A Visit from the Other Side

Dragonflies were Linda’s totem animal. They would often fly up to her and hover in front of her, or land on her hand and remain still while she spoke softly to them. Linda could sit by the pond for hours watching a new dragonfly hatch on a water lily. Dragonflies, those ancient creatures of the wind, were a symbol of love and freedom for her.

Today I was walking across the living room when I noticed something on the floor. To my surprise, I saw that it was a large dragonfly and it was injured. Its abdomen (the elongated part of its body) had been crushed and it couldn’t fly. As I gently picked it up, I noticed that it was lying just a few feet away from the exact point where Linda left her body. To my shock, I realized that it was six weeks ago today that Linda died.

I carried it out to the pond and placed it in a spot where I hoped it would heal and fly off. As I looked at it more closely, I was stunning by its beauty. It had two sets of transparent wings at least five inches across. The central part of its thorax was a rich emerald green, tapering off to a luminescent metallic blue tip. It moved about on its three pairs of legs, but was clearly too weak to fly. I prayed for its healing and left it in its natural setting.

When I checked on it a few hours later, it was dead. It was 2:00 PM, almost exactly the time of Linda’s death.

Of course, it could have been a random dragonfly that just happened to fly into the living room and land on the floor injured, but what are the chances of that? I feel that it was Linda letting me know that she is watching out over me, and that she is always and ever present for me.

I’m sure she’s happy to know how well I’m doing, even though I miss her terribly. On Saturday mornings I’ve been swimming a mile down Baldwin Beach with my swimming buddies. Last Sunday I did stand-up paddling for the first time and loved it. I joined Upcountry Fitness, a local gym in Haiku, where I’ve been doing yoga and Qi Gong. I also spend time with friends, go for hikes with the boys, and write every day. Most importantly, I make sure to have quiet time alone every day. It feels like my life is rich and full.

Every so often I get hit by something out of the blue, like finding a blond hair stuck to a clothespin when I’m hanging out the laundry. Yesterday I was balancing the checkbook and came across a check Linda had written on the last day she was alive. Today I found a birthday card that I had written on August 3: To my dearest love, A celebration of another year together and the magical angels that brought you into my life. I hold the vision of us sitting on the lanai, both in indescribable peace. What joy and love you have brought into my life. I’ll love you forever . . 

.

I let the feelings move through, and then I remember that Linda is free of her form, just like the dragonfly, soaring through the air, sending me love and joy from the formless.

  

Linda's Gift

They say that I am dying but I am not going away. Where could I go? I am here.

                                                                                                            Ramana Maharshi

It’s a beautiful Maui day. I’m near the end of a long hike in Makawao Forest with my two dogs, enjoying the sweet smell of the eucalyptus trees, the soft air, and the distant view of the ocean. I’m relaxed and at peace. Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks, hit by a stunning realization. A few hours earlier I was weeping uncontrollably as I wrote about the death of my wife Linda. What’s the difference between then and now?

As I wrote about the trauma of her sudden death just three weeks ago, my emotions were raw. I had lost my love of twenty years. We had spent almost every hour of every day together and couldn’t bear to be apart from each other. Even through her long illness, our love was fresh in every moment. Now there would be no more times of sitting on the couch, laughing over some TV program we were watching, no more hugs when she got up in the morning, no more happy times of petting the dogs together. I cry my heart out, wailing, sobbing, and soaking up a dozen Kleenexes. I feel like I am being torn to shreds. Her physical form is gone forever, and an enormous chasm separates us. This is the story I tell myself, and I realize, this is suffering.

And now, walking in the woods with the dogs, I am totally joyous. My mind is quiet and free of thoughts. All there is is pure awareness, and in that place Linda is right here with me. How could she not be? It’s as if she is seeing through my eyes, hearing through my ears, smelling through my nose. There is no separation between us, because who “Linda” is (and who all of us are), is Spirit, Source, or God.   

This morning, writing about Linda, I was totally identified with the story of her being dead and that I’ll never see her again, which on one level is true. But it is also a “story” created by my thoughts. Do I want to stay in that story and go on suffering, or do I choose to bring my attention to this moment right here, right now? Breath in, breath out. This is all there is. This is it.   

There’s nothing wrong with having a “story” about Linda dying; in fact I celebrate letting the grief come up and move through. I only have a problem if I cling on to the story or indulge in it. That’s when there is unnecessary suffering. I have a choice—I can continue to feel abandoned and alone, or I can relax into unconditional awareness, knowing that this “Linda” is right here. All that keeps me from this joy is my thoughts. As Byron Katie so wisely says, “I am the cause of my own suffering—but only all of it.”

Wow. After the terrible trauma of abandonment when my mother died when I was twelve, and then my first wife Fran dying twenty years ago—and now once again experiencing loss—I’m finally seeing that the end of the physical body does not mean annihilation and separation. In fact, Linda is more present to me now then she was during the many days she was in terrible pain. And so is my mother, Fran . . . and everyone else I have ever loved.

What stopped me in the forest was the stunning recognition that I have been given an incredible gift. I know that what I came into this life to work out is my core issue of abandonment—and until this very moment, it had eluded me. 

This is Linda’s gift to me. What a gift.

Imagine Peace

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not so sure about the former. Albert Einstein

Sebastian Junger’s new book entitled War, tells of his experience embedded with troops in a remote part of Afghanistan for 14 months. Junger, who wrote The Perfect Storm, presents a vivid picture of how today’s combat soldiers see the world. He writes about the “high” of combat and how 19 to 24 year-old soldiers become hooked on it (anyone over 27 is an old geezer). After a time, they don’t want to come back to the “real” world. Maybe it’s war fever or the times we live in, but there are a slew of new movies (The Hurt Locker), television series (The Pacific), and books (War and Matterhorn) portraying men’s lust for combat.

Never having been in a war (hey, I’m a Canadian!), I have a fascination for all things about war, whether it’s old films on the Battle of Britain (I’m sure I had a past life as a pilot in the RAF), espionage stories by Kenn Follett, or books about The One Hundred Year’s War (Sharpe’s War), the Saxon Wars (Bernard Cornwall’s many books) or the American Revolutionary War. Maybe it’s some sublimated desire for violence and excitement in my life. Or it could be that I feel like a combat veteran myself, having dealt with having cancer four times, having been through my first wife dying, and being a caregiver for Linda, who is in almost constant pain.

When it comes to war, what strikes me is how little has changed over the centuries. There has always been “war” going on somewhere in the planet, whether it’s between two nations, two tribes, two rival gangs, or two neighbors fighting each other. People have been killing each other since the beginning of (so-called) civilization and it’s not about to end anytime soon. Men charge up hills on suicide missions and get blown up; others maim and torture each other; lowly foot soldiers take orders from politically driven generals. There is little difference between war 2000 years ago and war today—except that we have the dubious distinction of being able to save those who have their legs and arms blown off, rather than letting them die in battle.

Last week I saw a bumper sticker on a car saying IMAGINE PEACE. I love the idea of “imagining peace.” I love the idea of a world without war. But the inescapable truth is that there will always be war. 

Why? Because “war” and “peace” exist in this apparent world of duality. In duality, if we want peace, we must also expect war; if we want love, we must also expect hate. That is the nature of duality. There is no escaping it.

Is there a way out? Fortunately, yes. By turning inward to that which is beyond peace and war, by opening to the “peace that surpasseth understanding” that lies within each of us. As the great sage Ramana Maharshi says, “Realize the real Self. That is all that is necessary.” The world outside us is an illusion, and all our suffering, and the suffering of the world, is a result of believing it to be real. Once we discover who we truly are—beyond opposites—all there is is peace. War happens, peace happens, and we understand that it is all part of the play of life, with everyone playing their role with divine perfection. 

The Monster

Linda and I go back for a therapy session with our two therapists David and Tom after a 3-month recess. Wow, do we need it. After two months of non-stop guests in our cottage on Maui, and all kinds of emotional dramas, Linda and I are both fried.

During the session , Linda goes through the weary litany of endless guests coming and going. Our two Australian shepherds (who always reflect our feelings), lie on the floor in front of us, more agitated than usual. 

Tom asks us, “What was the fantasy you had in inviting them all come?”

I jump in. “My fantasy was being with friends I’ve known for years and all of us having fun together—one big happy family.”

“And did it work?”

“No, I somehow fell into being the martyr, thinking I had to feed them, take care of them, show them the sights, entertain them, cater to their needs. I totally imploded.”    

David says, “Peter, it seems like there’s a little narcissism and grandiosity here. You’re the one who thinks he has to ‘take care of’ all these guests. Why do you feel that you have to feed them, coddle them, and respond to their every need?”

“I want them to be happy. I want to be everything to everybody. If I’m not the perfect host they won’t like me.”

“Why can’t you let them take care of themselves? They’re responsible adults.”

“Yes,” Linda cries out. “You ran me under the bus just to make them happy . . .”

Tom adds, “You also made them dependent on you, like they were little children.”

“He just couldn’t stop,” Linda says, shaking her head in amazement. “He tied himself in pretzels to make everyone happy—and he totally abandoned me.”

“I didn’t,” I cry out, shaking my head in wonder at my own stupidity. “I almost killed myself trying to keep you happy too!”

David says, “Peter, I don’t think you’re quite the ‘nice Peter’ you portray yourself to be. It seems to me like you’re the ‘master controller’ who wants to be totally in charge. It almost seems like you’re a Vince Vaughan.”

“Oh no,” I groan in mock horror. “That’s my worst nightmare!” Vince Vaughan, with his deep voice, high testosterone, and gross insensitivity, is my worst nightmare.

Suddenly it hits me. I have these two separate parts of myself that I don’t even recognize—the bossy guy in charge, and the sweet, thoughtful Peter who is always trying to please everyone. What a shock. Emotions start swirling around. I can’t even talk. I suddenly see that I’m not the sweet, kind, considerate, loving, gentle, “spiritual” person I imagined myself to be. I’m the person I loathe— bossy, judgmental, assertive, anti-intellectual, bigoted, and superior!   

Where’s the “real” Peter?

Whac-a-Mole

If we look deeply, we see that fear is the linchpin that holds our emotional sense of self intact. Adyashanti

Most of us have at least one core issue that we have not fully “seen through.” Our core issues have a way of catching us when we least expect it. We think we’ve dealt with them, fixed them, and gotten rid of them forever, when they suddenly pop up in a new and unexpected way. Mine is the fear of abandonment and loss. No wonder it’s a big one. My mother died when I was twelve and was never spoken of again in my family. Over a year passed before my younger brother, who was six at the time, found out that she had died (a friend told him). So my huge fear about loss keeps showing up in new ways, especially when I feel that I’m letting others down. I’m sure that I will lose their love and be left isolated and alone. In order to stay “safe” I’ll do anything to please everyone around me, forgetting my own needs. It’s like an addictive behavior. I can’t control it.

Holidays and big family events are always a good test to see how far I’ve come in letting go of these fears.
“Peter, we’ve saved a seat at the family table,” my sister says. “We so want you to come—it won’t be the same without you!”

Previously I would instinctively say, “Yes, yes, of course I’ll come!”—even it means flying 5,000 miles across the world to Canada in the middle of winter.

But for the first time ever I say no.

“I love you,” I say, “would really like to come, but this time I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Miraculously, lightning doesn’t come out of the sky and strike me down. I don’t shrivel up into a sniveling little blob. But I do have to sit with the discomfort of taking a new stance in my life.

To my surprise, my response has a totally differently effect than I imagined it would. Instead of rejecting me, my family starts to respect me. Instead of being “invisible,” they now notice me. They see that I’m (finally) standing up for myself. What a relief it must be for them!

After this event, my “addiction” to approval doesn’t suddenly disappear. Once the family is taken care of, then I want to get love and approval from everyone else I’ve felt “abandoned” by. What about John and Sandy? What about Bill? Maybe I should reach out to them? The list goes on and on. But now I see that it’s my “addiction” popping up again and again. Once I’m willing to go through feeling the sense of discomfort, knowing I don’t need to change anything from what’s happening right now, the fear abates.

“We all want two things,” a dear friend says. “We either don’t want to lose what we have, or we want to be sure to get what we want.”

I start to see that my addictive tendencies are not just limited to people. Come to think of it, I’m addicted to just about everything—love, work, wine, sex, people, you name it! I’m glad I don’t have an iPhone, because I’d be addicted to that too.

“It’s like whac-a-mole,” my wife Linda laughs. “You no sooner have gotten rid of one of them and the next one pops up.”

“What am I going to do?” I ask, in mock desperation. The image of hitting one mole and having another one pop up is hysterical.

“Well, you have to go to the source of the addiction itself,” Linda says. She always has a way of seeing the things that I can’t see. That’s what makes our relationship such a good one.

“The source?”

“Yes, it’s based on the false belief that you are separate from God. You see yourself as someone who can be hurt, when in truth you can’t be. Your sense of separation is an illusion. It’s not true.”

“Ahh,” I say, stunned by the realization. “All this addictive behavior is based on my wanting to overcome my sense of separateness. If I was willing to “be” with what is happening right here, right now—including the pain—I wouldn’t need to run from it.”

“Like everyone else, you’re trying to seek pleasure and avoid pain. But after a while avoiding the pain has a way of kicking back on you.”

“But it’s fun,” I protest. “I love my wine, I love having everyone happy, I love working all day!”

“Well, you have two choices: sit with the discomfort and watch the part of you that wants to escape into the addiction, or go on playing whac-a-mole forever!”

“Whac-a-mole! Whac-a-mole!” I laugh. But I know she’s right.

A Life without Plans

Last night I watched a captivating1958 film called Inn of the Sixth Happiness, based on the true story of a British maid named Gladys Aylward (played by Ingrid Bergman), who sets off alone for China in the 1930's to become a missionary. When the Japanese invade in 1937, she bravely leads 100 children over the mountains to safety.

Colonel Lin Nan, a Chinese officer who is part Dutch (played by Curt Jurgens), falls in love with Gladys, the willful, single-minded British spinster. He has to make a choice between what his heart tells him and his sense of duty.

When the old Mandarin asks Colonel Lin Nan why he chose in favor of duty, the Colonel resignedly says, "My life is planned."

The Mandarin responds, "A life that is planned is a closed life, my friend. It can be endured perhaps. But it cannot be lived."

It makes me think of how often I limit myself by planning. At this time of year I often set out a list of intentions for the New Year—all with a view towards having an “ideal life” where everything is perfect. What could be wrong with that? Why wouldn’t anyone want to set goals to have their life more happy, more healthy, more meaningful? I've been well acculturated by society to do better, be a good person, and be productive.

In terms of this "apparent" world, planning is necessary. I, like everyone else, need to make a budget plan, to plan ahead for a trip, to plan for different contingencies. But what I often overlook is that by setting out goals and objectives I am sometimes putting unseen limitations on my life. How do I know that "my" plan is God's plan? As the mandarin says, a planned life is a “closed life,” where there is very little room for life to happen, for life to surprise me, for my heart to open.

If I really want to be honest with myself, most of my plans are because I don't feel OK with my life just as it is. I plan so that I will feel safe in a world that is not safe. I plan in the hope of finding some future happiness once I have reached my goals.

The problem is that all these plans are made by the egoic mind, whose only concern is to avoid find pleasure and avoid pain. The human ego sees the world from the perspective of separation, and is incapable of seeing the bigger picture. It is notoriously unreliable when it comes to making choices that will benefit our awakening to greater peace and happiness.

All our resolutions and goals -- as well-intended as they may be -- are based on faulty perception. Although we may get what we want from our goals (or what our ego wants), we probably won't be any closer to finding what we really want--true happiness. What if we were able to see the underlying perfection of our life right here, right now in this moment? What if we could see that nothing needs to be changed or improved? Once we're content to greet life exactly as it is, especially the things we didn't plan for, then we can truly relax and be at peace.

At the beginning of the year I posted a blog that began with a quote by the Jesuit priest Anthony de Mello. This year I’ll end with the same quote and “plan” to understand it more fully in 2010:

“You want to hope for something better than what you have right now, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be hoping. But then, you forget that you have it all right now anyway, and you don’t know it.”

Dirty Dishes

Doing--or not doing--the dishes is a cause for disagreement among many couples. Sometimes the underlying causes are not what we think they are.

Last Friday, during a session with our therapists David and Tom (who co-facilitate together), Linda brings up her frustration at my leaving dirty plates on the kitchen counter and not putting them in the dishwasher.“I don’t believe this,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t want to waste time talking about dirty dishes in a session! This is something couples do in their first year of marriage. Surely we’re beyond all this!”
“Well, it bothers me,” Linda says vehemently, “I want to talk about it, especially since we can’t talk about it without getting angry. I know there’s something bigger going on.”
“What a waste of time,” I say squirming in my seat. “Besides, I try so goddamn hard to keep the counters clean. I obsess about it. I’m like an OCD gone wild. I put everything away. I clean the counter with paper towels, I get up every last crumb . . . and you accuse me of messing up the place? Damn it, I’m trying to do everything I can to please you.”
“I don’t see why you have such a big problem putting things in the dishwasher. Is it that difficult?”
“First you asked me not to leave the dishes out to air dry, and now I dry them and put them away. What more can I do to make you happy?”
“Put the dishes in the dishwasher.”
I feel a wave of anger. “But I do put them in!”
“No you don’t. You neurotically take dishes out and wash them by hand.”
“That was just once . . . and I enjoyed doing it. What’s the problem with that?
It’s as if a seething volcano of anger is filling the room—all coming from me. And I never show my anger!
“What’s the anger about?” Tom asks.
An image surfaces of my stepmother Nancy doing the dishes before we’d even finished dinner. “My stepmother was so uptight she would grab the dishes off the table before we had finished eating and take them into the kitchen. And that was always the moment we were all beginning to have some fun after a few glasses of wine. For once my dad was happy . . . and she couldn’t stand it.”
“Uh-oh, I did a Nancy,” Linda cringes. “Peter hated his stepmother. He told his friend over the phone that he hated her and wanted to kill her—and she was listening on the other line.”
Tom raises his eyebrows. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, I really did—and I meant it. I really did want to kill her . . . but let’s move on. I want to get deeper on this.”
“Oh, that wasn’t deep enough?” Tom asks.
We all break up laughing.
“She really was cold and mean,” Linda adds.”
“I used to get furious at her for lying in bed all day reading and watching TV. I get angry at Linda for doing the same thing.”
“Nancy was not your mother, though, was she?” David asks.
“No, she was the ‘wicked stepmother.’ Suddenly a realization dawns. “But I had no reason to get angry at Nancy! This has nothing to do with her. It’s all about my mother. She must have been sick and in bed with cancer, and lying in bed all day. I was frightened and had no idea what to do.”
“You were only eight or nine then, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember standing in front of our couch, while my mom tried to take care of my little brother Richard, who was just a baby. She said something like, ‘You’re a big boy now. You have to help me. I’m not well.’ I wanted to please her, so I made up my mind to do whatever I could to help her.”
“Was she sick then?” asks Tom.
Linda jumps in, “I’m sure she was . . . it was about three or four years before she died.”
“I must have realized that if I wasn’t a good boy, and didn’t help her, then she would die.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it felt like you’d literally die,” David says.
“That’s true. I was my mom’s favorite. She must have been really sick then—but no one told me anything. I can vaguely remember her coming home from the hospital, but . . .”
“He doesn’t remember anything about his mom,” Linda adds.
“What happened is that I did become invisible,” I say, shaking my head. “I was totally ignored. When my mom died I was left to fend for myself. The only way I could get love was by helping . . . by being a good boy. I had to produce. It was life or death.”
Tom and David nod their heads and just listen. I’m so grateful for their quiet wisdom.
“It’s no wonder I can’t relax. No wonder I’m so driven. I can’t even slow down, even for a second, or I’ll be dead. There is this terror of emptiness.”
“So you have to keep running as hard as you can . . .”
“Oh my God,” I say, turning to Linda. “My getting upset with you reading and watching TV is not because of you! It brings up the trauma of seeing my mother sick in bed, and having no idea what was going on.”
Linda reaches out to touch my hand.
“This has been so hard for you,” she says. “First you had to live through this with your mom, then with Fran when she was sick, and now me.”
“And this whole thing about the dishes has nothing to do with Linda,” I say, getting back to our original argument. “I’m terrified that if I don’t do everything perfectly, I will die! I HAD to please my mom. No, it’s more than that . . .”
“Dying isn’t enough?” Tom asks with a wink. We all laugh, relieving the tension.
“I must have known on some level she was getting sicker and sicker. I was petrified.”
“And no one said anything, making it even harder,” David says.
“So feeling that I’m somehow failing Linda brings all this up again, especially since Linda is sick and in pain so much of the time.”
“I don’t want to be,” she says lovingly.
“I know, I know . . .”
“And when you criticize me for not doing the dishes right, I feel hurt . . . like I’ve disappointed the person I love most in the world.”
“Oh sweetheart, I love you so. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re my love.”
David and Tom smile.
“I’m so sorry if I got angry at you.”
We look deeply into each other’s eyes.
I feel a warm sensation spreading through my belly . . . a huge knot of energy has been released.
Our dogs, Kamalani and Lukey (always present for our therapy), have been chewing on hooves. They look up at us.
So, you’ve finally figured it out?