Life Is But A Moment

A dear friend of mine sent this to me today -

Bubbles
by Carl Sandburg

Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves.
They flickered out saying:
"It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds."

How precious is it that we have those we love for the time we have them.

How precious it is that we have our memories that we made together.

How precious is it that we will forever hold those we love in our hearts,

our minds, and the very fiber and essence of our being - through eternity.

I talked with a friend tonight who is undergoing chemo-therapy for ovarian cancer.

She told me that she really wants to stick around, that she wants to stay here - in her body.

I told her that I would like that very much.

It's quite something when we have death in our face; whether it takes someone we love

into the formless, or it stands before us to remind us of our immortality and how much life means to us.

We are so fragile. Our life is so delicate; our breath, our perception - the things we so easily take for grated.

When I remember to touch the moment with my awareness, time slows down and life becomes vivid; it speaks to me, and I listen.

The Real Game is Magic

Four weeks after my son's death, I found myself on the island of Kauai with my dear friend Mims. Spencer died on Thanksgiving weekend, and it was now one month later and New Years eve. How I had gotten there was a blur to me. But, Mims was taking care of me, and that was all I needed to know.

There was a party happening at Stephen and Susan's house, close friends of Mims. I didn't want to go. Mims insisted and the next thing I knew I was in the car. I remember driving along the north shore of the island, wondering how I was going to survive being around all those people. All I wanted was to die.

Everyone was so happy, and they were celebrating being together. I felt odd, and I felt very much alone. I felt like a ghost walking around. I was desperately uncomfortable. Inside, I was experiencing sheer terror, "How am I going to survive this; the party, life..."

My kids and I had always engaged in a lot of physical activities; and ping pong was one of them. Spencer and his brother Jon were excellent players, and there was a table on my patio that got a lot of game playing time. I could play with them, but there was nothing spectacular about my ping pong playing. Spencer on the other hand was absolutely masterful at the game.

So, here I am now at a party with a whole lot of people I've never seen before, I'm wishing I were dead, and I'm walking around like I already was. As I was wandering aimlessly through the party hand-in-hand with my discomfort, I was walking by the ping pong table where a group of guys were playing. Suddenly, one of them grabs my hand and puts a paddle in it and tells me to play the guy at the other side of the table. "Are you kidding me", I'm thinking to myself. "I can barely put one foot in front of the other right now." I tried to hand the paddle back as I silently acknowledged the look of horror on my potential opponent's face. Whoever this man was who was setting me up for a living nightmare simply insisted that this was my fate. And the man at the other side of the table politely agreed, even though I could see in his expression he thought he'd been assigned to hell. Keep in mind that I looked like the walking dead.

So, here we go; he serves the ball, and oddly enough, I return it to him. Suddenly my body just comes to life and starts playing - playing really well. I'm slamming the ball, hitting it off the edge of the table, spinning the ball, and making my opponent look really bad. "One point and I'm going to win" I think. My feminine nature whispers in my ear, "Let him win, he's a man". Then, bam! I slam the ball and win the game. The men started lining up at the table. I'm wondering what is going on. I keep apologizing, "I don't know what's happening. I don't really play ping pong like this." Blah, blah, blah. Inside, I'm freaking out. I just want to get out of there, but they keep lining up. I won nine games in a row -- and then.... I realized what was happening.

I realized that it was Spencer. He was playing ping pong -- through me, and in the moment that I realized that, I felt his smile completely fill my body. I felt my whole being fill with joy. And do you know what? Suddnely, I could no longer play. I went back to playing my way. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and I was immediately defeated. Those guys just looked at me with huge question marks on their faces. They could not understand why I was so hot on the table, then suddenly, it was like I could barely hit the ball.

I just smiled, laid down my paddle, said "thank you", and walked away. I went and sat under the beautiful stars, and drank in the experience of being loved from my not-so far-away beloved son.

Speak Their Names

Today is July 3, and it's Spencer's birthday - at least it was when he had a body. So, for me, it will always be his birthday - the day I gave birth to him. The day a most magnificent being emerged from my little body into this big world.

Spencer was born in a hospital in Torrance, California. I had been in labor for thirty-six extremely long hours when he finally made his debut appearance. I was more than ready to see my little guy; the little one that I had been carrying around with me, talking to, singing to, wondering about. Finally, the moment had come, the miracle had taken place, and he was here.

A nurse quickly brought him up and held him before me so that I could see him. She held him before me at eye level. When I looked into Spencer's eyes, I saw something I had never seen before. I saw my self.  I saw my soul. I saw someone looking at me from a place of knowing and wisdom, and it reflected back to me the fact that I didn't not have a clue who I was. I had just turned 21 years old, and my self-awareness in that moment, turned of age. It was the most profound moment of my entire life. And as time would go on, this little guy with the most amazing endless green eyes, would prove to me my spiritual teacher, my little dude, and my glorious son. 

One of the more difficult things that has happened in the wake of Spencer's death is the absence of his name. People don't speak his name. They don't bring up his name because they are afraid that it will make me sad. I'm already sad. I will be sad for the rest of my life. This sadness that I know within me is a form of love. It walks hand-in-hand with my happiness -- everywhere I go, every minute of my day and night. And, I am okay with that because it is what I have been given to live with. It is part of who I am now. It's not bad. It simply is. It is sacred; sacred sadness. It's quiet, and soft, and it lives in its own special place within my heart. When it is touched, tears form and fill my eyes. The tears are not bad. They are a form of love. Love has many forms, and we know them all because we are alive. It's our judgement that distorts our experiences.

It is ever so important to those who have lost a child, or a husband, wife, mom, dad, brother, sister, friend, or pet, to hear the names of their loved one spoken. When we stop talking about them, it's as if they never existed in the first place. So, my gift to all of us on my Spencer's birthday, is to remind us to continue to speak their names, because "...they are still here, there's nowhere to go..."