Hope and Poison

flower sidewalk

Feb 25, 2017

I had tea with a friend yesterday and he told me that the word “poison” was a word he had trouble with in my writing. I said, yes, it’s a hard word, a harsh word, but that I had used it consciously. The more I think about it though, the more depth I’ve encountered with it, and the consciousness I thought I had with the use of this word has been questioned and deepened.

Michael is being poisoned, and it’s a word we both use. It dissolves any sense of denial that we might have about what is happening, about the reality of this treatment he is undergoing. But as my friend said, it is also the poison that heals. And that is also the truth.

I’m not ungrateful for this treatment. Without it, Michael would be dead within the next several months. I’m also not ungrateful to the people who give us these treatments. They work hard and they are saving lives, and by and large, they are truly dedicated and caring.

But it’s such a primitive way of healing, this poison we consume. I remember going to an event at which Bill Moyers was present because he wanted to use the work for his series on healing. The presentation was about cancers and the way we heal them. The refrain of the song throughout the piece was “Cut, poison, burn!” and the woman who sang this piece performed it with anger and intensity.

It really struck me at the time, and it strikes me still. It’s all we’ve got, this cutting, poisoning, and burning our way through diseased bodies. This is the way Western medicine works right now, and we pay a high price for this healing.

Michael and I have spent most of our adult lives studying and using healing methods that are gentle and in alignment with nature. We have used alternative medicine as ancillary treatment for all kinds of illnesses, including cancer. We know of people who’ve chosen to pursue nothing but alternative treatment for cancer, and we know of several of those who have died. We also know the stories of those who have healed through diet, herbs, energy medicine, and meditation alone.

So we come to Michael’s treatment with a huge load of ambivalence. There are no alternative treatments for Amyloidosis so there doesn’t seem to be any way around our current path. But it’s hard. We believe so deeply in healing from that other realm, from the realm of energy and intention, from the realm of Spirit, that to subject ourselves to this system is difficult and disturbing.

And it does feel like a subjugation, a surrendering of ourselves, to a system that doesn’t understand us or our underlying ambivalence. How can it? It’s built around a method of treatment that gives little credence to diet or herbs or energy fields or any of the methods that we’ve seen work. It’s impersonal and lacks the individualized attention that is one of the hallmarks of alternative medicine. We are just a cog in a giant machine that at its base, cannot care for us in any other way. There are simply too many people to treat and too little time.

Now we’re starting to see the side effects of these “poisons that heal.” Michael is very tired, much more tired than he’s been before, and he can’t seem to sleep well enough to feel better. Even on the few nights when he does sleep well, it’s not enough to allay his underlying fatigue. His eyes look sick. They are red and swollen and they itch and bruise easily. His skin tears with the slightest rubbing against a harsh surface. He still can’t eat much of anything that doesn’t have a sauce around it, something to make it easy to chew and swallow.

In spite of this, Michael and I spend a fair amount of time every day meditating on health and healing. It is what we can do, what anyone can do, to help themselves heal. It brings the light of Spirit into a process that could lack that light without our conscious intentions. And it allows us to hope.

My friend reminded me of a quote from Meher Baba who exhorted his followers to “have hope,” and I found my ambivalence again. Though hope can be the perfect support for any endeavor, it can also bring an influx of desire and wanting with it. And when that kind of hope gets frustrated it leads to anger, fear, and despair.

So I’ve been careful in my hoping, and I think that is exactly what Meher Baba would have supported. As my friend writes to me today, “It is not ‘blind hope’ (like ‘blind faith’) or ‘grasping/craving hope’ that he is advocating, but a hope informed by the reality of grace and mercy.”

I do hope, we both hope, but we hope knowing that we have no control over the outcome of our hoping, that things may turn out very differently from what we hope. And knowing this, with full acceptance, we surrender to reality just as it is, over and over again, trusting that the larger plan of Spirit will bring us to exactly the place we are supposed to be.

Adjustment

Adjustment

February 13, 2017

Another Monday, another day of chemo. I’m finding myself absolutely astonished at how people adapt. Something that was initially horrifying has become routine. And though I know that the horror is still lurking just under the surface, we’ve come to accept Mondays as our “chemo day.”

There are “short chemo days” every other week, and “long chemo days” every other week. And then there are “really long chemo days” once a month. The short chemo days involve only two poisons, while the long ones involve 3 poisons that take longer because they have to be delivered sequentially in case Michael has some sort of adverse reaction to one of them. The really long days involve four poisons, and they are brutal. They last anywhere between 5-7 hours depending on how fast the pharmacy can deliver the drugs. It is agonizingly boring waiting and sitting in our cubicle while trying to entertain ourselves through what has become just another chemo day. The patient gets to sit in a comfortable reclining chair while the support person suffers in a hard-seated straight back chair. I take pillows and sit on the floor from time to time in order to get through these long days but even that is hard and uncomfortable. Still, I’m glad Michael gets a good chair. It’s bad enough for him without adding even more discomfort to these difficult days.

Today was a short day and we’ve become ridiculously grateful to leave the chemo unit in under 2 hours. And today, for the first time, Michael feels he can walk all the way from the chemo unit to the parking ramp with me. We walk slowly, very slowly for my usual gait, holding hands while I listen to him breathe heavily through his protective face mask.

But at least he can walk! In fact, we’ve made it around our block twice now in the past two days with this same slow pace while enjoying this oddly warm February weather. It’s the first time he’s walked outside in the past 5 months and it feels good for both of us to be able to do this. We even went to a movie yesterday, face mask in place, bacterial wipes in my purse, and off to the earliest 10am show in order to reduce exposure to other people. A simulation of normalcy that allows both of us to feel a bit more balanced, a bit more like the couple we used to be.

But the illusion of normalcy is inevitably interrupted by various realities. Michael’s eyes are being attacked by this illness. Sometimes there are huge dark bruises around them, sometimes they are an ugly swollen red and purple. Most of the time they itch and tears continually fall down his cheeks while his body tries to moisten eye tissue that is simply too dry. His skin is so thin that even a slight scrape becomes a bleeding leaky mess that requires layers of ointments and bandages for several weeks before it heals. Now he tires easily, has trouble eating, and of course he has lost his hair. We are learning to live with all of it.

I’m no longer sad all the time though sometimes I wonder where all the sadness went. Again, I suspect it’s hiding just under the surface of this new life we’re living, quietly nestled in beside the horror. Regardless, I’m amazed by the human capacity for adaptation. When faced with horror, even life-threatening horror, all of us try to adapt. We strive to live, we seek balance within the unbalanced, and somehow we make it work.

Sometimes I wonder how many more adjustments will be required of us, of him, and of me. Michael is more accepting since his enlightenment, and thank god for that. He still has his initial human reaction to things but then settles into acceptance and calm. I, on the other hand, must go through various whirlings of emotion and thought in order to accommodate this new reality. I am learning to adjust though the cost is often high in terms of the emotional turbulence that plays in the back of my mind.

This all puts me in mind of the Adjustment card in the Thoth tarot deck. It is the Justice card of most other tarot decks and they both speak of balance. But it is important to understand that it is a precarious balance requiring absolute stillness and concentration to maintain it. According to various interpretations of this card, the slightest distracting thought can destroy this balance, this adjustment.

Now I am excruciatingly aware of the thoughts that upset this balance and I find that any thoughts of the past or the future are dangerous, for both are filled with unreality.

The past often leads back to the good times — to vacations at the ocean or the mountains, to raising three good boys, to the adventure of creating a healing center together, to dancing with a partner who knew my every move, to a daily life that was generally kind and calm. The past is also a place of regret. For who among us doesn’t regret some of the choices we’ve made, some of the moments we’ve lost, some of the harsh words we’ve spoken?

The future is even more fraught and I’m learning to be suspicious of the inevitable expectations that arise. Looking ahead is either filled with hopes and fantasies about returning to a more golden time, or it is full of the darkness of deterioration, grief, loss, and death.

So now Adjustment is my newest teacher in this long process. She is a harsh mistress for she demands greater consciousness in every moment in order to maintain this still and balanced center. If I forget her lesson, I can suddenly find myself in anxiety, sorrow, or despair.

It is this constant dance of Adjustment between centeredness and uncenteredness which is the instruction here, and it is this constant effort that is the real work — the coming back to center again and again and again. Living in the present moment has never been a greater challenge and yet it is exactly this that every spiritual philosophy exhorts us to accomplish.

There is some kind of Adjustment, some kind of Justice, to be found in these gyrations. There is some kind of learning that only great harshness and suffering can teach. It is such a deep lesson, this learning to be present, and after the painful gyrations I return again to gratitude. For in this pain, I know I am being taught exactly what I need to learn.

The Talk

Heart sidewalk

January 17, 2017

This morning we had The Talk. We’ve had it once before right after Michael was diagnosed, but today we went further. It’s the talk that’s hard to have. It’s the talk about death and dying.

When we had the talk in six months ago we were lying in bed with Michael’s head on my shoulder while my tears covered the top of his bald spot. “What do you want done with your body?” I ask. “It’s immaterial,” he said, and we both chuckle at the pun. But he means it. It really isn’t important to him at all. “Burial? Cremation? Ashes scattered?” Really not important. “Memorial service?” Only if it helps the living, helps me, only if I want one.

Every answer is for me to do what is best for me because it really isn’t important to him. He knows he’ll be gone and he’s not afraid. He worries about me though, about what I’ll do. And all I can say is that I really don’t know, don’t know, don’t know.

In our hubris and our naiveté, we’d believed that we knew how our deaths would go down for us. We had a life reading with a Tibetan lama many years back and we were told that Michael would live to be 93, and I would live to be 87. We were at peace with this scenario. It seemed right and we could live with it. In fact, we believed it.

The idea has always been that Michael would be fine without me. He is a hermit at heart. He loves to read and study and learn and he can do it for hours on end and never be bored or lonely. He’s great at entertaining himself and for the most part, I’ve been the only person he’s needed to have around. He loves others, of course –his family, his son and his son’s family, my sons and their wives, a few close friends – but he’s never needed others around the way I have. He’d miss me, of course, but he’d read and write and teach and he’d be fine.

For years we could see this old couple we were becoming, loving each other for 50 years or so, my easy death, and eventually he would follow me with his own easy death six years later. Ha! It’s a great picture, isn’t it? This conceit, this fantasy, this idea that we have any control whatsoever over our fates.

Then today Michael says he is realizing again that he may actually die of this illness he has. Of course we’ve known this, but to truly know it and live it, is completely different. Like grief, these realizations seem to come in waves, and for whatever reason, another wave is washing us toward greater clarity now.

For the past several weeks I’d been re-reading these words I’ve written and just recently I found that at the end of Michael’s hospitalization the doctor had said that the light chain proteins in his blood would go down to zero in 4-6 weeks. It brought me up short. It’s now been more than 10 weeks and the light chain proteins are still around 300. They’ve been decreasing, which is good, but they’re not gone, and it is a potent reminder that this disease may not respond the way we thought it would, the way it was “supposed” to.

At this moment, when Michael realizes once again that he might actually die from this disease, I realize that I’ve been holding my breath for such a long time. I haven’t been speaking the words that I’ve been needing to speak. So finally I tell Michael I’ve been thinking the same thing, thinking that he could die, and he makes a joke of it (“Well, but that’s you.”). And we both laugh but tears are now streaming down my face.

We decide that we’re ready to ask our doctor for the real deal, the come-to-Jesus talk, the is-it-time-to-put-my-life-in-order talk. And in the process we discover that we’re ready to talk it over with each other again too.

So we start with my death. Michael says that if I die first, “which seems highly unlikely,” said as another joke, he would move to be near his son and his family. He’d be an old codger walking around and studying spiritual correspondence courses and spending endless hours online doing research and wise-cracking on Facebook. Of course he would “miss me forever.”

He expects that if he dies first, I would move to California to be near my sons. I don’t know what I’d do but for the first time I say, “What’s really happening is that I am getting ready to be a widow.” I’d been thinking this for weeks and finally I say it out loud to him. It feels hard and true.

Maybe I’d move eventually, maybe I wouldn’t, but then I said another thing that I didn’t know I would say. I tell Michael I would look for another partner. And he expects this, he knows this, he even wants this for me! No hurt feelings, no resentment, no recriminations – just the truth.

He knows I’m good at being a partner. I’m good at loving another human being closely and intimately. As a would-be astrologer he’s studied my chart, “You have so many planets in the 7th house, the house of partnerships and relationships. It’s one of the things that keeps you growing,” and he wants me to keep growing.

I know all of this about myself, of course, but to speak of it with such rawness was life-giving. Michael wants me to be happy, whether he is here or not, and again there are tears in my eyes as I write this.

We hug long and hard and I say, “But I’d rather it was with you,” and we hug even longer and hold each other as we both cry. And now the air is clear around us. There is peace and gentle kindness. I look at Michael and realize how precious he is, how amazing his deep soul is, and how grateful I am that we have been together in this life.

So today we turn to face the future with our great soft hearts wide open, knowing that whatever comes, is what should come — trusting that Spirit always brings exactly what is needed at exactly the right time. We have faith that what life gives us will be accepted with grace and courage. We mean to bless it all with gratitude and tears. And dear god, I believe we will.

Staying Strong

Beatrice

December 29, 2016

“Stay strong!” These are the last words my son says to me as he and his wife board their plane back to LA after their holiday visit with us.

“Stay strong,” and of course he is right but immediately the questions arise. Others have also used this phrase with me. It’s so easy to say, such a short and concise edict for behavior in the face of…. what? My husband’s illness and debilitation? The obvious loss of the life we once knew? The sometimes overwhelming physical, emotional, and mental tasks that this involves?

What does it really mean to stay strong? My husband is sick, really sick, and in chemotherapy for the next 10 months or longer. I have watched the effects of the last four months of hospitalization, a stem cell transplant, and massive doses of poison, and I think, what does being “strong” look like now?

Does being strong mean that you don’t cry? If that’s what it means, I’m failing miserably. I’ve cried and cried, usually just a few tears but sometimes by myself, I wail. I mean that literally – I wail! I wail with grief and stress and sadness and frustration and pain. And there’s really no way that I could do this otherwise. So I don’t believe that staying strong means not crying. In fact, just the opposite. If I wasn’t crying, I’d be going insane. I’d be suppressing very real emotions that must be expressed, that must find the light of truth, that must be loved and accepted for what they are – the simple and complicated sorrow of a loved one’s mortal illness.

My son is not comfortable with my tears and I don’t blame him. I mean, who really wants to see their mother cry? And I wonder if all the people who exhort me to stay strong are also uncomfortable with tears. Or is this exhortation something else?

I’ve been struck over and over by the “happy face” that people put on in the chemotherapy unit. It’s upbeat in a bizarre and shallow way. Can this be what is meant by staying strong?

People chat about little things, unimportant things – what they got for their birthday, what happened on their drive to the hospital, what their daughter said to their mother, the TV show they watched last night. So much talk about the inconsequential and the mundane. It is this happy talk that is the most disconcerting to both of us because it feels like a denial of the harsh reality we are facing.

Clearly it would be worse if everyone came into this unit complaining and focusing on the negative forces that surround us here. But surely this happy talk isn’t what is meant by staying strong.

Every now and then someone talks about the effects of the drugs they are ingesting, about how hard it is to sleep or eat, about how weak they feel. But this is said with a laugh and a smile, and is immediately countered with more laughter and a happily resigned statement of acceptance. “Oh well, it will be fine.”

Sometimes the chemotherapy effects are talked about with obvious depression and hopelessness. This is harder and is met with silence or negation. “It will get better. You’ll see. Just hang in there.” In either instance, the underlying message doesn’t get acknowledged. It’s just too hard for most of us to hear! We don’t know what to say in the face of this pain and suffering and so we slip into deflection and denial. We tell the sick person how good they are looking and we focus on the latest medical discoveries or the next holiday or who is coming to visit soon. We certainly don’t talk about dying.

Meanwhile, Michael and I sit in our chemo cubicle in relative silence. We meditate or read books or listen to podcasts. Anything to distract us from the reality of the poison that is entering Michael’s body. But really, is what we are doing any better than what these other people are doing? It’s different, yes, but we’re all just trying to get through something that is simply awful.

As I think about it, staying strong must mean continuing to face into the truth of what is happening to me, to my husband, to us. We’ve lost so much already and of course we are looking at the possibility of losing more. Clearly, things will never be the same again and our old life is gone.

But that’s true for all of us. Every moment of every day things are changing and our old lives are gone. Not all of us are facing into the truth of mortal illness, but all of us have our own truths to face. Certainly that must be part of what it means to stay strong – to face into all of the hard truths as deeply and clearly as possible, the hard truths of all of our feelings, all of our thoughts — and to face them with courage and love.

Michael made a card for me for Christmas around the theme of Dante and Beatrice saying that I am his Beatrice, journeying with him to Paradise. It ends with a quote: “Do not be afraid; Our fate cannot be taken from us; It is a gift!” And perhaps this is the strongest place for any of us to stand — squarely facing our fate and realizing over and over that it is a blessing and truly, it is a gift.

Chemotherapy Begins

chemo

November 14, 2016

I’m experiencing a cascade of images and emotions after our first full day of outpatient chemotherapy.

To start, we are directed to the “Infusion Therapy Center” for treatment. What a euphemism! It sounds like some luxurious spa with aromatherapy wafting through the air and quiet music playing in the background. Instead it is filled with people, all kinds of people, from the truly aged, to several prisoners, to people who look far too young to be enduring such an assault. And though the hospital has done everything they can to make chemo as pleasant as possible, it’s still a matter of poisoning bodies in order to save them. The place is packed!

Second, every appointment takes much longer than we think it’s going to take. Our one hour appointment stretches into over 4 hours today pushing several other things that need to be done into the busy afternoon. We aren’t prepared for this and we end up eating awful hospital food to fill the voids of stomach and heart that well up in such a place.

Michael also receives a new poison today, a drug called Cytoxan, and at least it has “toxin” in its name. It’s the only honestly named drug he’s gotten so far. We aren’t expecting this since we’d been told that it would come next week and that it would be on its own. Now it’s combined with the other chemo drugs and we are at the mercy of a system that changes rapidly and without explanation.

We ask for clarification and receive our new schedule for weekly chemo for the next year. I’m still wondering if the changes are due to the fact that Michael’s bone marrow aspiration from last week continues to show 3% abnormal cell activity. Though we’d been hoping for 0%, the doctor didn’t seem concerned. He said that Amyloidosis responds more slowly than other types of problems. Regardless, the initial regimen we were told about has changed and it leaves me wondering why.

It’s also weird the way the chemo drugs are delivered. There’s a check and double-check and triple-check system in place which is probably all to the good. But then, the nurse gowns up and puts on gloves and a mask just to hang the highly packaged drug on the IV stand. Michael makes a comment about how this could shake one’s confidence and the nurse says that as long as it goes into his vein and nowhere else, it’s fine. In other words, as long as the toxin doesn’t squirt out onto anyone else and stays in my dear husband’s veins, it’s fine because it’s only poisoning him.

We overhear an old woman being pushed in a wheelchair by an old man as they come to say goodbye to the nursing staff. She says, “Well, I’m 80 years old and my tumor has gotten bigger. I’m just not going to fight it anymore. I’ve fought the good fight and now I’m stopping.” Clearly, she is meaning that she has decided to die. The nurses really don’t know what to say and opt for soothing things, wishing her well, and avoiding any talk of death or dying.

It left me to ponder what one says when faced with a person who has decided to die? I wanted to say something like, “good for you.” If I knew her I would ask her how she’s feeling about her decision, but I don’t know her, and it would be odd. Her husband stands stoically by, uncomfortable and silent, while Michael and I sit nearby in our little cubicle struck by the stark honesty, boldness, and grace of her decision.

I’m finding that this aggressive language of cancer with its war-like metaphors has never sat comfortably in my soul. So, after the woman leaves, I ask Michael if he feels he is “fighting” for his life. Michael says that it doesn’t feel like it’s a battle to him. He’s making an “effort” but it’s more of a “passage between one stage and whatever comes next.” In other words, neither of us has an adequate way of talking about this process. It’s not a war, it’s something far more mysterious and unnamable. There’s an acceptance of the reality and an intention to live a longer life, but there’s also an acceptance that it simply might not work.

So here we are. Whether we say it directly or not, Michael is facing the possibility of his death, and he is unafraid. And, really, I hope I’m facing into the possibility of my own death. In fact, it’s not even a possibility for any of us. It’s an absolute certainty, and so often we don’t really speak this way. We allow our egos to avoid and temporize and deny, as if Michael may be dying, but we are not. It is such a human thing to do.

People visit and tell Michael how good he’s looking, and I suppose he is looking good for someone who’s being poisoned. But really, I look at him and it breaks my heart. His body is going through hell and I can see the hell in his eyes, his skin, and his wasted muscles.

And then I look at his spirit and it is strong and vibrant and filled with light. Perhaps this is the stark contrast that any awake person experiences as their body begins to die – the contrast of body and spirit – one in decline while the other reaches toward infinity.

The Storm

Screen Shot 2017-09-15 at 5.56.56 AM
8/05/2016

How do I describe a waking nightmare? How do I impart the full horror of a day that changed my life forever?

My husband, Michael, has been having strange symptoms for a couple of years and at my insistence, we have seen several doctors to get a diagnosis. Nothing has changed after biopsies, thyroid medication, and blood tests until our local internist sees suspicious results and refers us to the Mayo Clinic.

Luckily, my son who is a physician “happens” to be at Mayo doing research at the same time as we are there. He moves us through the maze of clinics and tests and sits with us through the endless waiting periods. He also knows how to talk the doctor talk and the physician in charge of Michael’s case becomes much more transparent and helpful once my son is in the room with us.

After three days of testing that includes a bone marrow aspiration, a fat pad biopsy, a cardiac consult, and blood and urine tests, Michael is diagnosed with Amyloidosis – a life-threatening illness that attacks the bone marrow and organs of the body. The doctor wants us back again next week for more testing in order to determine which organ systems are being affected. Today, at the end of our stay, he emphasizes the importance of a quick response which makes our local hospital’s slow appointment plan look inadequate and scary.

The doctor recommends a stem cell transplant and chemotherapy and we are made to understand how sick my husband will be after this transplant — literally at death’s door with no immune function and in strict isolation. We are told it will be 6-8 weeks of living in Rochester, Minnesota, with me trying to find a place to stay and paying around $6000 to do so – hundreds of miles from our support system and our home. It’s almost unimaginable. And yet, it looks like the best bet for a good outcome for Michael. I’m horror-stricken but I cannot cry. Michael does not cry either, but then he almost never cries. I am the one who expresses emotion in our relationship, but this emotion is simply too much.

We get into our car to drive home, both of us silent and thoughtful, in shock really, over what we now must face — not realizing yet that what we are facing is a complete change in every facet of our lives.

On the way home the sky darkens and turns the sickly ominous green color that signals tornadoes in the area. Soon we are driving in torrential rain — Biblical rain, a horrible cacophony of lightning and thunder, and water pouring from the sky so densely that it forces us to stop the car three separate times because we cannot see to go on.

My other son calls wanting to know what we found out at the hospital. He begins to cry when he hears the news and finally, I can cry while Michael drives cautiously through the ever-deepening storm. I look up from the phone call and find we are on a highway that we’ve never been on before, and we are lost – literally lost in the storm. Michael missed our turn while I was on the phone back in the little town we passed a half hour earlier and we are going the wrong way. Now we backtrack and a bleak long trip becomes even longer as we drive through the furious gloom.

We stop to rest a few minutes in the little town hoping that the rain will ease up. We’re hungry and tired but the only restaurant that is open is the Dairy Queen and neither of us can face it. The weather map looks like we haven’t even hit the center of the storm yet and in fact, that center is following our path down the road toward home. We decide to go on hoping we can outrun it.

Finally, we are on the right road but just as we leave town we get an emergency call from our local doctor saying that they found something wrong with Michael’s heart. She insists that Michael must pull the car over to the side of the road immediately! He is to stop driving because he could go into cardiac arrest “at any minute without warning.” Michael has always been the driver in our relationship preferring to be the one in charge of our vehicle while I’ve been content to ride along, enjoying the scenery. Apparently, this will no longer be the pattern and it looks like I won’t be enjoying the scenery as much as I used to.

So now I am in the driver’s seat in the horrible storm, not able to see more than a few feet in front of us, terrified that my husband might die on our way home. “This is a nightmare!” I say. He agrees and offers assurance that his heart is fine. But we both know that his assurances are pale and meaningless.

The sun is going down and soon I am navigating on the interstate in complete darkness – the only guidance coming from the lightning and the other travelers’ tail lights as we move cautiously through the raw chaotic power that surrounds us. Trucks thunder by, leaving our windshield drenched and opaque, leaving me literally driving blind. It’s as if the very atmosphere is echoing our journey into unknown and frightening territory. I am half hysterical as we finally come within 30 miles of home. My whole being tightens to steer us through the remaining terror of this night.

In spite of this, I speak calmly the words that I feel must be said, “Some part of you is really playing with death right now. We have to face this.” Michael pauses for a long moment and says, “You have to die to get a rebirth.” Of course this is true. It is even a truism within the metaphorical language that guides my understanding. But death and rebirth can happen at many levels, from the mundane to the profound.

If this is the death before the rebirth, it is a harrowing death, as perhaps many deaths are. But the rebirth could be into a new and healthier life, a new and healthier relationship. And just as possible, it could be Michael’s journey into the final letting go of his sick and burdened body. We don’t know and we cannot know. Finally, we reach home and magically the rain stops and the dazzling clear light of stars appears overhead. We are both grateful and heavy-hearted — knowing that for now, the storm is over.

Michael and me – Enlightenment on the Path of Grief

Fourteen months ago my husband, Michael, was diagnosed with a serious mortal illness. Four months before that, he attained enlightenment. Neither of us believes that this was an accident and we have found that his insights have greatly affected our “path of grief” on this journey through illness.

Six months ago, I was also graced with further experiences of enlightened consciousness. I am certainly realizing that this is an ongoing journey, and none of us are ever “done” on our paths toward awakening. But since that time of greater awareness, I have been receiving strong messages that I am to write the story of our path in order that others may be helped on their own journeys through spiritual development, grief, illness, dying, and death.

I started sending out emails to friends and family about our experiences and received many encouragements to publish these writings in a larger format. This is my first attempt at doing so.

May you be blessed and supported in your own healing journey as you read these words.

With love,

Candida

enlightenment pic

What is Enlightenment?

When we speak of enlightenment, the question arises as to what it is that gets enlightened? It is certainly not your body. Your body can still become ill, can still suffer, and will definitely die someday – and since enlightenment is a permanent state of Being, it cannot be your body that gets enlightened.

It is also not your emotions that become enlightened. Though your emotions may move through you more easily, and may no longer catch you in endless rounds of feeling, the emotions still come and go, and are therefore impermanent. It cannot be your emotions that get enlightened.

Finally, it is not your mind that gets enlightened. Enlightenment literally can’t be what you think it is because your thoughts are coming from your mind. And even if your mind is very subtle, and very smart, it cannot possibly know what enlightenment is. No matter how hard you try, and no matter how high the thoughts you think, it cannot be your mind that gets enlightened.

So what does get enlightened? The thing, if it can be called a “thing,” that gets enlightened is your Essence — the most essential part of your Being. And even this is not accurate. For this essence is already enlightened, always has been enlightened, and always will be enlightened. Enlightenment is the full realization of your essential nature.

Adya