” are highly repetitive. These should be consolidated into one or two core chapters. The title “The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Aging Experience” is also duplicated.
  • Understanding Death: Chapters 39, 67, and 69 all address the theme of understanding death. To avoid repetition, they should be reviewed to ensure each offers a unique perspective (e.g., the personal journey vs. the spiritual transformation vs. the meaning of life).

Chapter 10 – Beryl Donald Paullin

Chapter 65:  The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection

Chapter 32:  Marty C. and A New Sunrise 

Chapter 58:  Rediscovering the Art of Listening

Chapter 57:  The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection

Chapter 63:  The Long Goodbye: A Plea for Proactive Brain Health

Chapter 39: When Death Arrives: Understanding Our Universal Yet Deeply Personal Journey

Chapter 64:  The Art of Letting Go: When Life Becomes About Loss

Chapter 42:  Our Iris Angel

Chapter 43:  I Am Ginger

Chapter 69: Death Becomes Us– Our Understanding of What It Means to Be Alive

Chapter 53:  The Neverending Story

Chapter 41:  Understanding Our Universal Yet Deeply Personal Journey from Both an Earthly and Cosmic Perspective

Chapter 54:  The Architecture of Our Minds: A Parking Structure of Memories

Chapter 66:  50-year Rex Putnam 1973 class reunion-The Power Of Stories For The Deceased and Disabled 

Chapter 58:  Follow-up To My Search For Truth:  When Dreams Die~The Silent Grief of Our Guiding Light

Chapter 11:  Hattori Akiko Anderson (11/03/1942–05/21/2024).

Chapter 7: An Escort To The Unknown’s Threshold 

Chapter 22: The Voice of Silence—A Requiem for the Class of ’73

Chapter 44:  The Sacred Role of Scribes in a Civilization in Decline

Chapter 67: The Two Deaths: Spiritual Transformation and Mortal Acceptance 

Chapter 51: No More Turning Away From the Weak and the Weary

Chapter 60:  A Beacon in the Darkest Times: A Tribute to the Trauma Intervention Program

Chapter 61: 50 Year Class Reunion Plus The Transformative Power of Releasing My Attachments and Expectations

Chapter 66:  The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection

Chapter 19:  No More Turning Away~Recovering From Suicidal Grief and the Lifelong Effects From Trauma A Search for Truth and a Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption

Chapter 20:  The Path of an Awakened Human Being: Helping Others in Their Suffering

Chapter 22: The Final Current

Chapter 69: The Silent Reunion—Resonance of the Departed

Chapter XYZ:  Charlotte’s Web

Chapter 103: Grandma Henry:  Healing Through Love and Family Dynamics 

Part XIII: Death Becomes Us

My “search for Truth” would take a long detour through my relationship with my father.  I never had much desire to write about the “search for truth” that I had undertaken in the 1980’s, let alone the rest of my oft-times irrelevant,  isolated life. Why on earth would I want to write about important elements of my family, or of my personal life? The answer to that question is that I never did, up until around the year 2014. When I had to retire early from my career as an electrician to provide extra care for my father, I finally had the time to consider where I was, where I had been, and where I might want to be, for the limited time that I had left on this planet. I saw how my life’s foundation was that which was provided for by the works and processes established through our family’s history, and through the history of all fathers who had ever lived.

My sister has always been quite the family historian, and in the past, I would defer to her, to let her develop the elements of the family history that might be the most interesting or important in nature.  Yet, my sister could not fully develop the emotional heritage of those ancestors, due to the limitations of the availability of letters written by them, or by the deaths of too many of the carriers of the family history.  Since my father was so available to me, I took advantage of my direct, almost continuous engagement with my father and his memories, as well as some family records,  to help me develop the first part of my story.

My father, Beryl Donald Paullin, was a product of the Great Depression, having been born in 1927. His Father, also named Beryl, was a Fire Chief who was respected within the community, and also feared in his home because of his  abusive nature and alcoholism. I know little else about Grandpa Beryl (also known as Bruce), other he also served in the military, during World War 1, and is buried in Willamette National Cemetery, as is my father.  My father kept my sister Pam and I away from grandpa Beryl 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 Elsie 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, was one of the first Oregonians to receive a kidney transplant, and that she died shortly after my birth.  John Edward was dad’s older brother (Ed 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. I later learned that Elsie secretly gave birth to a daughter at age 15, which she gave up for adoption. So my dad and his brother and sister had an older sister that they never knew of, until very late in their lives.

Gloria (or Susie) as most people now know her, was his younger sister, and both Susie and my father suffered under abusive conditions for most of their childhood. Both my father and my aunt displayed some symptoms of PTSD for most of their lives, as well as both being products of the age of which they grew up.  Over the years, Dad found a way to manage his life much more successfully than his sister Susie, for sure.  Susie carried a most unfortunate and hurtful story about my father all the way to the end of my father’s life, which was that it was my father’s fault that Edward was almost beat to death, because my father, at  four years of age, tipped over a lamp, and broke it.  Edward’s near fatal beating supposedly arose from that event.

My father really loved his older brother Ed, through all of the years of his life, though he loved to challenge Ed about the mess that was always present in the yard on Ed’s farm.  Ed loved to collect old and junk cars, much to the chagrin of his neighbors, friends, some family members, and the local police department.  Sharon and I started sharing in their love beginning in 1995, when we all started sharing breakfasts, and family gatherings together for the first time.  My Uncle Ed was a masterful story teller, and I always enjoyed it when he grabbed my ear, for his epic tales about family, friends, and his work at the Crown Zellerbach paper mill, where he was the lead electrician for over forty years.

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 Corp 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 Wisconsin, 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 his dad 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 after my mother’s death in 2009. 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.  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.

Note: I was to later pick up my father’s mantle, and I have made my own attempts to finish the job that he had started, which was understanding the human mind. And, like my father, I rebel against the spiritual and philosophical authorities of the day, sometimes sharing with the readers of my blog and Facebook readers my insights.

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 rough edges. But it was hard to get to know him because too many times he would lead with a derogatory remark, or insult, and bad first impressions rarely get changed.

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 (the underlying truth is that Dad had trouble understanding the innate value that I had as a baby, and as a son). 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 loved his wife, Corinne, his children, his older brother John Edward, his new family, eventually including all of his in-laws, and all the new friends that they developed through the Oakey Doaks square dancing group. These included, among several others, Bob and Dorothy Fero, John and Cleone Edwards (John worked with Dad at the Post Office), Dick and Eunice Jamison (Dick also worked with him at the Post Office), Joyce and Merlin Litson, Joe and Sue Constans, and Bob and Diane West, along with several others.

He carried a lifelong friend, Roland Mills, far into his adulthood, with Mom and Dad sharing many fond memories with Roland, and his first wife, Eloise. They attempted to continue their friendship with both parties after Roland and Eloise’s divorce in 1980. Dad’s dementia late in life kept him from being friendly with Roland, though he still recognized Roland and knew his name, but had lost the willingness or ability to share memories with him.  In the very early years, my sister Pam and I shared some fond memories of staying at Roland and Eloise’s home while being babysat 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. Because Mom had to work, too, we spent much of our first years with baby sitters. I never nursed with my mother, and, as a baby, because I cried at night, I was wrapped in a blanket, and placed in the car in the garage in the evening so that my father could get sleep before arising at 2:30am for his first job every day.

My father 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.  My father’s 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.  I would steal drinks off of his beer after that, until I learned how to steal whole beers later in childhood.

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 (I still got beat with a belt up to age 14, though). His rebukes were quite powerful, and 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 not-so-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 avid reader, but spiritual or religious readings were not a draw for him. 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 a fundamentalist 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.

Dad was an accomplished card player, square dancer, stamp collector, avid fisherman, hiker, camper, traveler, scout troop leader, general outdoors man, adventurer, humorist, wise man, 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 over 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. Dad’s next step would have been to become Postmaster over the entire Portland operation, and succeed Ben Luscher, had he not entered into an affair with Karen,  the office nurse around 1980.  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 by informing the Postmaster of dad’s indiscretion. So my fathers’ official retirement date was 1982, and a whole new world opened up to mother and dad.

Dad traveled extensively with mother in retirement. They took their verbal “Punch and Judy Show” around the world, and around America. Eventually they settled upon their yearly snowbird 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. Dad had a habit of being disrespectful to my mother over the years, and the weight obsession my father had only added to all of our uneasiness with him.

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.

My Search For Truth

My search for Truth, a journey I embarked upon in the 1980s, would ultimately lead me on a long, unexpected detour through the complex terrain of my relationship with my father. For years, I felt little desire to document this quest, let alone the often-isolated and seemingly irrelevant details of my personal history. Why would I choose to expose the intimate, sometimes painful, elements of my family life to the world? The simple answer is that, for the longest time, I wouldn’t. That resolve held firm until around 2014, when an early retirement from my career as an electrician became necessary to provide intensive care for my ailing father. This new chapter afforded me the time to reflect—to take stock of where I was, where I had been, and where I might wish to go in the finite time I have left.

It was in this period of stillness and service that I began to see the foundational structures of my own life with new clarity. My entire existence was built upon a framework established by the works, processes, and histories of my family, stretching back through generations of fathers. The patterns of my life were not mine alone; they were echoes of a much larger, ancestral story.

The Burdens of a Patriarch

My sister has always served as our family’s dedicated historian, and I had long been content to let her piece together the most interesting and important elements of our lineage. Yet, for all her meticulous research, she could never fully excavate the emotional heritage of our ancestors. The letters were too few, the oral histories lost to time and death. But my father, in his final years, was a living archive. As I became his near-constant companion, I took advantage of this direct engagement with his memories, supplementing them with family records, to begin constructing the first part of my own story—a story inextricably linked with his.

My father, Beryl Donald Paullin, born in 1927, was a product of the Great Depression. His own father, also named Beryl but known as Bruce, was a community-respected Fire Chief who cast a shadow of fear within his own home through his abusive nature and alcoholism. This was the first link in a chain of trauma I would later come to understand. I know little else about Grandpa Beryl, other than his service in World War I and his final resting place in Willamette National Cemetery, where my father now also lies. The weight of his presence was so oppressive that my father shielded my sister Pam and me from him until our teenage years. I recall only two visits to Grandpa Beryl’s home and one to the VA hospital before his death. In his sober later years, he seemed pleasant enough, a ghost of the man who had inflicted so much pain.

Dad’s mother, Elsie, was the classic abused wife, her life marred by physical and emotional suffering at the hands of “that Brute,” as my father called him. Her story, too, is a fragmented narrative of pain: kidney disease, one of Oregon’s first kidney transplants, and a death that occurred shortly after my own birth. The family history is riddled with such sorrow. Dad’s older brother, John Edward (known as Ed), was removed from the home at age six after a near-fatal beating from their father. It was only much later that we learned Elsie had secretly given birth to a daughter at fifteen, a sister my father and uncle never knew until late in their lives. The family tree was shrouded in secrets and sorrow, its branches heavy with unspoken grief.

His younger sister, Gloria (or Susie), suffered alongside my father under these abusive conditions. Both bore the invisible scars of PTSD for most of their lives, their personalities shaped by the era and the trauma they endured. My father, through sheer force of will, managed to build a more successful life than his sister. Yet, Susie carried a particularly venomous story to the end of my father’s life: that a four-year-old Beryl, having accidentally broken a lamp, was the cause of Edward’s near-fatal beating. This narrative, a poisoned arrow of blame, illustrates the insidious ways trauma contorts memory and perpetuates suffering across generations. It was a burden my father carried, a wound that never fully healed.

Despite the darkness of his upbringing, my father possessed a formidable will to succeed. He was a classic overachiever, relentlessly driving himself to overcome the poor self-esteem his abusive father had instilled in him. He worked harder than anyone, his perfectionism and zeal for order finding a perfect outlet in his eventual career with the US Postal Service. This same intensity, however, could be challenging for those around him, particularly for someone with a passive-aggressive personality like my own. He thrived on direct engagement, enjoying stimulating, challenging discussions. Those who took the time to see past his rough edges found a man they could love, but his tendency to lead with a derogatory remark often created a barrier that was difficult to overcome.

At sixteen, desperate to escape his family and convinced he was a “dummy” with no future, he enlisted in the Marines. His mother promptly had him discharged, but he re-enlisted in the Navy at eighteen, serving on the USS West Virginia and the USS Wisconsin. Upon his return in 1947, he confronted his father, threatening him with death if he ever laid a hand on his mother again. With that, he drew a line, stepping away from the toxicity of his parents’ relationship for a long time.

He enrolled at the University of Portland, driven by a deep curiosity to understand the human mind. He studied Psychology, Logic, and Philosophy, but the demands of a hyper-busy life prevented him from finishing his degree. This unfulfilled quest was a legacy he passed to me. I would later pick up his mantle, attempting to finish the job he started—understanding the fractured human psyche. And like him, I found myself rebelling against the spiritual and philosophical authorities of my day.

Dad married my mother, Corinne Beatrice Henry, in 1950. Her parents were understandably wary, and my father had to prove his worthiness, even mowing my grandfather’s lawn before being allowed to take my mother on a date. When my sister Pam was born in 1954, my father experienced a love he had never known. She was a precious prize. I arrived in 1955, and my early years were fraught with health issues, causing disruption and making it difficult for him to embrace me. The truth, I now see, is that he struggled to understand my innate value as a son, a reflection of his own unhealed wounds.

He was my hero, albeit a broken one. He loved my mother deeply, though often unskillfully. He never raised a hand to her, but their communication was a tapestry of traded barbs—part humor, part veiled aggression. He carried his father’s harsh disciplinary methods into his own parenting, and the sting of his belt is a memory both my sister and I carry. Yet, through it all, my love for him never wavered.

The Cycle Repeats

My father’s relationship with alcohol was another inherited pattern. He was a top-flight beer drinker in the local taverns, and my own fascination with the suds began early. He told the story of how, at five years old, I drank an entire beer he had left unattended, falling off the couch in a drunken stupor. It was a moment of shared, dangerous recognition. From then on, I would steal sips, then whole beers, following a path he had unknowingly laid for me. The shadow of his father’s alcoholism loomed, casting a long, dark projection into the next generation.

This cycle of trauma was not merely behavioral; it was deeply psychological. The anger, the need for control, the emotional distance—these were the tools he had been given to navigate the world. As his son, I absorbed them unconsciously. It took me sixty-one years to fully confront the internalized image of masculinity I had inherited from him and, by extension, from his father. It was a rigid, judgmental structure that permeated my own unconscious mind, shaping my interactions and limiting my own expression. My personality became a direct, albeit unconscious, response to his flamboyance—less colorful, more repressed.

A Path to Healing: The Search for Truth

My journey of healing began in earnest in 1987. It was a path of spiritual awakening, a conscious effort to dismantle the inherited structures of my psyche. The critical turning point, however, came with my father’s decline. After my mother’s death in 2009, his grief, anxiety, and cognitive deterioration were profound. Caring for him became my full-time responsibility, a labor that pushed me to my limits.

When his doctor confirmed he could no longer drive safely in 2012, my life as I knew it ended. I became responsible for every aspect of his existence—his meals, his health, his finances, his home. The loss of his independence became my own. It was in this crucible of caregiving that the real work of healing began. I was forced to confront my own expectations of how he should be, of how our relationship should look. I had to let go of my resentments, my anger, and my own pain to simply be present with him in his suffering.

This was not a passive process. It required constant awareness, a mindful observation of my own reactions. I had to see the hurt little boy in him, the product of unimaginable abuse, to find the compassion to care for the difficult, demanding man he had become. Every day was a practice in letting go—letting go of the past, letting go of my desire for him to be different, letting go of my own ego.

His final years were a labor of love that nearly broke me. But in that breaking, something new was born. I learned to love another human being unconditionally and completely. The last conversation we had, just hours before he died on September 15, 2017, was a simple, loving exchange that ended with “I love you, son,” and “I love you too, Dad.” I left his room, not knowing it would be our last.

The discovery of his death was itself a traumatic event, compounded by a grueling six-hour police investigation that treated his deathbed as a crime scene. It was a brutal reminder of the world’s insensitivity, a final, painful stamp of his chaotic legacy on my life. But even that could not erase the profound healing that had taken place.

The Gifts of a Healed Relationship: Finding the Truth

Through my relationship with my father, I witnessed firsthand how intergenerational trauma operates—how ignorant men, wounded themselves, try to dominate and control those around them. My father’s healing, and my own, was not about him changing his ways. It was about me changing my perception. It was about finding my own voice, stepping out of the shadows I had imposed upon myself as a reaction to him, and meeting him as an equal partner on love’s endless journey.

What were the gifts of this arduous path? What was the Truth I finally found?

It is the understanding that we are all products of our history, but we are not prisoners of it. The cycle of trauma is not an unbreakable chain. It can be interrupted, link by painful link, through awareness, insight, mindfulness, and compassion.

It is the realization that healing is not about fixing the other person. It is about healing the relationship within oneself. I could not change my father, but I could change my response to him. In doing so, I freed not only myself but also the memory of him from the prison of my judgment.

It is the discovery of unconditional love, a love that exists beyond personality, beyond behavior, beyond the wounds of the past. It is a love that sees the divine essence in another, no matter how obscured by their human brokenness.

Finally, the Truth is that this healing journey is the very purpose of our existence. We are here to mend the fractured connections, both within ourselves and with others. The healing I experienced with my father was not just for me; it was a mending of a tear in the fabric of my lineage, a gift to the ancestors I never knew and the generations that will never be. The love we shared, redeemed from the ashes of trauma, now lives forever in the mind and heart of God.

My father is gone. I am now an orphan with no children of my own. The self I fashioned in response to my upbringing has dissolved. Who am I now? I am a mystery, even to myself. I am walking into the unknowable present moment, living into the Truth of what is. My life’s real work has only just begun. Dad, I will love you until my final day.

Chapter 65: The Three Degrees of Dissolution and the Fragility of Human Connection

In the infinite, crackling bandwidth of our universe, where every particle is connected in a cosmic dance, we humans have built our own digital web. We call it the internet, a technological marvel that promises to shrink the globe and bring us closer. We celebrate our interconnectedness with theories like the “six degrees of separation,” the comforting idea that any two people on Earth are linked by just a short chain of acquaintances. It’s a beautiful thought, suggesting a world where no one is truly a stranger, where we are all just a few handshakes away from one another. This is the promise of the network, the electrician’s dream of a perfectly wired world.

But there is a shadow cast by this digital light, a darker, more somber theory that speaks to the fragility of these connections. I call it the “three degrees of dissolution.” It’s a colder, more personal calculation. It posits that for many, their memory, their very existence in the minds of others, is no more than three deaths away from vanishing completely into the static of anonymity. While six degrees speaks to the breadth of our social network, three degrees measures its terrifying lack of depth. It reveals the isolating paradox of our time: in a world more connected than ever, we risk becoming more alone, our legacies fading like a weak signal into the noise.

This isn’t just an abstract theory; it’s a reality that gnaws at the edges of our hyper-connected lives, particularly as we age. It challenges us to look past the glowing screens and question the substance of our relationships. How many of the hundreds, or even thousands, of “friends” we accumulate online are truly connections? How many are just digital ghosts, flickering avatars in a feed we scroll through with detached indifference? The US Surgeon General has even declared our youth’s social media use a national health threat, noting that an average of 4.5 hours per day is spent consuming what amount to “empty social calories.” This habit isn’t confined to the young; many adults now substitute real, huggable friends for the fleeting validation of a “like” or a “share.”

These virtual interactions, for all their convenience, lack the rich, high-fidelity bandwidth of in-person encounters. They are compressed, lossy versions of the real thing. You can’t feel the warmth of a hand, see the subtle flicker of understanding in someone’s eyes, or share the comfortable silence that only true companionship allows. In this digital landscape, our relationships are often reduced to a series of fleeting messages and superficial affirmations. The essence of human connection becomes diluted, leaving us surrounded by a sea of profiles yet feeling profoundly, achingly disconnected. The theory of three degrees of dissolution underscores the impermanence of these shallow bonds. It’s a stark reminder that a life lived through a screen is a life lived on borrowed time, its memory dependent on the fragile attention spans of a few other online souls.

This isn’t a hypothetical scenario. I watched it unfold in the final years of my own father’s life. He was once a socially vibrant man, his home a hub of laughter, stories, and the clinking of glasses. After my mother passed, he lived alone. I cared for him for the last six years of his life, and during that time, I witnessed the slow, painful erosion of his world. Friends and family, once mainstays of his life, succumbed to the passage of time. His once-bustling home grew eerily silent.

Then came the dementia. It was a gentle expression of the disease, but the name itself was threatening. It was a plague word. Friends and even family members, who had once filled his days with joy, bailed on him. They gave him “the bum’s rush,” treating his condition like a contagious disease they might catch through proximity. His social circle, once a sprawling network, shrank to a few essential nodes: myself, my sister, my wife. His entire world, his legacy, rested on us. I often thought, with a chilling clarity, that if the three of us were to be killed in a car accident, my father would become a ward of the state. He would die alone, and his final resting place would be an anonymous plot in some forgotten corner of a cemetery, far from my mother’s remains, a place he would never have chosen and that no one would ever visit. He would be a perfect, tragic example of the three degrees of dissolution.

My father’s story is heartbreakingly common. Countless elderly individuals find their social ties fraying faster than they can be mended, leading to a profound loneliness that is more than just emotional distress—it is a public health crisis. Without a robust support network, many seniors face neglect, inadequate care, and a sense of invisibility that is as damaging as any physical ailment. This is the dark underbelly of a society that prizes youth and connectivity but often forgets those who laid the very foundations upon which we stand.

Who is most at risk in this silent epidemic of disconnection? The profiles are varied, but the outcome is the same. They are the single individuals without children, the aging adults who are losing friends faster than they can make new ones. They are people struggling with mental illness, teetering on the edge of incompetence, who are too often shunned rather than supported. They are the individuals ostracized for difficult or unpopular life choices, the drug addicts, the alcoholics, and the homeless—all pushed to the margins, their social fabric dangerously thin. For these souls, the three degrees of dissolution isn’t a theory; it’s the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads.

So, what is our responsibility in the face of this stark reality? The theory is not meant to induce fear or morbid anxiety, but to serve as a powerful call to action. It forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about the world we are building. Is it a world where we let our elders fade into solitude? Is it a society that values the quantity of our online followers over the quality of our real-world friendships?

The answer must be no. We are called to be better electricians of our social lives, to consciously build circuits of care and meaning that can withstand the tests of time and tribulation. This requires effort and, above all, intentionality. It means prioritizing genuine, in-person interactions, nurturing our relationships through shared experiences, and being truly present in the lives of those who matter most. It means recognizing that a few deep, meaningful bonds are infinitely more fulfilling and resilient than a thousand superficial ones.

On a societal level, communities must step up to fill the void left by dwindling family ties. We need to create and support initiatives that foster connection. This can take the form of community centers, senior clubs, and volunteer programs that ensure our elders remain engaged and valued. Fostering intergenerational relationships is particularly powerful, bridging the gap between young and old and enriching both groups with shared wisdom and new perspectives.

One of the most promising solutions lies in the concept of “intentional communities,” where people of all ages choose to live together, supporting one another through life’s various stages. These communities emphasize cooperation, mutual aid, and shared responsibilities, creating an environment where no one feels alone. They are a modern reimagining of the village, a conscious effort to rebuild the social safety nets that we have allowed to decay.

For mental health professionals and sociologists, the three degrees of dissolution offers a new lens through which to view social isolation. It’s a challenge to move beyond individual therapy and advocate for systemic changes that promote social inclusion. It’s a call to build resilient communities where the social fabric is strong enough to catch those who stumble.

And for each of us, as individuals navigating this complex world, it is a personal challenge. Look at your own life. Reflect on the depth and quality of your social network. How many of your connections are genuinely meaningful? How many people would remember you, and for how long? These questions are not about ego; they are about legacy. They are about the ripples we leave in the pond of human consciousness.

Preserving the memory of those who have passed is a vital act of defiance against the anonymity threatened by the three degrees of dissolution. By fostering genuine connections and actively honoring the legacies of our loved ones, we ensure their impact persists. We become the keepers of their stories, the living conduits of their memory, ensuring they are not forgotten.

As we navigate the complexities of modern life, let us strive to build connections that transcend the digital realm. Let us build relationships that are resilient, deep, and capable of enduring beyond our own lifetimes. By investing in love, friendship, and community, we create a legacy of meaningful relationships that enriches our lives and the lives of those around us. We ensure that our own stories, and the stories of those we love, will echo on the unlimited bandwidth of the universe, carried forward by the unbreakable bonds of true human connection.

Chapter 32:  Marty C. and A New 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 its 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.

Together, Marty and I shared over twenty years in a couple’s group, 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. At this point, much like Marty, all further talk from me would end, and I would just listen to her.

This brings me to January 11th of 2017, when I had my first ‘seizure’. I awoke at 2:45 in the morning, 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.

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, 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. He 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 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.

That next day, Wednesday, at noon, I had another episode of such intensity that I dared not even attempt to get up from the couch. I had previously arisen 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 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. Each time I tried to get off the couch, I became quite dizzy. 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.

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 as almost losing my mind, while having an almost neurotoxic component to it.

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 continued to listen to the occasional taped “spiritual wisdom” tapes, hoping to hear something that might bring me comfort. I listened to Jack Boland, a 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. 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. 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. 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.

Sharon looked at me with acceptance, love, and compassion. She 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.

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 power figures. 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 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 by those who already believed that they knew me. But the curious ones would read, and appreciate, this aspect of the message.

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.

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. 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. Somehow, Marty’s structure of consciousness, his ego mind, had been transmitted to me, and I “felt his presence” within my own sensitive, susceptible consciousness through my love 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. The light of my own awareness, shown through Marty’s matrix of consciousness, created the shadows, or words, that ached to reach from the unknown to the knowing parts of myself.

During this period, in April 2017, Sharon and I attended Matthew Fox’s Cosmic Christ Workshop in Tacoma. After Friday evening’s seminar, I had that most interesting, powerful dream referred to in the section on dreams.

We met with Marty and his wife the week following the workshop. Marty’s recovery was going well. I continued to carry a sense of the Transcendence; my powers of insight, awareness, understanding, love, and compassion were at their peak. Sensing his own death may be close, Marty wanted to engage in activity that he had delayed. He wanted to prepare to hike the Pacific Crest Trail.

Yet, we also came to discuss the Cosmic Christ workshop. I wanted to speak from the energy that was uplifting me, but Marty’s wife made sure to dominate the discussion. Even when I tried to share, she grabbed her phone and started Googling 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 him.

On a late April couple’s group meeting at Marty’s home, I was able to talk about my experience of “transcendent energy” with Marty and Jim. Marty’s wife had disappeared, so we were able to talk at length. Marty was genuinely interested in what I had to say, as well as 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. 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 it to him the following day.

In the message, I included the meditation, a “thought experiment” designed to be a verbal bridge from the non-verbal part of myself to my conscious mind. It was based upon the spiritual experience of July 21, 1987. It was a guided journey to let go of controls, to be carried into an unexplored realm of experience, to find a place of absolute stillness where a teaching could emerge. It spoke of eliminating time-based thoughts, of recognizing forces attached to our energy fields, and of the gap between self and other as the source of all illusion. It was a technique for shaking the mind free from its certainties.

Then, I shared a dream I had that morning, of being in a noisy industrial plant where an electrical system needed reconditioning. I was working on an electrical panel, and Marty’s security lock needed to be removed. I interpreted this for him:

“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. These controls lock you out of your own greater good. The very state of consciousness that made the melanoma possible is still embedded within your mind and heart. Infusions and medications, though potentially helpful, alone will not get the job done.”

I expressed my ultimate confidence in him, in his beauty and his potential, and planned on living into this dream with him for a long time to come.

Marty was able to maintain good health for only a few more weeks. My meditation had little positive impact. My intention was to help him release his understanding of who he was and experience his divine nature. Marty was a man of highest intellect and character, yet he had not ever experienced the release of his great creation, his ego, into the great Unknown, though he certainly desired to.

Three weeks later, Marty, Sharon, and I hiked Dog Mountain in the Columbia River Gorge. He had just started a new targeted drug therapy. We took our time, and Marty persevered with great spirits, encouraged by his performance. We began preparing for a Pacific Crest Trail hike to fulfill one of his 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. The potential metastases to his brain had already caused concern that it would impinge on his sense of self, and on his competent, highly intelligent mind.

Dying, death, and transformation now took on a special urgency for Marty. Because of the complications, he lost much of his treasured independence and the desire to even scan Facebook. All of his energy became devoted to just getting through the day. He was prescribed anti-inflammatory medicine, and he continued on anti-seizure medicine.

Marty communicated to me his sense of being inarticulate in relation to these new experiences. His life was transitioning from one that was highly engaged, physically active, spiritually stimulating, and socially interactive, to one that was physically inactive, threatened with the loss of intellectual competence, humiliating, depressing, and devoid of normal joy and physical intimacy.

A story came to my mind, which I sent to him in a text message. I wrote to him about life as a lifelong adventure hike, with the beauty of nature on one side and a wicked forest fire on the other, burning away our past, our hidings, and all the knowledge we hold so dear. I listed the losses he was experiencing: independence, mobility, intimacy, control over his body, and the desire to keep living on dying’s terms.

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 along the path goes on, and the “forest fire” keeps burning for all of us. Hope and anticipation push us forward, knowing the “view ahead is always changing.” Yet, the past keeps burning away in ways that are uncertain and often stir up anxiety. Around the next bend lies only the unknown, ready to bring whatever comes. And at that same bend, the “fire” will have burned away everything unlike your true nature, revealing who you were “in the beginning, before the world was.” Naming it is a challenge unique to each of us. Some articulate souls write great books and draw attention to their words. You don’t need that.

I shared how my unwillingness to talk or write much stemmed from being shut down for most of my life. I spoke of Toxic Masculinity, Toxic Religion, and Toxic Capitalism as the cause of so much suffering, and how we had both been victimized by this type of male energy. I thanked him for caring, for listening, and for how our hearts had merged at this most troubling of times. I wrote, “

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… 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.”

At the end of the letter, I quoted the title of my wife Sharon’s book:

“Whose Death Is It, Anyway?”

It is all of ours.

In late June, I began to accompany Marty to his Men’s Cancer Survivor Support creative writing group at OHSU. During our weekly drives, he communicated that he and his wife were having insurmountable issues. They were no longer intimate, and Marty struggled to feel love for his wife anymore. He wanted a divorce, yet was powerless. He believed his wife was insane, and I found it hard to disagree. Marty was also starting to have hallucinations. He and his son wanted him to be relocated to a neutral care facility, but his wife insisted that if he moved, she would move with him, sleeping on the ground next to him if necessary. Marty felt trapped. He believed the cancer treatment would 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. I was shocked by his lack of self-worth. I told him he was worth every penny he spent on himself, but he could not accept that. He had already spent $840 on his end-of-life drugs and felt it was a burden. He stated that he had to die, so that she could live. I was distressed, a helpless witness to a self-imposed crucifixion.

His wife considered herself a minister and a teacher. She was studious and had a rigid understanding of “facts,” which became her idols. She had little sense of humor and no capacity to embrace the unknown. When her husband began his dying process, I became actively involved. She would rattle on endlessly about how to best care for him, even though I was successfully navigating the difficulties. Her husband became unhappy with her care, considering her incompetent and uncaring.

Yet, she would not stop her irritating teaching mode. I finally confronted her. “Please stop trying to teach me about stuff that I don’t need to know. Can’t you trust that your husband and I are successfully navigating these difficult times together?”

“Oh, Bruce, you are just going to have to treat this like it is an AA meeting,” she replied. “I have to give you this teaching. Just continue to listen until I am complete.”

“Actually, I don’t want or need any of your teaching. You teach fear, and distrust of me, as well as the Unknown. 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 took precedence over my own feelings of inadequacy. Confronting a difficult reality takes energy, yet not doing so diminishes our own standing in Truth, Life, and Love. So I spoke out, and she actually listened.

I continued to help with small tasks and attend the writing group with him until two weeks before his assisted suicide. I came to deeply miss the only man who responded to my philosophically challenging Facebook posts. Somehow the disease in our shared lives led to another form of death, the end to our friendship. Love goes before all of us, but while chaos’s clouds obscure the view, it is hard to see the path. It remains a mystery to me how to plan for and successfully navigate the rivers of life that carry us into death. Death really sucks for those with much life left to live. I am not fooled by the promises of a “reward in the afterlife.” That thought is more addictive than opiates. The fear of death can be conquered without it being masked by illusions. That is the path of today’s spiritual warrior.

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 us was that there was to be a party at their home on Saturday, Sept 10, as a celebration of life. I was stunned and hurt by his decision. I saw that he had regained full use of his left arm and was starting to regain feeling in his left leg. His main fear, however, was that future metastatic lesions in his brain would take away his sense of self.

We attended the Michael Franti concert that evening, after making an early exit from Marty’s “celebration.” I cried almost the whole way through Franti’s song, “Life is Better With You.” Life was better with Marty in it.

Marty took nearly twenty hours to die, ultimately dying on September 11, 2017 (yes, 911). We were not included in any preparation, planning, execution, or support. Sharon, a hospice nurse and expert on Death and Dying, was almost totally shunned by his wife during the last three months. The only reason I was present was due to a direct demand from Marty.

My father died on the day of Marty’s funeral. 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 was now dealing with the care for, and eventual death of my father; the protracted dying process and death of my good friend Marty; and the insanity of the wife of my now deceased friend. Facing this two-fold challenge placed me in a position for “accelerated understanding and spiritual growth” and generated unexpected anxiety. I used to say “growth is highly overrated” in a humorous manner. Now, I looked for real humor in the face of adversity and kept coming up short. Apparently, the teacher was Death Itself.

In a eulogy I wrote but was not used, I said:

“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… You introduced me to Death in a way that has changed me forever… Through your death, I have been Destroyed, and I am now Renewed. Rest in Peace, Marty.”

Marty’s final creative effort from the writing group was a story about visiting his green burial plot in Riverview Cemetery. He wrote:

“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… 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.’”

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

I began to experience the “BIG THREE” of depression, anxiety, and the occasional panic attack two weeks following the deaths of Marty and my father, and it plagued me several times over the next three months.

We arrived at the Oregon coast, at Cannon Beach on October 2, 2017.  We met our dear friend from Arizona, June, and her love interest, Michael. As we walked on the beach, I tried to relate to Michael the experience of my friend’s recent death, my father’s death, and the disturbing appearance of insanity in my friend’s marriage. Michael looked up at the nearby mountains, appearing not too interested. He attempted to redirect my attention.

Suddenly, a strangely uncomfortable feeling came over me. My heart started to beat harder, my skin tingled, and I felt light-headed. My condition continued to deteriorate, yet all that I felt comfortable sharing was about my sore foot. We neared our hotel, and the anxiety reaction was threatening to overwhelm me. At dinner, I had lost my appetite. June commented that I looked gray. I had to leave the table immediately.

I went back to our room and lay down. The world felt like it was spinning. My heart sounded like a drum. I became so concerned that I went to a medical portal to ask a doctor if I should be hospitalized. The response brought some temporary relief: a stress-induced anxiety reaction. I returned to dinner feeling better, but later that night, I began to feel nauseous again. My heart beat wildly, and my body started shuddering as if I was frozen. Sharon crawled into bed and held me close. Her warmth brought some comfort, yet my foot ached like I had never experienced pain before.

I was awake all night, meditating on my suffering. I came to realize that I really needed to communicate around the absolute insanity of the family activity surrounding the death of my dear friend and my father. Michael had shut me down at the moment I needed to talk most. By not communicating, the anxiety reaction launched me into outer space and brought upon me a sickness I had never experienced before. Oh, that blessed pain, for it would lead me further down the path to my own ‘liberation’.

As I meditated, I realized how much of what I know about myself was created by my fundamental relationship to my parents. I had never developed a complete sense of self. My sense of self revolved around internalizing their expectations and my defense mechanisms for managing the fallout. I felt a need to “balance” whatever energy was being over-expressed, adding to my passive-aggressive component. It was as if two extra self-organizing personalities—my creations of who I thought my father and mother were—occupied my ego mind, crowding out the “real me.”

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. I was finally an “orphan,” and all the entanglements were now physically removed. My father’s spirit no longer needed to overshadow my own life. For me, this is an extraordinary release. Being placed on “formula” right after birth and in a chilly car in the garage at night left me as a young being feeling abandoned. Though I loved my parents, I did not want to be like them.

Up to this point, I have perceived the collective impact of toxic male consciousness upon my individual existence. I saw that I had two Tricksters roaming through my heart and soul, and their continued presence, though they kept me from being lonely, kept me from developing into my greater good. 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.

Who, or what, am I now? I am a mystery, even to myself. The transition times from what I thought I was to who I am predestined to become create intense anxiety. I am to be forever walking into the unknowable present moment.

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. The beauty of the ocean, our friendships, the taste of our food, even the continuing pain in my foot, all felt like lyrics of a heavenly song connected by the rhythm of Love.

The conspiracy of silence has to be broken, again and again. The silencing of my true identity through adherence to old, worn out patterns has to end for this healing to have any hope of transforming the heart and soul.

In this moment, I am no longer anxious. I am free. “I” will not be denied.

The amygdala in our brains under duress from trauma creates new paths, leading in unhealthy directions. For me, my number one intention for healing is to avoid situations or people where poor communication and suppression of emotions has become ‘normalized’. I now have intimate knowledge of depression, anxiety, and panic attacks. It is inappropriate to keep these issues secret.

I have found help through professional therapy, exercise like yoga, immersion in nature, meditation, rest, and honest communication with friends and family. Insight, prayer, service to others, and medication can also be helpful. It is also important to avoid anxiety-producing behaviors like excess coffee, and to allow feelings to arise without judgment. Writing can be helpful, but it is best to have friends who respond directly, in person, where our humanity shines brightest. Facebook just cannot get the job done.

For those who still suffer, you can bring healing to yourself.

Seek out a dear friend, support group, or a professional to have a conversation with.

Don’t hold back!

Chapter 58:  Rediscovering the Art of Listening

I did not start talking until I was four years old. My parents both worked, often two jobs each, leaving me in the care of indifferent or minimally caring babysitters. When I finally began to speak and started school, some teachers deemed my speech irrelevant. My hyperactive behavior masked a growing intelligence, yet I struggled with low self-esteem and poor self-control. I craved recognition, to be heard and positively acknowledged, but found solace only in my grandparents’ spiritual support. My father, shaped by his own unacknowledged past, was a poor listener, mirroring the broader societal indifference I faced. Seventeen years of alcoholism and drug addiction silenced me further, and it has taken decades—from ages 33 to 68—to reclaim my voice. Even now, it seems our reading world treats my words much like my father did, finding no resonance and offering little positive acknowledgment.

Early experiences shape our ability to express ourselves. In my case, the lack of attentive care and affirmation in childhood stunted my speech and self-worth. Children need to feel heard and valued, yet many grow up in environments where their voices are drowned out or ignored. This neglect can lead to a lifelong struggle for validation and self-expression. The hyperactivity I developed was perhaps a desperate attempt to be noticed, to break through the wall of indifference surrounding me.

Our collective culture often mirrors these early influences. Many individuals grow up feeling unheard, their voices lost in the cacophony of societal noise. Recognition and support are crucial for personal growth, but the lack of collective support in our culture is staggering. Heightened competitiveness and shortened attention spans, fueled by media platforms, exacerbate this issue. We live in a society that prioritizes quick fixes and instant gratification over deep, meaningful connections and understanding.

The struggle for recognition is a universal human experience, yet societal indifference often makes this struggle insurmountable. Personal growth, while essential, is dwarfed by the overwhelming lack of support from our communities. Many people, like myself, fight to reclaim their voices, longing for acknowledgment and validation. However, the societal structures in place often hinder rather than help this process.

Modern factors such as heightened competitiveness and the influence of media platforms have further complicated the issue. Social media, with its focus on superficial interactions and fleeting moments, has contributed to a culture of indifference. We scroll through our feeds, consuming content without truly engaging with it or the people behind it. This environment breeds a lack of empathy and understanding, making it even more challenging for individuals to feel heard and valued.

We need to relearn how to listen—to ourselves, to each other, and to the world around us. Healing our culture of indifference requires intentional effort and commitment. It means creating spaces where people feel safe to express themselves and where their voices are genuinely heard and valued. It requires us to slow down, to engage deeply with one another, and to prioritize meaningful connections over superficial interactions.

Every voice deserves to be heard. Recognizing and fostering a culture of listening and support is crucial for both personal and collective growth. We must move beyond the indifference that permeates our society, striving to create a world where every individual feels valued and acknowledged. Only by doing so can we begin to heal and grow as a community.

 

Chapter 64:  The Art of Letting Go: When Life Becomes About Loss

Life has a peculiar way of teaching us that what we gather in our early years becomes the very thing we must learn to release in our later ones. The accumulation of relationships, possessions, and memories that once felt like building a fortress now reveals itself as something far more fragile—a collection that time itself will inevitably curate.

This reflection on the nature of human connection and material attachment explores the profound shift that occurs when we move from gathering to releasing, from building to accepting the inevitable dissolution that marks the passage of time. It’s a journey that many of us will face, yet few are prepared to navigate.

The first half of life operates under an unspoken premise: more is better. This is our season of accumulation. We collect family members through birth, marriage, and chosen kinship. We gather friends like flowers in a meadow, each relationship adding color and texture to our personal landscape. Acquaintances multiply through work, hobbies, and chance encounters, creating an ever-expanding web of human connection.

These relationships become what we might call “decorations of the heart”—beloved ornaments that give meaning and beauty to our existence. They are treasured, appreciated, and woven into the fabric of our identity. Each person carries with them a constellation of shared experiences, inside jokes, and mutual understanding that feels permanent and irreplaceable.

Material possessions follow a similar pattern. Objects accumulate significance not merely through their utility, but through their connection to people and moments. A grandmother’s china, a friend’s gift, a souvenir from a shared adventure—these items become tangible anchors to our relationships and experiences.

The accumulation feels natural, even necessary. We are social beings, after all, and our connections define much of who we are. The gathering of people and things provides security, identity, and purpose. It creates the illusion that we are building something lasting, something that will endure.

But time, that most democratic of forces, begins its work of subtraction. Death arrives uninvited, claiming those we assumed would always be there. The phone calls that will never come again. The empty chair at holiday gatherings. The sudden silence where once there was laughter and conversation.

Dementia presents perhaps an even more complex loss. The person remains physically present, but the essence of who they were—their memories, their personality, their ability to recognize and connect—gradually fades. It’s a slow-motion goodbye that can stretch over years, leaving us to mourn someone who is still alive but no longer truly present.

Then there’s disinterest—perhaps the most unexpected thief of all. People simply drift away, not through any dramatic falling out, but through the natural entropy that affects human relationships. Career changes, geographic moves, shifting priorities, and evolving interests create distance where once there was closeness. The gradual realization that some connections have simply run their course can be as painful as more obvious losses.

These subtractions reveal a truth we didn’t want to acknowledge during our accumulating years: nothing we gather is truly permanent. The fortress we built was actually made of sand, beautiful and meaningful, but subject to the tide.

There is an unanticipated challenge of late-life connection. Those who reach their seventies having experienced these losses often find themselves in an unexpected predicament. The desire for connection remains strong—perhaps even stronger than before—but the opportunities for forming new relationships become increasingly limited.

Society seems to have little interest in the friendship potential of older adults. The prevailing narrative suggests that meaningful relationships are formed in youth and early adulthood, with later years being about maintaining existing connections rather than creating new ones. This assumption creates a self-fulfilling prophecy, leaving older adults isolated not by choice but by societal expectation.

The pursuit of new friendships in later life requires a different kind of courage. It means being willing to be vulnerable again, to risk rejection, to put oneself out there despite the knowledge that any new relationship will likely be shorter than those formed in youth. It requires accepting that the person extending friendship might be met with skepticism or disinterest simply because of age.

After a fifty-year high school class reunion, I engaged in several Facebook exchanges, emails, phone calls, and text messages with several former classmates. They were all quite friendly with me at the reunion, but not one person followed up to resume or start friendships, some even after numerous attempts by me. To say that this experience was a disappointment is an understatement. It confirms studies showing the reluctance of the aging population to take social risks and engage in new behaviors.

Creative pursuits, including writing, might seem like natural avenues for connection. Yet even these paths can lead to isolation. The solitary nature of many creative endeavors, combined with the challenge of finding audience and community, can leave older adults feeling more isolated despite their efforts to reach out.

When I was in 4th grade, I was continuing to explore the biological differences between boys and girls. I had once played doctor and nurse with my next-door neighbor girlfriend Mary and her younger sister, but nothing too intense happened. One day Mary and I were playing in a forest together, and Mary asked to play the

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours”

game. Well, when in doubt, whip it out, and I shocked Mary with my show and tell. She then refused to show me hers, and ran away, with me just standing there with my pants down around my ankles.

Writing has been like that embarrassing experience with Mary. I have offered literally, thousands of pages of material to my world, hoping to find interest in the subject matter that I have presented. Where are those intelligent conversations and, perhaps, new friendships, that I hoped to develop? Other than my wife, a best friend, and an editor, I have failed to draw interest to myself and the writings.

My pants are still down around my ankles, aren’t they? Embarrassment is a useless feeling at this point in my life, so I just keep writing, and posting to the public. Perhaps after my passing there will be some interest generated in the insight that I have brought to several challenging topics. With no children, and three predominantly disinterested grandsons, if my writing is to carry aspects of my spirit into future generations, it will probably be through people presently unknown to me.

There is a bittersweet nature of memory. For those blessed with sharp minds and intact memories, the accumulations of the past remain vividly present. This clarity becomes both gift and burden. The memories provide richness and depth, keeping alive the essence of lost relationships and experiences. They offer comfort and continuity, proving that love transcends physical presence.

But memories also serve as constant reminders of what has been lost. Each recollection carries with it the weight of absence. The sharper the memory, the more poignant the loss. The mind becomes a museum of the heart, filled with beautiful exhibits that can no longer be touched or shared in the same way.

This bittersweet quality of memory raises profound questions about the nature of accumulation itself. Were these relationships and experiences valuable because they were permanent, or is their value independent of their duration? Does the inevitable loss diminish their significance, or does it perhaps make them more precious?

There is the timeless wisdom of impermanence. Eastern philosophy has long taught that attachment is the root of suffering. The Buddhist concept of impermanence suggests that acceptance of life’s transient nature leads to greater peace and understanding. From this perspective, the losses experienced in later life are not tragic departures from how things should be, but rather natural expressions of how things actually are.

This wisdom doesn’t diminish the pain of loss or make the process of letting go any easier. It does, however, offer a framework for understanding that can transform our relationship with both accumulation and release. Instead of viewing losses as failures or punishments, we can begin to see them as integral parts of the human experience.

The accumulation phase of life serves its purpose—it teaches us to love, to connect, to find meaning in relationship. The subtraction phase serves its purpose too—it teaches us about the nature of reality, the value of presence, and the importance of appreciating what we have while we have it.

Whether we are ready for it or not, it is never too early to prepare for the ultimate release. The prospect of dementia or death providing the final “house cleaning” might seem morbid, but it points to a truth about the human condition: we are all temporary custodians of our experiences, relationships, and possessions. The question becomes not whether we will lose these things, but how we will relate to them while they are ours.

This recognition can be paralyzing or liberating. It can lead to nihilistic despair—if everything is temporary, what’s the point?—or to a deeper appreciation of the present moment. The choice of perspective becomes one of the most important decisions we can make.

Some find comfort in the idea that their accumulated experiences and relationships will live on in some form after their death, especially if they led interesting or challenging lives. Others focus on the impact they’ve had on others, seeing their mentorship or other positivie influences as a kind of immortality. Still others find peace in simply accepting the cyclical nature of existence, viewing their own lives as part of a larger pattern of growth and decay, accumulation and release.

A spiritual and loving endeavor for us is finding peace in the pattern. The movement from accumulation to release is not a defeat—it’s a completion. Like a symphony that moves through different movements, each phase of life has its own rhythm, its own purpose, its own beauty. The gathering phase allows us to experience the fullness of human connection and the richness of shared experience. The releasing phase teaches us about the true nature of love, which exists independent of physical presence or material form.

Those who have experienced significant losses often report a paradoxical sense of freedom. Released from the responsibility of maintaining extensive networks and managing numerous possessions, they find themselves with a clarity of vision that was impossible during the accumulating years. The essential becomes visible when the non-essential falls away.

This doesn’t mean that the losses are welcome or that the process is easy. Grief is real, loneliness is painful, and the desire for connection remains strong. But within the difficulty lies the possibility of a different kind of peace—one based not on what we have gathered, but on what we have learned about the nature of existence itself.

Embracing the journey from accumulation to release is one of the most challenging aspects of human existence. It requires us to confront our assumptions about permanence, to grieve losses that feel too great to bear, and to find meaning in the face of apparent meaninglessness.

Yet this journey also offers profound opportunities for growth, understanding, and even joy. The person who has learned to love without attachment, to give without expectation of return, to appreciate without the need to possess, has discovered something essential about what it means to be human.

I am a volunteer at the Portland chapter of the Trauma Intervention Program. I have been dispatched as a co-first responder with EMT’s, the Fire Department, and any local Police Departments when there has been an unexpected death, either through suicide, overdose, accidents, or so-called natural causes. It is compelling work to be present with empathy, and compassion, for surviving family members and friends who have just lost a beloved connection. Giving emotional and spiritual first aid to those who are wrestling with the reality that there is no further living connection to be maintained with the departed is heartbreaking, yet enlightening work.

The accumulations of a lifetime—the relationships, the experiences, the memories—have served their purpose not by lasting forever, but by teaching us how to love. The releases that follow serve their purpose by teaching us how to let go. Both phases are necessary, both are sacred, and both contribute to the full expression of a life well-lived.

Perhaps the greatest wisdom lies not in trying to hold onto what we have gathered, but in learning to appreciate the privilege of having been entrusted with it, even temporarily. The decorations of the heart remain beautiful not because they are permanent, but because they existed at all.

I have done so much letting go. I treasure those who have blessed my life, then left.
I love the few who are still here with me after all these years, and willing to maintain connection with me. I love the risk takers and those who attempt, at this late stage of life, to join with me in new manners of relationship. I love those who take the time to honor my life and creative process, while also allowing me to access their own.

We are all so full of life and love.

It is so tough to let it all go, though.

Chapter 42:  Our Iris Angel

I’ve always had a profound affinity for dogs. Growing up, they were woven into the rhythm of family life, with our parents ensuring these loyal companions were always well-cared for. Yet, as I transitioned into adulthood, life’s demands and distractions prevented me from bringing a dog into my own home. That all changed in 2001, when a remarkable being named Iris entered my life and forever altered its course.

Iris wasn’t just any dog. She was an ethereal presence, a luminous white German Shepherd who emerged, almost mythologically, from the Clackamas Wilderness. Discovered by my sister and a Forest Ranger, she and her mother had been wandering the rugged terrain, survivors in every sense of the word. While her mother eluded capture, Iris chose a different path. At ten months old, she approached the humans who found her with a blend of curiosity and trust, as if guided by some higher wisdom that knew her destiny was entwined with ours.

When my sister brought Iris to visit us, I was hesitant. My wife Sharon and I both had full-time careers that left little room for the responsibilities a dog demands. But Iris had other plans. From the very first visit, she moved through our home not as a guest but as though she had finally arrived where she was meant to be. Her calm, knowing demeanor tugged fiercely at my heart. She belonged with us—I felt it deeply. That night, when she left with my sister, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The sense of connection was immediate and profound.

Naming her “Iris” felt like destiny, both for her striking beauty and for a shared love that Sharon and I had for the flower of the same name. The name carried weight, symbolic of hope and renewal, emotions that would come to define our relationship with her.

From the moment she joined our family, Iris proved she was no ordinary companion. A superb athlete, she moved with unparalleled grace, her agility a testament to her time surviving in the wild. On one memorable day, she leapt nearly seven feet into a tree to chase a squirrel, her survival instincts honed to perfection during her formative time in the wilderness. But her physical prowess was equaled only by her gentle, sensitive spirit. Whether bounding ahead on a trail or curling up by our feet at home, she existed as both the protector and the nurturer.

Our adventures together remain some of the most cherished memories of my life. Iris accompanied me on many of my local runs through the countryside, taking delight in running with me, and then sprinting far ahead, to await her slow friend to catch up with her.  Iris was an adventurer at heart, joining my wife and I on hikes through the Oregon Coast, Mt. Hood National forest, the Columbia River Gorge, Eastern Oregon deserts, and even the towering California Redwoods. There was a quiet magic in the way she led our hikes, scouting ahead and returning to ensure our safety. Her innate protectiveness revealed itself most poignantly during these wilderness journeys. She seemed to understand the balance between nature’s beauty and its dangers, once even preventing Sharon from unknowingly heading into a precarious area. Iris was far more than a companion; she was a guardian, steadfast and intuitive.

Her loyalty wasn’t limited to outdoor excursions. At home, she nestled into our lives, providing comfort and joy. She had an impeccable ability to understand human emotions, responding with an almost miraculous sensitivity. She slept serenely beside our bed, always present and always offering the kind of companionship that only a dog like Iris could. She welcomed strangers, befriended other animals, and cared for our grandsons as though they were her pack. She was everything one could hope for in a friend, a family member, and a cherished soul.

Iris also had a mysterious, almost otherworldly quality to her. This was never clearer than the day she saved my life, during an incident at home when fallen trees threatened to collapse our roof, Iris and I walked into the compromised home while arborists worked on manlifts, attempting to lift two cottonwood trees off of the roof of our home.

One of the men working overhead accidentally dropped a six-foot section of the thirty-inch diameter tree trunk. As I walked in front of Iris, she barked frantically, signaling me to step away from my position back to hers just moments before that massive section of a tree came crashing down where I had been standing. Her timing, her instinct, was nothing short of miraculous. It was as if she embodied some divine connection, always watching over us with a vigilance that went far beyond mere loyalty.

Note:  In forty-two years, the arborist had never lost a load before.  I would have been crushed.

When we lost her in December of 2007, my grief was overwhelming. She passed unexpectedly next to our bed in the early morning hours, with Sharon and me by her side. The piercing cry that marked her departure is forever etched in my soul, a sound that encapsulated the profundity of goodbye. I held her as she took her final breath, heartbroken, and yet grateful that we were there for her in her last moments, just as she had been for us countless times before.

Her departure left a void that was both immense and unbearable, and I carried with me a crushing guilt. I blamed my struggles with addiction, my human frailty, for her passing. It took time, healing, and reflection to see the truth—that Iris, in her infinite love and grace, had given us gifts that far outweighed the sorrow of her loss.

Even in her absence, she continued to touch our lives. Exactly one year to the moment of her death, Rocky, my father’s dog and Iris’s dear friend, howled mournfully in the night. It was Rocky’s first and only time he had ever howled while my father slept. It was a poignant reminder that love, and connection extend far beyond physical presence.

Iris was not just a dog; she was an angel in every sense of the word. She brought order to chaos, light to our darkest moments, and an unshakable reminder of what unconditional love truly means. Losing her was one of the deepest heartaches I’ve known, but her spirit lingers in the fabric of my being and the lives of all who knew her.

She was, and will always be, more than just a companion. She was family, protector, savior, and joy wrapped into one incredible being. To this day, I miss her deeply, but I carry her spirit with me, knowing that she was a manifestation of the best of what life and love have to offer.

Chapter 43:  I Am Ginger

I existed as Ginger, a vessel of unwavering love wrapped in a simple, furry form. My life carried an unspoken purpose—to bring light into the lives of my human companions, Bruce and Sharon. I was not merely a dog; I was a guardian of hearts, a healing bridge, and a companion on their journey through joy, pain, and everything in between. My tale, shared now through Bruce’s writing, is one of connection, transformation, and the eternal bond between souls.

The Beginnings of Love and Trust

My story began simply, nestled among my siblings, cradled by the warmth of our mother’s belly. Life was innocent and pure, full of playful curiosity, until the day my path led me to humans. My first human companion, though kind at heart, lacked the ability to care for me as I grew. Poor nutrition left me weak, and illness became my constant shadow.

When my health worsened, I was placed in a shelter where lonely souls like mine waited for second chances. Yet, I felt it deeply within me, a whisper from the Great Canine Spirit that my story wasn’t meant to end here. My purpose was unfolding, like the first rays of light piercing through heavy clouds.

Then Bruce and Sharon appeared. The first thing they did at the shelter was to take me for a walk.  When I began to run they both joined with me, and I saw they both were energetic people.  They were told that I had experienced some kidney issues, but that I would probably outgrow them.   Their energy carried a promise of love. I knew, as our paths aligned, that they were my family. A bond rooted in divine timing had brought us together to heal and grow.

Healing a Heavy Heart

Bruce carried grief that clung to him like a shadow. I could feel it in his movements, hear it in his voice, and sense it in the quiet moments when his gaze would linger, heavy with memories. Loss had etched itself deep into his soul, and my purpose became clear—to bring him back into the light. His father Beryl, who had just lost his wife to an unexpected death, gave me lots of extra attention and love whenever he visited with Bruce and Sharon.

Through the simplest acts, I found ways to heal. A nudge of comfort when silence grew too thick. A romp through the wilderness where we could lose ourselves in nature’s beauty. And in the rhythm of our daily walks, a reminder of presence and grounding. My life intertwined with Bruce’s, and together we mended what had once felt irreparable.

Sharon, too, was part of this healing dance. Her gentle laughter and tender care filled the spaces between moments of sorrow. Together, we wove a sanctuary of love.

The Fragility of Time

The seasons flowed, and my body cradled the wear of years like fallen leaves on an autumn path. My once boundless energy began to fade, my steps slower but my spirit intact. I saw the concern in Bruce’s eyes as he cared for me, even as he balanced his responsibilities to his own aging father. He bore the weight of so much, but even amidst his struggles, he made the time to hold me, to see me.

When my health began to worsen, Bruce and Sharon’s devotion only deepened. Visits to the kind veterinarian, injections to ease my strain, gentle hands that kept me comforted in my frailty. They loved me in the way only humans can—with such a tender ache in the knowledge of goodbye.

The Final Walk

The Great Canine Spirit called to me, gently preparing me for the next part of my soul’s path. I could feel its pull, just as I could feel the bittersweet mix of love and sorrow from my humans. That final night, I brought Bruce to the couch, and together we shared an unspoken truth. He held my paw, and in that moment, light surrounded us, pure and radiant. It was as if the barriers between worlds had disappeared, leaving only love.

Iris, the spirit of the one who came before me, called to me softly. She reassured me that my task was complete, that Bruce would carry forward the lessons we had shared. With her guidance, I walked my final steps, lying down in the same spot where she had once crossed. It was there that I transitioned into the eternal fields, my heart full and my spirit free.

Eternal Love

Now, I run with Iris through meadows without end. My earthly form is gone, but my love remains, woven into the lives of Bruce and Sharon. I visit them often in the whisper of the wind, the sparkle of sunlight, and the wag of a passing dog’s tail. I am free, yet I am never far.

To those who have loved a companion like me, know this—our bond transcends time. We come into your lives as mirrors of divine love, guiding you toward the truths you sometimes forget. Love unconditionally. Live simply. And when the time comes for your spirit to move beyond, know you are never alone.

I am Ginger.

I was love.

And I am free.

Chapter 54:  The Architecture of Our Minds: A Parking Structure of Memories

Our consciousness, that intricate and infinite expanse within our minds, can be likened to a sprawling, multi-level parking structure—a metaphor that offers profound insights into the ways we store and access our experiences and emotions. We are not merely passive observers within this mental edifice but active attendants, methodically managing where each memory and concept resides. This analogy allows us to delve deeply into the workings of our cognitive processes and the significance of the relationships we hold dear.

Imagine, if you will, the upper levels of this parking structure. These levels are reserved for our most cherished family members and friends, those to whom we afford the prime parking spots—our most treasured memories and thoughts about them. In these honored spaces, our recollections of laughter, shared experiences, and deep emotional bonds are given prominence, easily accessible and vividly clear.

We, as the parking attendants of our consciousness, take pride in these upper levels, ensuring that these memories remain well-kept and frequently visited. In fact, these cherished spots often define who we are, shaping our perceptions and influencing our daily lives with their presence.

But this mental structure is not a monolithic entity. It is dynamic and multi-faceted, with levels that reach deep into the recesses of our minds. Some memories are relegated to the dimly-lit basements, where they are overlooked or ignored, much like the unconscious parts of ourselves. These are the aspects of our psyche that are hidden from everyday awareness—forgotten experiences, traumas, suppressed emotions, and dormant thoughts that, while out of sight, still contribute to the larger architecture of our consciousness.

This metaphor becomes particularly poignant when we consider the impact of loss. When a friend or family member passes away, an empty spot is left in our mental parking lot. This vacant space is not just an absence; it is a void that demands our attention, continuously scanned by our minds as we grapple with the reality of their departure. This empty spot symbolizes the profound sense of loss and the emotional upheaval that accompanies it. The more we try to ignore it, the more it seems to draw our focus, reminding us of the irreplaceable presence that once occupied that space.

Over time, our focus gradually shifts, spreading across those who remain in the upper levels. This adaptation is not a sign of forgetting but rather a testament to our resilience and capacity for emotional growth. We learn to navigate this restructured mental parking lot, finding new ways to honor those we have lost while still cherishing those who are alive.

Reflecting on the ways we manage and navigate the different levels of our consciousness can provide profound insights into the human experience. It challenges us to consider how we prioritize our memories, how we deal with the subconscious elements of our psyche, and how we cope with the voids left by loss. This introspection is not merely an exercise in self-awareness but a path toward healing and personal growth.

By understanding our consciousness as a multi-level parking structure, we gain a tangible framework to explore the complexities of our minds. This metaphor not only highlights the dynamic nature of our thoughts and the emotional connections we form but also underscores the importance of acknowledging and addressing the voids within us.

In the end, we are both the architects and attendants of our mental parking structure. We have the power to decide which memories occupy the prime spots and which ones linger in the shadows. By embracing this role, we can better understand ourselves, navigate our emotional landscapes, and find ways to heal and grow amidst the ever-changing traffic of our minds.

Chapter 69: Death Becomes Us – Our Understanding of What It Means to Be Alive

Death stands as one of life’s most profound paradoxes. It is simultaneously ultimate in its certainty and infinite in its mystery. When we are children, death is just a word, arriving first as an abstraction without weight or meaning. Children hear it spoken in hushed tones, see it portrayed in cartoons where characters spring back to life, and encounter it as a concept so foreign that it might as well be describing colors to the blind. Yet somewhere between childhood’s innocent theories and the accumulated wisdom of age, death transforms from a distant mystery into an intimate companion, reshaping how we navigate the sacred terrain of being human.

This transformation doesn’t happen overnight. It unfolds gradually, like a photograph developing in a darkroom, each experience adding clarity and depth to our understanding. This gradual awakening serves a crucial developmental purpose. Like the immune system building strength through exposure to pathogens, our emotional and spiritual resilience grows through encounters with loss. Each experience teaches us something new about love, impermanence, and what it means to be fully alive. When treated as a teacher rather than an enemy, death takes on a luminous role in human consciousness. It urges societies and individuals toward reflection, posing questions such as:

“What does it mean to live fully?” and

“How should one prepare for the undeniable conclusion of life?”

Throughout history, death has been intrinsically woven into the spiritual, cultural, and existential tapestries of humanity. An ancient Egyptian tomb packed with symbolic art depicts death as the threshold to eternity. The Tibetan Book of the Dead echoes this symbolism, guiding souls through rigorous instructions for their post-mortem transition. These age-old metaphors and practices remind modern seekers of an essential truth often obscured by contemporary fears of demise—that death is less an event to resist and more a process to understand, a universal symphony of transformation and surrender, a reunion with cycles far greater than the individual self.

Every society approaches death through its unique cultural and spiritual lens, shaping the rituals, meanings, and emotions attached to it. Mediterranean cultures, for example, express mourning with dramatic fervor, turning grief into a communal and experiential act. Japanese traditions, by contrast, observe understated, reverential practices, focusing on harmony and gentle remembrance. Religious frameworks also vary significantly in their reverence and guidance. Buddhism perceives death through the principle of impermanence, with the goal of reducing suffering by facilitating detachment. Hindu traditions view death within the eternal cycle of reincarnation. Christianity frames death within hope for resurrection, while Judaism prioritizes support for the grieving. Islam emphasizes surrender to divine will.

Modern scientific and metaphysical approaches echo similar sentiments, albeit in a different lexicon. Quantum physics suggests that energy never truly disappears; it transforms, reframing death as a continuation rather than annihilation. Inspired by near-death experiences, many believe that consciousness, much like energy, extends into unfathomable ethereal states. Death, for all its unknowns, serves as a profound companion, urging us toward lives of presence, empathy, and spiritual maturity.

The First Encounters with Forever

The transition from theoretical to experiential knowledge of death marks one of life’s most significant passages. Children possess a remarkable capacity for magical thinking, asking if grandma will come back, whether pets go to heaven, and why people can’t just get better. These questions reveal something profound about the human psyche—our initial resistance to accepting the finality of death reflects a deeper, more innate understanding of life’s preciousness than many adults realize.

That first encounter with genuine loss—whether it’s a beloved pet, a distant relative, or a friend’s parent—serves as an initiation into a more complex understanding of existence. The death of a beloved dog becomes our first introduction to permanence. A grandparent passing away teaches us about love that transcends physical presence. The world suddenly feels less stable, less predictable. The protective bubble of childhood’s invincibility begins to show cracks.

Television news and global media accelerate this education. Images of tragedy, reports of disasters, stories of lives cut short flood our consciousness daily. Death moves from personal experience to a shared human condition. We begin to understand that mortality is not exceptional but universal, not distant but ever-present. This slow awakening is a crucial part of our development, strengthening our emotional and spiritual resilience with each encounter with loss.

The Mathematics of Loss

During youth and early adulthood, life operates under what we might call the “accumulation principle.” We gather relationships, experiences, and connections at a rapid pace. College brings new friendships, careers introduce professional networks, and partnerships expand our circles of intimacy. The social fabric of our lives grows denser and more complex with each passing year. Death, during these periods, feels like an outlier—tragic when it occurs but not the dominant force shaping our relational landscape. We have the luxury of believing in permanence, of making plans that stretch decades into the future, of assuming that the people we love will be there when we need them.

But mathematics is inexorable. As we age, the rate of acquisition slows while the rate of loss accelerates. Parents age and pass away. Colleagues retire or face health crises. Friends begin to disappear from our lives, sometimes gradually through distance, sometimes suddenly through accident or illness. This shift represents more than simple arithmetic. It fundamentally alters how we approach relationships and time itself. Conversations carry more weight when we recognize their potential finality. Moments of connection become precious rather than assumed. We begin to live with a heightened awareness of presence because we understand, viscerally, the reality of absence.

The emotional landscape changes too. Grief, once an occasional visitor that arrived, stayed for a period, and departed, becomes a more constant companion. We learn to carry multiple losses simultaneously, each with its own timeline and texture. The heart reveals its remarkable capacity to hold both sorrow and joy, remembrance and hope, all at once.

The Ebb and Flow of Life’s Tides

I’ll never forget an experience I had a couple of years ago on Mahkeena Beach in Maui. I was swimming when a powerful rip tide grabbed me and started pulling me out to sea. In that moment, I felt a humbling powerlessness, a raw confrontation with the sheer might of nature. But it seemed the ocean wasn’t ready for me just yet. It eventually tossed me back onto the shore, exhausted and unable to stand, near my wife Sharon and my sister Pam. That experience is a potent reminder for me of the ocean’s immutable rhythm—its constant cycle of giving and taking. It’s a rhythm I’ve come to recognize not just in the water, but in the spiritual tides that shape our lives.

Over the course of my seventy years, I’ve watched countless people come and go from the shoreline of my existence. Like an incoming tide, the ocean of spirit brings new experiences, fresh adventures, and often, new friends who enrich our journey in ways we could never have predicted. Each arrival is a gift, a unique shell washed ashore that adds color and texture to the landscape of our lives. These are the seasons of fullness, of connection, when the heart feels replenished.

But just as surely as the tide comes in, it must also go out. With each retreat, beloved family members, cherished friends, and even those who challenged me have disappeared back into that great ocean of being, some never to be seen again in this form. This outgoing tide carries with it a profound sense of loss, leaving a quiet echo where vibrant life once was. It’s a painful but necessary part of the human condition—this cycle of meeting and parting, of presence and absence. We are left walking the beach, sometimes finding only the imprints of those who were once beside us.

This endless cycle isn’t cruel; it’s a cosmic necessity. It’s the breath of the universe, inhaling and exhaling. The tides teach us about attachment and release, compelling us to appreciate the present moment and the people who are in it with us. Each person is a temporary gift, a fellow traveler resting on the same shore for a brief interlude in the grand, timeless journey.

Today, I find myself filled with a deep gratitude for the spiritual tides that have brought each of you into my life or to my writing. I look around at the faces and souls currently sharing this temporary shoreline with me, and I am thankful. Our journeys have likely been difficult at times. You may have faced your own rip tides, moments where you felt pulled under by forces beyond your control. My hope for you is that your journey to this present moment has not left you exhausted and unable to stand, as I once was on that beach in Maui. May you find rest, renewal, and a sense of belonging here on this shared shore. Let’s appreciate this time together, because we know the tide will eventually turn. But until it does, let’s find strength in our shared presence, knowing we are all part of the ocean’s great, mysterious, and beautiful dance.

Grief as Alchemy and Connection

Grief is a byproduct of profound love. It bears the raw clarity of our most cherished bonds while underscoring the central truth of humanity’s transience. Mature grief differs qualitatively from the acute, overwhelming sorrow of youth. When we lose someone important to us as young adults, the grief often feels total and consuming. We have fewer reference points, less experience with the slow work of integration and healing. Each loss feels like the first, requiring us to learn the vocabulary of sorrow from scratch.

As losses accumulate, grief becomes more nuanced. We recognize its phases and patterns. We understand that it comes in waves rather than as a constant state. We learn that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, and that love persists beyond physical presence. Most importantly, we discover that carrying grief well requires developing new skills—not just of endurance, but of integration.

This accumulated grief creates a different relationship with the present moment. When we truly understand that everything we love is temporary, each interaction becomes more precious. The mundane conversations with spouses gain depth. Time spent with aging parents feels urgent and sacred. Even difficult relationships carry new possibilities when viewed through the lens of impermanence.

Grieving cultures worldwide have turned this pain into ritual, transmuting the intangibility of heartbreak into something sacredly tangible. Latin America’s Día de los Muertos reminds us that remembrance need not be somber; it blends joy with reflective nostalgia, asserting death as life’s companion rather than its opponent. The inner landscape of grief is perhaps its most profound teacher. Modern caregivers, trauma responders, and spiritual guides approach grief as witnessing without imposition. Presence—not answers—is the sacred balm. The role of guiding mourners isn’t counseling them out of their sorrow but allowing them to experience it fully as an alchemical process, trusting that grief contains the seeds of its eventual healing. Spiritual acceptance of mortality cultivates profound emotional growth, characterized by an openness to impermanence and a willingness to remain present amidst life’s losses.

Redefining Hope and Trust in the Face of Loss

The question of hope’s value in the face of accumulated loss strikes at the heart of what it means to live consciously. Traditional hope often relies on the assumption that things will improve, that suffering will end, that our efforts will be rewarded with positive outcomes. But what happens when experience teaches us that loss is inevitable and that many of our deepest hopes may never be fulfilled?

This is where hope must evolve from wishful thinking into something more sophisticated and resilient. Mature hope doesn’t deny the reality of loss or pretend that death isn’t coming. Instead, it finds meaning in the experience itself, regardless of outcomes. It hopes not for permanence but for presence, not for control but for grace in the face of uncertainty.

Trust, too, must be redefined. Rather than trusting that life will unfold according to our preferences, we learn to trust the process itself—the mysterious unfolding of existence that includes both creation and destruction, love and loss, beginnings and endings. This kind of trust requires a fundamental shift in perspective, from seeing ourselves as separate individuals trying to control our circumstances to recognizing ourselves as participants in something much larger and more complex.

This evolution in hope and trust enables a different kind of engagement with life. We can love fully while accepting impermanence. We can make plans while holding them lightly. We can grieve deeply while remaining open to joy. We can face uncertainty without being paralyzed by fear. The challenge of aging consciously lies in developing what we might call “spiritual presence”—a way of being that acknowledges reality fully while remaining open to transcendence. This differs dramatically from denial, which requires us to ignore difficult truths, and from fantasy, which asks us to believe in outcomes unsupported by evidence. Spiritual presence emerges from the recognition that our deepest identity transcends our physical form and temporary circumstances, cultivating an awareness of the mysterious dimension of existence that goes beyond what we can measure or control.

The Sacredness of the Ordinary

As death becomes more familiar, life reveals its sacred dimension more clearly. The ordinary moments—morning coffee, phone calls with friends, quiet evenings at home—are no longer just pleasant interludes between more important activities. They become the substance of existence itself, each one unrepeatable and precious. This shift in perception represents one of aging’s greatest gifts. Where youth often seeks intensity and novelty, maturity discovers richness in simplicity. A conversation with a longtime friend carries decades of shared history. A walk in the neighborhood reveals seasonal changes that young eyes might miss. Even solitude becomes a companion rather than something to be avoided.

The cultivation of presence becomes both a practice and a way of life. We learn to show up fully for whatever is happening, whether joyful or sorrowful, exciting or mundane. This presence doesn’t eliminate suffering, but it transforms our relationship to it. Pain becomes more bearable when we stop trying to escape it. Joy becomes more vivid when we stop trying to possess it. Simple activities—sharing a meal, watching a sunset, listening to music—can become doorways to transcendence. We begin to recognize that every moment contains infinite depth if we approach it with sufficient attention and openness.

Perhaps the greatest paradox of human existence is that meaning emerges most clearly when we accept meaninglessness as a possibility. When we stop demanding that life provide us with predetermined significance and instead remain open to discovering significance through lived experience, everything changes. The temporary nature of our existence doesn’t diminish its value—it creates its value. A song is beautiful precisely because it has a beginning, middle, and end. A flower’s brief blooming contains more poignancy than an artificial bloom that lasts forever. Our relationships carry depth and urgency because we know they won’t last indefinitely.

This acceptance doesn’t lead to despair but to a different kind of freedom. When we stop trying to make permanent what is inherently temporary, we can engage more fully with what is actually available to us: this moment, this breath, this opportunity to love and be loved. The wisdom that emerges from this acceptance is hard-won and deeply personal. It can’t be taught through lectures or learned from books alone. It develops through the patient accumulation of experiences, losses, and small revelations. It grows in the soil of uncertainty and is watered by tears both bitter and sweet.

Death, rather than being life’s enemy, reveals itself as life’s teacher. The fear of death often masks a fear of not having truly lived, and confronting mortality can catalyze a commitment to authentic existence. This doesn’t mean living recklessly. Instead, it means approaching each day with the awareness that it’s both ordinary and extraordinary, temporary and eternal. It means loving more boldly, speaking more truthfully, and paying attention more carefully to the miracle of consciousness itself.

The gateway metaphor is particularly apt because every experience of loss opens us to new dimensions of existence. Grief carves out spaces in the heart that can later be filled with compassion. As we stand at various gateways throughout our lives—some opening onto loss, others onto unexpected joy—we learn that the real art lies not in controlling what lies beyond but in approaching each threshold with courage, curiosity, and open hearts.

Your journey with mortality and meaning is uniquely your own, shaped by your particular losses, discoveries, and moments of grace. Yet it’s also universal, connecting you to every human being who has ever wondered about the purpose of temporary existence. Take time to reflect on how these ideas resonate with your personal journey and what steps you might take toward greater acceptance and spiritual presence in your own life. The conversation about mortality and meaning doesn’t end with this book—it continues in the laboratory of your daily existence, where every moment offers new opportunities for exploration of the spiritual galaxy, accompanied by grace, while living your life on infinite bandwidth.

Chapter 11:  Hattori Akiko Anderson (11/03/1942–05/21/2024).

Chapter 7: An Escort To The Unknown’s Threshold 

In the quiet, hallowed spaces where the known world bleeds into the great ineffable, we cease to be detached witnesses or medical observers; we become, by necessity, cartographers of the soul. My wife Sharon’s vocation as a hospice nurse was never solely defined by the clinical administration of morphine or the sterile adjustment of oxygen flows. These were but the physical rituals attending a far profounder event. Her work was, in its truest essence, a form of spiritual midwifery.

Those who stand watch at the precipice of the Great Mystery witness more than the cessation of biology. They watch the ego dissolve, the rigid structures of the self-softening to prepare for a final, migratory flight. Through the lives of those Sharon tended, she came to witness that the journey toward death is not a cessation of being, but a profound curriculum in surrender, forgiveness, and the miraculous architecture of the human spirit. In this quiet tapestry of existence, where life and death are but threads woven together by the same loom, there are stories that illuminate the profound mysteries of our final journey. What follows are echoes of these encounters—vignettes of courage, denial, and the unyielding spirit of those who taught Sharon, and me, the true art of living by showing us how to die.

Gloria: The Harmony of Transition

Consider Gloria. Her room had become a sanctuary, a liminal space suspended between the temporal demands of the body and the eternal pull of the spirit. Her husband, Merwyn, and daughter, Michele, stood as sentinels of a fierce, terrestrial love, yet they found themselves helpless against the encroaching silence. The medical directives had become a source of profound confusion; Merwyn wrestled with the logic of prescribing antibiotics to a woman who could no longer eat or drink, a woman whose body was rejecting the very sustenance of life. He was caught in the agonizing friction between fixing and allowing. He crushed pills into applesauce, a desperate sacrament of preservation, trying to coax them past Gloria’s tightly sealed lips. But she was signaling a different need.

It was the harpist who finally bridged the divide. As she plucked the strings, the air in the room shifted, vibrating with a resonance that felt less like music and more like a vehicle for transport. We often speak of the “struggle” against death, but Gloria taught about the harmony of transition. As the harpist played, weaving a tapestry of sound that seemed to mimic the celestial spheres, Gloria’s breathing—the Cheyne-Stokes rhythm that signals the body’s final labor—began to synchronize with the melody. It was a symbiotic dance. The music did not fight the silence; it carried it. With the final, shimmering chord, Gloria exhaled her last earth-bound breath. It was a masterclass in vibrational alignment; the soul, hearing a frequency it recognized, simply stepped out of the heavy garment of the body and followed the sound home. In that moment, the room was not empty; it was full of a haunting, inexplicably beautiful peace.

Melanie: The Pioneer’s Compass

This peace, however, is rarely won without a journey. Melanie, a woman of fierce intellect and spiritual hunger, viewed her dying not as a tragedy but as a “pioneer trip.” She was venturing into unmapped territory, and like any explorer, she sought markers. She refused intravenous fluids, understanding intuitively that to hydrate the body artificially was to anchor a ship that was trying to set sail. “I need a guide,” she told Sharon, her eyes scanning the horizon of her own mortality. She wasn’t asking for medical prognosis; she was asking for hermeneutics—she needed someone to help interpret the signs of the soul’s dismantling.

She constructed her own compass in the garden. There, amidst the untamed growth, she built an altar centered around a Peace Rose. This was not merely horticulture; it was a mandala of acceptance. The rose, unfolding in its slow, deliberate beauty, became her teacher. It did not resist the fading of the light; it did not mourn the falling of its petals. Melanie would sit for hours, absorbing the botanical wisdom of the cycle. In the architecture of that flower, she found the blueprint for her own release—a softening, an opening, and finally, a letting go of the center. She taught that the natural world is not just a backdrop for our lives but a mirror for our passing.

Mary: The Archaeology of the Bond

Yet, the roots that bind us to this earth are deep, tangled in the complex soil of family history. Mary’s journey was a study in the archaeology of the mother-daughter bond. Recovering from pneumonia after a third stroke, her relationship with her daughter Joan was fraught with the tension of control and the desperate, often clumsy, language of love. As Mary’s autonomy waned, and her ability to complete sentences fractured under the weight of neurological damage, she found solace in the sensory. The scent of Skin-So-Soft lotion became a Proustian trigger, a sensory artifact of a time when Mary was the architect of her own domain.

Her 87th birthday party was less a celebration of age and more a ritual of dissolution. She clutched a photograph of deceased family members, a visual anchor to the other side, speaking as if she were already gone. The room was thick with the unspoken, the air heavy with the weight of imminent departure. In these gatherings, the true theatre of the human condition is witnessed: the desperate need to be remembered clashing with the absolute necessity of leaving. Mary, frail and fading, held court one last time, her presence a fading signal fire. In the aftermath of the cake and the forced cheer, the silence that followed was the true goodbye. It was the realization that we do not own our parents; we only borrow them from the infinite, and the debt must eventually be paid.

Floyd: The Spiritual Ledger

This accounting of a life is a recurring theme in the final days. Floyd, a man of simple means but profound depth, wrestled with the ledger of his soul. He missed his wife and brother, the loneliness pressing in on him like a physical weight. He spoke of Green Stamps—those relics of a bygone commercial era where one collected tokens to redeem for a prize. “I’ve been pasting stamps in my book my whole life,” he mused. It was a startlingly lucid metaphor for the human endeavor. We spend our decades accumulating acts of service, moments of love, and sacrifices, pasting them into the books of our memory, hoping that at the end, they amount to something redeemable.

Floyd questioned the value of his book. Had he filled it? Was the merchandise of his life worth the cost? As he declined, his fear of becoming a burden grew, a shadow darkening his final days. It was only when he encountered the poem “The Story of a River” that his spiritual accounting shifted. The poem speaks of the river trembling with fear as it approaches the sea, looking back at the winding path it has carved. The river fears the extinction of its individuality, the loss of its banks. But the wisdom of the water is that it does not disappear into the ocean; it becomes the ocean. Floyd realized that his “Green Stamps” were not currency to buy an afterlife, but the very substance of the water he was contributing to the cosmic sea. His fear of the waterfall—the moment of death—transmuted into a surrender to the vastness. He stopped counting stamps and started trusting the current.

Tom: The Physics of Forgiveness

Regret, however, can be a dam in that river. Tom carried the heavy stones of past wrongdoings, his soul burdened by a history he could not rewrite. Yet, even in the winter of his life, he sought to plant seeds. His desire to create a “Garden of Hope and Forgiveness” was a profound act of spiritual agronomy. He sat outside, overlooking the freshly rototilled yard, sketching his vision. He knew he would likely not live to see the blooms, but the act of planting was the redemption.

He was tilling the soil of his own conscience, uprooting the weeds of guilt and sowing intentions of reconciliation. Even as his mind began to wander, speaking to parents long gone as if they were standing beside him, the garden remained his anchor. Tom taught that forgiveness is not a feeling; it is a physics. It requires action, displacement, and the creation of space where once there was only clutter. By shaping the earth, he was shaping his legacy, leaving behind a living testament that said, “I was broken, but I sought to mend.” It was a reminder that as long as there is breath, there is the potential for revision.

Helen: The Totem of Faith

For Helen, the struggle was not with the past, but with the terrifying fragility of the future her family would face without her. Her anxiety was a palpable static in the room, exacerbated by hallucinations where she believed the police were shooting at her—a manifestation of her internal siege. She found her ground in the “Angel Stone,” a small, smooth rock she named Carol. To the clinical eye, this was a coping mechanism. To the spiritual eye, it was a totem—a physical manifestation of the metaphysical support she craved.

She would rub the stone, wearing down its surface with the friction of her prayers, talking to “Carol” about her children and grandchildren. In a world stripping her of all agency, that stone was a solid point of contact with the divine. It represented the “great cloud of witnesses” that surrounds us. Helen showed that faith often needs a tactile handle. When the mind is clouded by the hypoxia of dying and the fog of fear, the hand needs something to hold—a rock, a cross, a hand—to tether the soul to trust.

David: The Secret Language of Loss

Families on the edge of loss often develop their own secret language, a lexicon of hope and fear. With David, a sixty-year-old man dying of pancreatic cancer, this language took the form of a code. He was ready to die, his body exhausted from its long battle, but he couldn’t speak the words directly. To do so felt like a betrayal of his family, who were still locked in the desperate struggle to keep him alive. So he spoke in metaphors, in riddles. “I’m ready to go on the big trip,” he’d say. Or, “It’s time to cash in my ticket.” His family heard the words, but they couldn’t decipher their meaning. They clung to the literal, speaking of future vacations, of winning the lottery, of anything but the final journey he was trying to announce.

Sharon’s role became that of a translator, a bridge between David’s coded language and his family’s loving but uncomprehending hearts. I sat with them, gently explaining that David’s “code” was his way of asking for permission to let go. He needed to know that they would be okay, that they could release him from his earthly struggle. It was a difficult, painful process. To accept his meaning was to accept his death. But with continued conversation, they began to understand. They saw that their desperate hope was becoming a burden to him, that their love was inadvertently holding him captive in a body that was failing.

The breakthrough came when his wife, her face streaked with tears, sat by his bedside and took his hand. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You can go on your trip now. We’ll be alright.” A visible wave of relief washed over David. The tension in his body eased. He had been heard. He had been understood. He had been released. He died that night, peacefully, with his family by his side. They had finally broken the code, and in doing so, they had given him the greatest gift of all: a peaceful end to a life lived in love. Sharon’s role here was that of a translator, a frequency tuner. She helped the family understand that David was not losing his mind but communicating from a different plane of consciousness. By helping them “break the code,” she enabled them to tune into his frequency, to hear his messages of love and farewell.

Steven: The Energetic Storm

Similarly, the story of Steven, agitated and confused by his lung cancer, demonstrates how anxiety and fear can scramble the signal. His distress was not just a symptom; it was an energetic storm disrupting his transition. His son Ray, guided by Sharon, became an active participant in calming this storm. The administration of medication was the physical tool, but the act of a son caring for his father, of love being transmitted through touch and presence, was the energetic balm. Sharon’s education of Steven’s daughters was equally crucial. By explaining the process, she demystified it, transforming their fear into understanding and compassion. They shifted from being frightened bystanders to active participants in creating a field of peace around their father.

Martin: The Life Force Regulator

The dying process is an intricate dance between letting go and holding on, a negotiation between the patient’s will and the body’s limitations. Martin, an 84-year-old with pancreatic cancer, refused pain medication because he equated it with surrender. His desire to remain active, to continue his “doing,” was his way of asserting his life force. To the external observer, his refusal might seem stubborn, but from an energetic perspective, he was trying to keep his life force flowing at its usual intensity. Sharon’s challenge was to help him understand that managing his pain was not about giving up but about conserving his energy for what truly mattered.

The morphine pump, in this context, was not a symbol of defeat but a tool for efficiency. It was a life force regulator, designed to smooth out the painful spikes and allow Martin to use his remaining energy more purposefully. His eventual acceptance of more help and the use of the pump was not a surrender, but a re-channeling of his energy from fighting pain to being present with his family. His death, surrounded by loved ones, was a conscious, managed release, not a collapse.

Lena: The Sacred Act of Connection

Lena was a woman of fierce determination, her spirit a bright flame refusing to be dimmed by the failing of her body. At seventy-two, with pulmonary fibrosis stealing her breath, she had been forced to move into an assisted living facility, a transition she resented with every fiber of her being. She fought against her decline, pushing herself to remain active, to be productive, to deny the limitations her disease was imposing. But fear was her constant shadow. The sensation of not being able to breathe, the relentless gasping for air, created a constant state of anxiety. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” she would pray, the words of the Serenity Prayer a lifeline in a sea of panic.

Sharon’s visits with Lena were a delicate dance between addressing her physical symptoms and tending to the needs of her spirit. She talked about Lena’s fears, giving them voice and shape, which in itself seemed to lessen their power. She spoke of her family, of the love that bound them together, a force far stronger than any disease. As her body weakened, her spirit’s needs came into sharper focus. There was an old wound that needed tending, a friendship that had fractured years ago, leaving a lingering sense of incompleteness. “I need to talk to her,” Lena told Sharon one afternoon, a new urgency in her voice. “I need to make things right.”

This became her last wish, a final piece of “heart work” she needed to complete before she could find peace. With her family’s help, Sharon located her former friend. The phone call was a torrent of tears, forgiveness, and remembered love. It was a closing of a circle, a healing of a long-held ache in her soul. With this final task accomplished, a profound shift occurred in Lena. The fear that had held her captive began to recede, replaced by a deep sense of peace. She had accepted the things she could not change. Her family gathered around her, their presence a constant, loving vigil. She died with their hands in hers, her breath finally still, her spirit serene and complete.

Bert: The Beauty in the Debris

In the midst of decay, life often finds the most exquisite ways to express itself. Bert, at seventy-three, with a heart that was failing him, was a testament to this truth. He was the “Flower Man,” a title he had earned through his unique artistry. From the detritus of modern life—plastic bottles, colorful packaging, discarded odds and ends—he created vibrant, intricate flowers, each one a small miracle of transformation. Bert was a stubborn man, fiercely independent and resistant to help. When I first began visiting him, he was guarded, his gruff exterior a shield against the vulnerability his illness forced upon him. But I saw the beauty in his hands, in the way he could turn trash into treasure, and I knew that this was the key to his heart.

Sharon didn’t push or prod. She simply sat with him, admiring his creations, asking about his process. Sharon brought him interesting pieces of plastic she had found, a small offering to his art. Slowly, a rapport grew between them. He began to trust her, to allow her into the world he had built for himself, a world filled with color and beauty, a defiant celebration of life in the shadow of death. As his heart weakened, his body grew frail. The time came when he could no longer live alone. He was transferred to an inpatient hospice facility, a move he initially fought but eventually accepted. Even there, surrounded by the quiet hum of medical equipment, he continued to create, his fingers, though weak, still finding the familiar rhythm of his craft. His room became a garden of plastic blossoms, a testament to a spirit that refused to be extinguished. When he died, he was surrounded by his flowers, a field of color that spoke of a life lived with creativity, generosity, and a profound, unconventional beauty.

Paula: The Victory of Spirit

Sometimes, the greatest obstacle to a peaceful death is the medical system itself, which is designed to sustain biological function at the expense of spiritual peace. Paula, ravaged by stage 4 ovarian cancer, was initially trapped in a hospital environment that viewed her dying as a failure of protocol. The surgeon’s ultimatum—”walk and eat” or face more problems—was a profound misunderstanding of the dying process. He was trying to jump-start a circuit that was designed to power down. Sharon intervened, recognizing that the hospital was a place of resistance, and facilitated Paula’s return home.

Once home, Paula’s spirit expanded to fill the space left by her receding health. The family arranged for a walk along the beach using a specialized wheelchair. Paula had many answered requests: the request for a peanut butter sandwich, the sailing of her remote-controlled boat—these were not denials of her condition but joyful affirmations of life, lived fully until the last moment. Her refusal of a particular medication, based on her own nursing experience, was an assertion of her autonomy, her right to control her own energy. Her choice to briefly go off hospice for one last round of chemotherapy was part of this navigation, a final exploration of possibility before accepting the inevitable.

Paula was not a patient; she was a participant in the grandeur of creation. Later, she shared her vision of heaven—walking onto a cloud to meet the divine. This was not a hallucination born of pharmacology; it was a spiritual sighting. Paula looked through the veil of her suffering and saw not darkness, but a continuation of the light she found at the water’s edge. Her gratitude for that final trip was a testament to the power of the present moment. She squeezed the juice from the last fruit of her life, refusing to let the shadow of death eclipse the brightness of the now. When she finally passed, surrounded by the echoes of a “Live Well, Laugh Often, Love Much” motto, it was a victory of the spirit over the institution.

Bea: The Sovereignty of Silence

The most profound existential questions often surface at the end of life. Bea, ninety-four and suffering from the weary cascade of chronic illness, articulated a sentiment society often finds uncomfortable: she was simply “done.” Her suffering was not primarily physical but existential—a soul-weariness, a recognition that her energetic contract with this plane was complete. She had signed a form refusing extra measures, yet the assisted living facility’s policy of mandatory 911 calls threatened to prolong a life she was ready to release.

The conflict highlights a fundamental clash between institutional protocols and individual sovereignty. The facility was programmed to preserve life at all costs, unable to compute the concept of a conscious, chosen death. Bea’s move to hospice was her final act of self-determination. By tapering her insulin, she was not committing suicide but removing the artificial props that forced her body to persist against its natural inclination. Her death three weeks later was not a failure of medicine, but the fulfillment of her deepest wish: a dignified exit. She taught us that honoring a soul’s frequency means listening to its signal, even—and perhaps especially—when it broadcasts a desire to go silent.

Jo and Myrtle: The Veils Thinning

Sometimes, the resistance to the threshold comes from the body’s own history of vitality. Jo, a Rose Festival Queen from sixty-five years prior, found the indignity of shortness of breath and swollen ankles to be a betrayal of her once-regal form. She stopped her medications, realizing that neither the pacemaker representative nor the hospice staff held the power to command death or prolong life indefinitely. She simply decided she was ready to go home, to the ultimate home, and in that decision, found her release.

Similarly, Myrtle, denied her final pleasures of gambling by a stroke, fought back with the only tools she had left. She scratched a nurse, a physical manifestation of her frustration, while hallucinating that her mother was right beside her. It was as if the veil between worlds had thinned to transparency; the mother she sought was more real to her than the nurse she fought. In her frothing and agitation, she was not merely dying; she was breaking through the membrane of this reality to reach the next.

Priscilla: Decoupling from the Avatar

Finally, we see Priscilla, a woman whose identity was intricately woven into the tapestry of her appearance—her perfectly coiffed hair, her memories of shopping at Macy’s, the phantom echoes of a Cadillac lifestyle. As her resources dwindled and her body failed, she clung to these external markers as if they were the coordinates of her selfhood. Her perfectly coiffed hair, maintained even as she slept sitting up to breathe, was a symbol of her enduring self. The conflict with her caregiver, Judy, regarding morphine was rooted in the fear of erasure. Judy worried that the medication would make Priscilla “sleep a lot more,” effectively deleting the vibrant, spunky friend she knew.

This is a common misunderstanding of the energetics of dying. As the body fails, it requires less metabolic fuel; the refusal of food is a natural shutting down, not a symptom to be fixed. Love and comfort become the more essential forms of nourishment. Sharon understood that the morphine was not an eraser, but a liberator—freeing Priscilla from the cage of pain so her spirit could rest. Even as she confused the past with the present, worrying for her cat “Baby,” Priscilla was navigating the difficult process of decoupling from the avatar she had spent a lifetime curating. Her request to remove her pain pump—”it takes up space and limits my breathing”—was a desire to shed the hardware of her suffering, to make room, physically and energetically, for the final expansion.

Tim: The Dress Rehearsal

Finally, we look to the subconscious, where the soul often does its heavy lifting. Tim, a man consumed by lung cancer, began to speak of dreams. He dreamt of a bright, enveloping light, and of the sensation of being dead—not with horror, but with a strange, detached curiosity. These were not nightmares; they were rehearsals. The psyche, in its infinite wisdom, was acclimating him to the temperature of the afterlife. Tim’s dreams were the dress rehearsal for the final performance. They stripped away the fear of the unknown by making it familiar. He was practicing his exit. It reinforced my belief that we are guided, even in our sleep, toward the exit door. The light he saw was not a biological trick of the dying brain, but the beacon of the destination, pulsing through the walls of his slumber.

Joan: The Fortress of Denial

Some souls approach the precipice of death with a fierce refusal to look down. Joan was one of them. At forty-four, with end-stage lung cancer, she had built a fortress of denial around herself, and it was my duty not to breach its walls, but to stand guard outside them. Sharon arrived at the home she shared with her partner, Susanne, to find the air charged with anxiety. A recent visit from Joan’s family had left a toxic residue. They had recounted, in gruesome detail, the death of another relative from the same disease, painting a landscape of horror that Joan was now forced to imagine as her own. Their visit, meant as an act of connection, had become an act of cruelty, fueling the very fears she was trying so desperately to keep at bay.

Joan’s body bore the signs of imminent death; her temples were sunken, a subtle but certain indicator that her time was short. But her mind refused to accept what her body already knew. To challenge her denial would have been to strip her of her only defense, to leave her naked and trembling before the abyss. Instead, my task was to honor it. I focused on her physical comfort, administering medication to quell the anxiety that fluttered in her chest and to ease the discomfort that was its constant companion. I spoke to her not of dying, but of rest, of comfort, of this present moment.

That evening, as Sharon was leaving, Joan made a strange request. “Please, can you have two hospice workers come tomorrow?” she asked, her voice thin. “I need someone to be here for Susanne.” It was a moment of profound, if indirect, acknowledgment. She could not speak of her own death, but she could plan for her partner’s grief. She was looking beyond the veil, even as she denied its existence. The next morning, before the two hospice workers could arrive, Joan died. She slipped away quietly, her denial intact until the very end. Her final wish, a testament to her love for Susanne, had been a way of saying goodbye without ever having to utter the word. In honoring her denial, we had allowed her a death that was not a confrontation with terror, but a gentle, peaceful release, on her own terms.

Stella: The Moving Train

Stella, a woman with lung cancer, was “actively dying,” the voice on the phone said. The phrase is a clinical one, a sterile attempt to box in the wild, unpredictable nature of life’s end. I was to admit her to hospice, a process that felt more like stepping onto a moving train than starting a journey from a quiet station. The disease, I knew, already had its foot on the pedal. I found Stella’s family huddled in the living room, a fortress of denial against the encroaching reality. Her husband, his face a mask of determined optimism, spoke of new treatments, of fighting, of anything but the truth that was rattling the very foundations of their home. Her son, a mirror of his father’s hope, echoed the same sentiments. They saw hospice not as a support system, but as a surrender, a white flag waved in a battle they were not ready to lose.

Sharon’s role was not to shatter their fragile shield but to gently peel back its layers. She explained that hospice was a co-pilot, not the grim reaper at the controls. Hospice would journey alongside them, managing symptoms, offering comfort, and navigating the turbulent emotional currents. The immediate crisis was Stella’s breathing—a ragged, desperate fight for air that terrified her family and exhausted her frail body. In Stella’s room, the air was thick with the labor of her lungs. I administered liquid morphine, a small act of mercy to ease the drowning sensation. As the medicine took hold, a fragile peace descended.

Stella’s deepest fear wasn’t about her own suffering, but about the unspoken words, the unresolved distances. Her daughter was out of town, a physical separation that amplified the emotional chasm. “I need to talk to her,” Stella whispered, her voice a mere thread of sound. I dialed the number, placing the phone to Stella’s ear. What followed was a conversation stripped of all pretense, a raw and beautiful exchange of love and farewell. Tears streamed down Stella’s face, but they were tears of release, not of despair. The daughter on the other end, her voice choked with sorrow, found the courage to say goodbye. It was a sacrament of words, a final, holy communion across the miles.

Having found her peace, Stella drifted into a deep sleep. The family, witnessing the calm that had settled over her, finally began to let go. Their denial softened into a tender, sorrowful acceptance. They kept vigil through the night, their presence a silent blanket of love. Stella died the next morning, her final journey embarked upon not in fear, but in the gentle embrace of her family’s love and the peace of a heart made whole. Death, in its own time, had arrived not as an enemy, but as a quiet, inevitable guest.

Beyond the Threshold

Sharon and I posit that every being has a unique energetic signature, a specific spectrum of frequencies at which their life force resonates. As death approaches, these frequencies begin to shift. Sometimes, this shift is met with resistance not from the dying, but from their loved ones. Sharon was the spiritual equivalent of an electrician at the edge of our known universe, ensuring a smooth and graceful transfer of power as one precious light goes out, and sacred human energy returns to the cosmic whole.

In witnessing these lives—these unique traversals of the ultimate threshold—I am left with a singular, resounding truth. Death is not a failure of genetics, lifestyle, or medicine. It is the final, crowning achievement of a life fully lived. It is a process as active, as demanding, and as sacred as birth. Whether through the vibration of a harp, the petals of a rose, the planting of a garden, or the rubbing of a stone, the human spirit finds its way. We are all rivers trembling before the sea, but as Floyd and the others taught Sharon, and now, myself, the ocean is not the end. It is the beginning of a wholeness we can only imagine.

Chapter 67: The Two Deaths: Spiritual Transformation and Mortal Acceptance

By now the reader has probably surmised that much of this book is about death, the death that a person on the spiritual path must undergo to move into enlightenment and its transcendence. This is the death that we actively facilitate and have every right to expect benefits from far beyond our present state of understanding. Yet we have another death to embrace, the death of our mortal existence. It would be a mistake to believe that there is no relationship between the two experiences.

The Two Deaths: Spiritual Transformation and Mortal Acceptance

Death, perhaps more than any other human experience, reveals the profound depths of our spiritual journey. Yet when we speak of death on the path to enlightenment, we encounter not one phenomenon but two distinct yet intimately connected experiences. The first is the death we consciously cultivate—the deliberate dissolution of the ego-bound self that opens the gateway to transcendent awareness. The second is the death that awaits us all—the cessation of our mortal form, which we must learn to embrace with the same courage we bring to spiritual transformation. These two deaths are not separate events occurring in isolation from one another. Rather, they form a profound dialogue that shapes the very essence of spiritual awakening. The mystics and sages throughout history have understood this relationship, recognizing that our approach to physical mortality profoundly influences our capacity for spiritual rebirth, just as our spiritual deaths prepare us for the ultimate transition. To walk the path of enlightenment without acknowledging this dual nature of death would be to attempt a journey with only half a map. Both experiences demand our full attention, our courageous embrace, and our willingness to venture beyond the familiar territories of ordinary consciousness. Spiritual death represents one of the most misunderstood aspects of the transformative journey. This is not the dramatic, once-and-for-all event that popular spirituality often portrays, but rather a nuanced process of conscious dissolution that unfolds across multiple dimensions of our being. When we speak of dying spiritually, we refer to the systematic dismantling of the psychological structures that have defined our sense of self. This includes the death of our attachment to personas, the dissolution of limiting beliefs, and the surrender of the ego’s desperate need to control and define reality according to its narrow parameters. The process begins with recognizing the constructed nature of our identity. Every story we tell ourselves about who we are, every role we inhabit, every belief system we cling to—these form the architecture of a self that must ultimately be transcended. This recognition alone can be profoundly disorienting, as it challenges the very foundation upon which we have built our sense of security and meaning. Yet this disorientation is not a sign that something has gone wrong; it is the natural result of consciousness beginning to see through its own illusions. As these structures begin to loosen their grip, we experience what many describe as a form of death—the death of everything we thought we were. Spiritual death demands that we release our attachment to the comfortable known and venture into territories of experience that cannot be mapped by the rational mind. This journey requires tremendous courage, for it asks us to surrender the very tools we have relied upon to navigate existence: our concepts, our judgments, our carefully constructed worldview. The benefits of this surrender extend far beyond our current capacity to comprehend them. We might glimpse moments of expanded awareness, experiences of unity consciousness, or profound states of peace and understanding. However, the full flowering of these benefits often remains hidden until we have completed more of the journey, trusting in the process even when we cannot see the destination clearly. While spiritual death unfolds through conscious choice and deliberate practice, our physical mortality presents us with a different kind of challenge. Here, we must learn to embrace what we cannot control—the inevitable dissolution of our bodily form and the end of our individual existence as we know it. This embrace is not about developing a morbid fascination with death or rushing toward our physical end. Rather, it involves cultivating a mature acceptance of mortality as an integral part of the human experience, recognizing that our relationship with death profoundly shapes how we live. Accepting our mortal nature brings its own form of wisdom. When we truly internalize the reality that our time here is limited, our priorities naturally shift toward what matters most deeply. The petty concerns that once consumed our attention lose their power, while authentic connection, meaningful contribution, and spiritual growth take on heightened significance. This acceptance also serves as a powerful catalyst for spiritual development. The knowledge that our current form is temporary can motivate us to seek what is eternal within ourselves. It encourages us to invest our energy in developing those aspects of consciousness that transcend physical existence. Our mortality becomes one of our greatest teachers, offering lessons that cannot be learned through any other means. It teaches us about impermanence, showing us that attachment to any temporary form or experience will ultimately bring suffering. It reveals the preciousness of each moment, encouraging us to approach life with greater presence and appreciation. Perhaps most importantly, contemplating our physical death can serve as a bridge to understanding spiritual death. Both involve letting go, both require courage, and both offer the possibility of transformation that extends beyond our ordinary understanding. The benefits that emerge from consciously engaging with both forms of death extend far beyond what our current level of understanding can fully grasp. This is not merely spiritual rhetoric but a recognition that the transformative potential of these experiences operates on levels of consciousness that may be largely inaccessible to our ordinary awareness. Even in the early stages of this work, practitioners often report significant shifts in their relationship to fear, anxiety, and the general suffering that comes from resistance to change. As we become more comfortable with the process of letting go—whether in meditation, contemplative practice, or simply in our daily response to life’s challenges—we develop a greater capacity for peace and equanimity. The practice of spiritual death also tends to increase our capacity for authentic compassion. When we have experienced the dissolution of our own ego boundaries, we naturally develop greater empathy for others who are struggling with their own forms of suffering and attachment. The deeper benefits unfold over longer periods and may not become apparent until we have undergone significant transformation. These might include access to expanded states of consciousness, a direct knowing of our essential nature beyond the personality, and an unshakeable peace that remains stable regardless of external circumstances. Some practitioners report experiences of consciousness that appear to transcend individual identity altogether—glimpses of what might be called cosmic consciousness or unity awareness. These experiences provide direct insight into the nature of reality beyond the dualistic framework of ordinary perception. Perhaps most significantly, the conscious practice of spiritual death serves as preparation for our eventual physical transition. By becoming familiar with the process of letting go, by developing comfort with the dissolution of familiar structures, we may find ourselves better equipped to navigate the ultimate letting go that physical death represents. This preparation is not about eliminating the natural human response to mortality but about approaching it with greater wisdom, acceptance, and perhaps even curiosity about what lies beyond the known. The relationship between spiritual and physical death reveals itself as we deepen our understanding of both processes. They are not parallel experiences but interwoven aspects of a single, larger transformation that encompasses the entirety of our existence. Our willingness to die spiritually—to release our attachment to limited identity and open to expanded consciousness—directly influences our capacity to approach physical death with grace and wisdom. Conversely, our honest reckoning with mortality can serve as a powerful motivator for spiritual transformation, encouraging us to seek what is eternal within the temporary. This union of both deaths points toward a fundamental truth about the nature of existence itself: that transformation and transcendence require a willingness to release what we have been in order to become what we are capable of being. Whether we are speaking of the death of the ego or the death of the body, the principle remains the same—true growth requires a form of dying. Understanding this relationship can transform our approach to both spiritual practice and daily living. We begin to see each moment of letting go as practice for the ultimate letting go, each small death as preparation for both spiritual awakening and physical transition. The path of enlightenment, viewed through this lens, becomes not an escape from the human condition but a full embrace of it—including its most challenging and mysterious aspects. We learn to welcome both forms of death not as enemies to be avoided but as teachers offering wisdom that cannot be found anywhere else. In this sacred union of spiritual transformation and mortal acceptance, we discover that the journey toward enlightenment is ultimately a journey toward a more complete understanding of what it means to be human. We find that transcendence does not require us to abandon our humanity but to embrace it so fully that we discover the divine essence that has always been at its core.

Understanding Our Universal Yet Deeply Personal Journey from Both an Earthly and Cosmic Perspective

Death presents itself as both a humbling truth and an unmatched enigma in the tapestry of human existence. It is the ultimate equalizer, an inevitable reality every soul will face, and yet it holds an intensely personal resonance for each individual. When we speak of death, we are drawn beyond mere mortality into realms of mystery, transcendence, and spiritual awakening. To encounter death is to confront the boundaries of human comprehension, as well as the infinite possibilities that might lie beyond. Each person approaches death within their own context of beliefs, culture, and spiritual frameworks. For some, it is a cessation, a final farewell to physical existence; for others, it is a cosmic transformation, a passage to realms beyond the visible. Both science and spirituality grapple with the liminal nature of death, revealing that it is not merely an “end” but a doorway into deeper dimensions of awareness. While grief often shrouds the moments following death, these moments also offer an invitation to ask greater questions. What is our place within the interwoven cosmos? How do we prepare for this passage when it arrives at our door? Each individual answer to these timeless questions is a testament to the human spirit’s capacity for hope and reflection. The mystery of death has stood at the heart of humanity’s most profound cultural and spiritual practices. Across eras and civilizations, there has always existed a yearning to understand and make peace with the transient nature of life. From the intricate carvings within Egypt’s pyramids to the Tibetan Book of the Dead, ancient traditions have sought to guide their people through the sacred transition of death. These historical frameworks convey a shared truth—that death exists not to be feared but to be recognized as an intrinsic part of life’s cyclical nature. Ancient traditions perceive death as both a completion and a doorway, an invitation to reconnect with the greater reality of existence beyond the self. Today, blended with emerging scientific insights, these traditions hint at greater continuities between life and death being part of a larger, interconnected whole. For contemporary seekers, near-death experiences remind us of the profound and often ineffable aspects of death. These accounts of tunnels bathed in light, sensations of boundless love, and encounters with cosmic energy disrupt purely materialistic paradigms of consciousness. They suggest, albeit subtly, that life itself may exist well beyond the edges of what the mind can grasp. Quantum theories of consciousness, while speculative, provide a fascinating scientific lens through which to view the infinite and eternal aspects of the universe. Concepts such as entanglement and energy conservation suggest that the essence of our being, much like energy, is not destroyed but transformed. Death, then, becomes less of a termination and more of a transition into an unfathomable vibrational state. Just as beliefs about death influence individual perspectives, so too do they shape collective cultural responses. Mediterranean cultures often express grief through vibrant displays of mourning, while in Japan, understated reverence governs gentle rituals honoring the deceased. Latin American traditions, particularly Día de los Muertos, blend joy and remembrance, presenting death as an integral part of life’s rich tapestry. Through these diverse traditions, one insight becomes increasingly undeniable. Regardless of culture, the act of mourning is deeply sacred. Grief functions as an alchemical process, transmuting sorrow into acceptance, remembrance, and even celebration. It connects the collective past with the immediate present, transcending temporal boundaries. For those who engage with death through the lens of spirituality, the experience often transforms into a profound cosmic dialogue.

• Buddhism approaches death through the lens of impermanence, teaching that attachment to the physical form creates suffering. Buddhist death rituals focus on helping the deceased transition peacefully while supporting survivors in accepting the temporary nature of all phenomena. Meditation practices, chanting, and careful attention to the dying process reflect beliefs about consciousness continuing beyond physical death.
• Hindu traditions view death as a natural transition in the soul’s eternal journey. Complex rituals ensure proper passage between incarnations while supporting family members through prescribed mourning periods. The emphasis on dharma—righteous living—provides framework for understanding death as part of a larger cosmic order.
• Christian responses to death center on resurrection hope and eternal life promises. Funeral liturgies celebrate victory over death while acknowledging grief’s legitimacy. Different Christian denominations vary in their specific practices, but most emphasize community support and faith in divine love’s ultimate triumph.
• Jewish traditions honor both the deceased and the mourners through structured grieving processes. The immediate response includes sitting shiva, a week-long period of intensive mourning when community members provide support and care. These traditions recognize grief as sacred work requiring time, community, and ritual structure.
• Islamic customs emphasize submission to Allah’s will while providing detailed guidance for burial procedures and mourning periods. The community’s role in supporting bereaved families reflects Islamic values of brotherhood and mutual care. Prayers for the deceased and charity given in their memory demonstrate ongoing connection beyond physical death.
• Pagan traditions, with their earth-based spirituality, often view death as return to the natural cycles from which life emerges. Seasonal celebrations and ancestor honoring practices maintain connection with those who have died while affirming life’s continuity through natural processes.

These philosophies, diverse as they seem, share a unifying resonance. Death is not a loss to be feared but a movement within the sacred rhythm of universal transformation. The concept of surrender becomes paramount in these practices; to relinquish attachment to the finite is to unveil an awareness of the infinite. When death arrives suddenly, our well-crafted illusions of control dissolve. Many find themselves grasping to process what often feels beyond its grasp. This is where presence becomes a sacred act. It is less about answers than it is about bearing witness to suffering with compassion, holding space for the rawness of grief, without judgment or haste. Trauma responders and spiritual counselors alike describe their work not as an imposition of beliefs, but as a practice of neutrality and availability. Allowing someone to grieve on their own terms, unburdened by societal prescriptions or well-meaning platitudes, is itself an act of sacred respect. Where there is grief, there is also the potential for profound transformation, should one be willing to process the experience fully. When sudden death strikes, traditional support systems often prove inadequate. Families find themselves overwhelmed not only by grief but by practical necessities—police investigations, medical examiner protocols, media attention, and countless decisions that must be made while in shock. This is where organizations like the Trauma Intervention Program provide crucial support through their non-faith-based approach to crisis intervention. The essence of trauma intervention lies not in providing answers but in offering presence. Volunteers arrive not as experts in grief or representatives of particular religious traditions, but as fellow human beings willing to witness and support during unimaginable moments. This presence-based approach recognizes that what survivors need most immediately is not theology or philosophy, but simple human connection. The practice of emotional first aid requires extraordinary sensitivity. Volunteers learn to listen with their hearts rather than their heads, validating emotional responses that might seem irrational to outside observers. A mother’s anger at the deceased child for “leaving” her, a spouse’s guilt over an argument that now can never be resolved, a parent’s desperate bargaining with God or the universe—all these responses are honored as natural expressions of profound loss. Professional crisis responders understand that their role is not to fix or explain, but to create safe space for authentic emotional expression. This requires setting aside personal beliefs and opinions, allowing survivors to process their experience through their own spiritual and cultural frameworks. The temptation to offer platitudes—”everything happens for a reason,” “they’re in a better place now,” “God needed another angel”—must be resisted in favor of simple acknowledgment: “This is incredibly painful,” “Your love for them is obvious,” “You don’t have to go through this alone.” Effective emotional first aid also involves practical protection. Grief can impair judgment and impulse control, leading survivors to make dangerous decisions. Preventing a parent from running into traffic at the accident scene, gently redirecting someone away from the location where their loved one drowned, ensuring that important decisions are postponed until support systems arrive—these interventions can prevent additional tragedies. The goal is never to stop or minimize grief, but to create conditions where it can unfold safely. This might involve helping arrange for children to be cared for, ensuring that medications are taken appropriately, or simply staying present until extended family members arrive to provide ongoing support. One of the most delicate aspects of trauma intervention involves honoring the spiritual significance of death while maintaining neutrality regarding specific beliefs. Death is inherently sacred—not necessarily in a religious sense, but in its profound importance to human experience. Acknowledging this sacredness without imposing particular interpretations requires great skill and sensitivity. This balance manifests in how volunteers speak about the deceased. Rather than avoiding mention of the person who died, effective responders acknowledge their importance to the survivors: “Tell me about him,” “She clearly meant everything to you,” “It’s obvious how much love you shared.” These statements honor the relationship without making assumptions about afterlife beliefs or divine plans. The transition from crisis response to family support marks a crucial phase in the immediate aftermath of sudden death. The volunteer’s role gradually shifts from primary support provider to bridge between the family and their own support networks. Success is measured not by how long the volunteer stays, but by how effectively they help activate the family’s natural support systems. The moment when the deceased is transported from the scene to the funeral home carries profound symbolic weight. For many families, this represents their final opportunity to be physically near their loved one before funeral preparations begin. Trauma intervention volunteers help families navigate this emotionally charged transition, ensuring they have whatever time they need while coordinating with medical and funeral home personnel. This phase often brings a shift in the family’s emotional state. The active crisis phase begins to end, replaced by the long journey of grief that lies ahead. Volunteers help prepare families for this transition, connecting them with appropriate resources while ensuring their immediate support network is firmly in place. Grief, in its rawest state, unveils the depths to which we’ve loved. The pain of separation is inseparable from the beauty of connection. Through storytelling, rituals, and the sharing of memories, we restore resonance to what feels like absence. It is through remembering that the ripples of a life well-lived extend into eternity, carried forward in the loving words and acts of those left behind. This alchemy of grief reflects the wider principle that love and loss are not opposites, but rather complementary expressions of the same eternal energy. To love deeply is to willingly hold space for loss, trusting in its ability to foster growth, wisdom, and renewal. Ultimately, death’s greatest teaching may be to draw us closer into the present. To live consciously day by day, to honor our connections and serve with open hearts, is to prepare ourselves for the inevitable transitions. When viewed through the lens of cosmic understanding, every breath becomes sacred, every moment an expression of divine resonance. Death whispers to us a truth many spend lifetimes avoiding—that the finite is beautiful precisely because of its impermanence. What lies beyond may remain a mystery, yet in facing it with courage, we enrich and elevate the lives we lead today. Death, as much as life, requires reverence and reflection. It invites us to step into the sacred mystery of existence, to honor its cycles, and to trust in the interconnectedness of all beings. Whether through spiritual practice, philosophical exploration, or profound acts of presence, our collective engagement with death becomes a universal conversation that transcends cultures, faiths, and epochs. “How will you serve in the limited moments of human breath?” The response lies not only in one’s preparation for death but in one’s capacity to live. It is by living fully, and loving unreservedly, that we meet death not as an end but as an eternal companion, carrying us forward into the vast, infinite unknown.

Chapter 60:  A Beacon in the Darkest Times: A Tribute to the Trauma Intervention Program

In a world that often feels like it’s spinning out of control, where traumatic events seem to be a constant fixture in the news cycle, the existence of a beacon of hope like the Trauma Intervention Program (TIP) is not just comforting—it’s essential. Founded in 1985 by Wayne Fortin in San Diego, California, and introduced to Portland, Oregon, in 1992 by June Vining, TIP embodies the essence of compassion, support, and healing. My journey of healing and rediscovery intertwines deeply with the principles and values this remarkable volunteer organization upholds, granting me a unique perspective on its undeniable impact.

The Trauma Intervention Program is not the option for trauma victims who are negatively responding to events from a distant past.  TIP’s unique approach is to offer immediate emotional first aid and pragmatic support to those ravaged by today’s traumatic events, giving a vital lifeline to those survivors. TIP is not just about the individual acts of kindness by its volunteers as contributors with the other first responders to life’s tragedies, like the police and fire departments, the EMTs’ ‘s, and the hospital employees.  This organization is also about a profound commitment to emotional healing and honoring the resilience of survivors in the face of their adversity.

At the heart of TIP are its volunteers who selflessly dedicate their time, energy, and empathy to assist those in despair. Their volunteers stand on the front lines, providing a shoulder to lean on when the unimaginable happens. This silent army of compassionate souls forms the backbone of TIP, embodying the purest form of altruism. Their readiness to be present, listen, and offer solace makes TIP’s work not just necessary but extraordinary. The volunteers’ ability to hold space for those in distress is a testament to the organization’s ethos—offering a glimmer of hope amidst sorrow.

One of my recurring observations, penned across years of self-reflection, writing, and observing our world is our culture’s pervasive aversion to confronting the sources of trauma within itself. This avoidance not only perpetuates unnecessary suffering but often exacerbates the trauma. TIP’s mission is a clarion call for a shift toward emotional awareness and healing. By fostering a culture that prioritizes these values, we can prevent countless instances of needless trauma and reduce the incidence of secondary injury trauma induced by untrained or unconscious responses to others’ adverse life experiences.

The inexorable truth is that trauma, in its myriad forms, will continue to be a part of the human experience. However, organizations like TIP offer a blueprint for compassion and resilience that can profoundly impact individuals and communities. It’s not enough to applaud their work from the sidelines; it requires a collective commitment to support and invest in programs that embody such critical missions, such as the Dougy Center, and other worthy services. In doing so, we aid those in immediate need and nurture a societal framework that values healing and recovery.

My connection to trauma and the eventual path to recovery began on a day etched in collective memory—January 28, 1986—the day the Challenger spaceship tragically exploded. That catastrophe mirrored my internal turmoil, leading me to a nadir where I attempted to take my own life. Thankfully, I survived, but the incident ushered me into a labyrinthine several-decade quest for truth and healing, revealing deep-seated wounds from my childhood. These scars, long embedded in my body and psyche, had sapped the very essence of joy and purpose from my existence. Because of traumatic wounding, all that I wanted for myself prior to my suicide attempt was “to get off of this fucking rock.”

Only through confronting and healing these wounds did I discover a newfound capacity to live in a healed and whole state while being more present for others, even those experiencing their darkest days. My evolution from a survivor of trauma to a volunteer reflects the transformative power of healing from traumatic wounding, and the substance of my story is not unique within the corps of TIP’s volunteers.

The Trauma Intervention Program is more than an organization; it’s a testament to the indomitable spirit of compassion that resides within each of us. My path from despair to healing, and eventually to serving others, mirrors the journey many volunteers and those they support undertake—a passage from darkness into light, guided by empathy and a shared resolve to heal. I urge communities everywhere to rally behind TIP and similar initiatives, recognizing their indispensable role in weaving the fabric of a more compassionate, resilient society. Our support for all initiatives to reduce suffering, be it through volunteering, advocacy, or funding, not only enhances or saves lives but also fortifies the collective soul of our communities.

On the most troubling day of my life, January 28, 1986, I had no one to listen to and meet me where I was, both emotionally and spiritually. I had an acquaintance who stood in the same pharmacy line as I was tell me that he had no time to listen to me and my problems.  I was there to pick up what was to be my “final prescription”. Had that acquaintance been able to listen and be present, I may have changed my mind about self-harm, but he could only turn away.  It is no wonder that our society often maintains a conspiracy of silence around the suffering of others, as many cannot deal with their own pain. Our culture and many of our citizens can be poor listeners, and it is no wonder that up to 95% of all trauma survivors have never developed a narrative around their losses nor could find anyone to share it with even if they did.

TIP, though not a suicide prevention service, is here to listen to those who lost family members or friends to death, for those whose rugs of love, safety, and security have been yanked out from under them. TIP offers short-term help to assist the survivor to regain a measure of control over their trauma destabilized life.

TIP is here for people having the worst day of their lives.

TIP listens, supports, and cares.

So can we.

Chapter 61:  The Transformative Power of Releasing My Attachments and Expectations

As I spiritually mature, I have found myself navigating a profound and often challenging personal transformation. Life has shown me the necessity of releasing my attachments to and expectations of family and even my friends, including the many who have already passed away.. This realization became more pronounced as I observed the known world—my known world—predominantly losing interest in forming new relationships with me or deepening existing family connections. Except for a few reciprocated relationships with my sister and two long-term male friends, my efforts to rekindle old bonds or make new ones, such as at my 50th high school class reunion or in my volunteer job, have come back empty.

I have experienced much of the same heartache and loss as anybody else my age through the loss of family  loving partners, and deep friendships, either through disease, death, or mutual disillusionment.  Most of my friends that were supposed to live until my funeral have long ago left, having found their own finish lines much too early.  Making new lasting friendships has always been important to me, yet I note that this intention lost much energy as I faced the last few years of my employment while also dedicating my life to the care of my increasingly disabled father and his rambunctious dog until their deaths in 2017.

However, In retirement I was guided to widen my social horizon and seek connections in unexpected places.  I was hoping that my writing would draw one or two interested readers into my circle, but that never happened, I had limited success with our athletic and book clubs, but these friendships rarely get beyond the lunch or dinner table, with our recently departed dear friend Akiko Anderson being one notable exception.. 

Traditional wisdom often emphasizes the importance of family and long-term friendships. While these relationships can be profoundly rewarding, they sometimes come with expectations and attachments that may not always be fulfilling. In my own life, expectations of renewed friendships at my high school reunion were met with silence, revealing a stark truth—sometimes, I need to release my attachments and expectations, and step out into a totally new world to find genuine connections.

Spiritual maturity involves understanding that our spiritual growth is not confined to the relationships I have known since childhood or adolescence. It requires me to open my heart to new experiences and people. For me, releasing my attachments meant acknowledging that most of my past relationships had run their course and that it was time to seek new connections that resonated with my current self.

Around our home we have much vegetation, a creek, and diverse wildlife. It is a microcosm of planet Earth itself.  My wife Sharon and I have spent countless hours observing the many species of birds,  including crows, hawks, ducks, owls and herons,  the squirrels, the coyote, deer, raccoon, otter, and even the wandering neighborhood cat.  Eventually we began feeding them, and noted that their populations increased, and they showed interest in us. The squirrels, ducks, crows,  chic-a-dees, and hummingbirds have adopted us, visit on our back deck, and show no fear.  We have an “outside” cat named Felix who visits daily, also probably encouraged by his feeding. We love our backyard world, yet we love and miss the multitudes of familiar faces from our younger years that populated our hearts and lives.

I have traveled much of the world in recent years, both with family and with tour groups.  There is always the excitement of visiting new places and meeting new people.  I am never disappointed.  Most other traveller’s we meet share in this wonderful energy of positive expectation and spiritual fulfillment.  Each trip I take, I meet several people who easily meet my qualifications for friendship and further sharing of adventures together, but all live in other states, and I have reconnected with a small percentage of fellow travelers.  Yet, these people are of my spirit, and deeply resonate with me.  They are also open to new friendships, unlike many of the older people who I often meet whose current family/friend community is already so sufficient to them that they have no need for me in their lives.

Finally, at 68 years of age, I joined the Trauma Intervention Program as a volunteer, where I formed some amazing connections with fellow volunteers and those experiencing great loss and trauma. This experience has underscored that spiritual growth often involves finding deep, meaningful connections beyond conventional social circles. The Trauma Intervention Program introduced me to individuals experiencing profound loss and trauma, and to loving souls willing to provide compassionate presence. These connections with the grieving are raw, real, and deeply human, offering a sense of purpose and fulfillment that I had not found in my previous social circles.

Volunteering has not only allowed me to support others but has also been a significant catalyst for my own personal growth. Engaging with people in their moments of vulnerability has taught me new ways of expressing empathy, patience, and resilience. It has shown me that by stepping out of my comfort zone and helping others, I can find a sense of belonging and purpose.

My personal history of childhood trauma and significant loss has uniquely positioned me to connect with others experiencing similar struggles. These experiences have given me the strength and understanding to offer genuine support and compassion. They have also guided me toward new, fulfilling connections and purposes in life, reinforcing the idea that our past, no matter how painful, can serve as a helpful advisor in our future in meaningful ways.

My spiritual growth has involved expanding my social horizons beyond the limitations of past friendships and family connections, or lack thereof.. I have no children to anchor me to each other’s hopes and expectations, and our grandchildren through Sharon’s children all live in far away places, geographically and emotionally, so we do not tightly orbit around their social planets.. By opening myself up to new experiences and people, I have discovered a broader, more inclusive sense of community. This expansion has been instrumental in my personal and spiritual development, teaching me that our connections are not limited by our past but are enriched by our willingness to explore the unknown.

The journey towards spiritual maturity often involves releasing attachments and expectations towards conventional social circles. It requires us to seek deep, meaningful connections in unexpected places and to support others in times of trauma and loss. Through volunteering and opening ourselves to new experiences, we can find a sense of purpose and fulfillment that transcends the limitations of our past.

Loneliness is a national disease right now.  Loneliness and isolation leads to poor health outcomes and loss of life’s meaning. If you find yourself at a crossroads as I did, questioning the depth and fulfillment of your current relationships, consider widening your social horizon. Join a volunteer organization, support those in need, and open your heart to the possibility of new connections. You may discover, as I have, that the most meaningful relationships are often found in the most unexpected places. 

They are not necessarily to be found in the places where we feel the most comfortable.

Together, we can learn and grow on this incredible spiritual journey.

.

“A man is rich, whose heart is light,

Whose pleasures are simple, and his joys in sight,

He finds delight, in nature’s gentle breeze,

And sunshine warms his soul, with effortless ease.

His wealth is measured, not in gold or might,

But in the beauty, of a peaceful night,

A walk in the woods, a book by the fire,

These are the treasures, that his heart desires.

He is the richest, who can find delight,

In the smallest pleasures, that life brings to sight,

A child’s laughter, a friend’s warm embrace,

These are the riches, that fill his heart with grace.

So let us not be fooled, by wealth’s disguise,

For true richness lies, in a heart that’s wise,

That finds joy in the simple things,

And treasures love, above all earthly rings.”