I’ve been trying my hand at poetry in a naive effort to express myself and launch a new hobby. Somewhere I have to find the intersection of passion and ability. That is likely where my comfort zone will be, but as this has only been a six week experiment, I am willing to keep stretching and seeking. As such, I thought some personal commentary might be a welcome break from the poetic efforts.

I moderated a discussion, at the salon the other day, among the stylists in the dispensary. They tend to look to me for answers because I am the oldest but also because I have convinced them over the years that I know everything. LOL

The discussion turned to death and faith and matters involving both. It is the one thing that all living things have in common. The expiration of our life force. How it is viewed, how you prepare, what happens afterward are issues that vary because of cultural, spiritual and religious differences.

I have my own beliefs, shaped as much by my background and experiences. And while not all the evidence is in, faith, after all is believing in something even when evidence isn’t available, I have had my share of experiences that support my belief. I have held dying animals at the exact point of death and felt their life force leave their body.  It is an eerie but unmistakble feeling.

My Grandfather was bedridden at the end of his life. He was an extremely spiritual man who believed in God and tithed like clock work, even during the hard times of the depression. Shortly before he passed away, he was unable to speak, sit up, or raise his arms. He just lay there comatose and breathing. At the appointed time of his departure, he sat straight up in his bed, raised his arms heavenward and with a joyous, serene expression on his face said ’He’s coming’. He then lay back down and took his last breath and was gone.

My own father was a staunch agnostic. After years of my trying to convince him that there is a greater power and connectivity to the universe, I accepted that he enjoyed his position. I kept vigil in his hospice room the night he passed away. I sat all night at his bedside until about 6:30 the next morning. After a night of non-responsiveness and shallow ragged breathing, I realized his time had come. Cradled in my arms, his breathing became urgent and he opened his eyes and looked right into mine. Except, it was like he was looking through me as if I wasn’t even there. Staring off into the ethereal abyss. And then the most disturbing look of fear came over him as he continued to stare through me. It was a morbid fright that he was experiencing. Then he breathed one last heavy breath and died in my arms. I wouldn’t have been anywhere else at that time for my dad, but it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I never told my brother or sisters about it, other than that he passed away peacefully. In fact I’ve never spoken of it in the last several years until the discussion at the Salon.

It was interesting to contrast the two departures. One of utter joy the other of morbid fear. I’m not sure what it all means. I have my suspicions.  I have my beliefs.  I add it to the body of evidence I have collected in a lifetime and invest it into my faith. To be sure we all share a common bond of mortality. Given, that I’m not guaranteed my next breath, I choose to not dwell on when that will occur, but rather living what life I have left to the fullest and most rewarding extent. Staying in the moment, living for the day. I try to be aware of the wake I leave behind me as I pass through life. There’s always a wake. It’s up to each of us whether it is one of destruction or one of love and encouragement. I choose the latter!

Peace