Practicing for “The Big Let Go”

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I’ve been using this phrase for some time now. When I drop it into conversation, as in, “I’m practicing for The Big Let Go,” I usually get a puzzled look from the one I’m talking to. When I explain what it means, I get a “You’ve got to be out of your mind!” look. 

So, what is “The Big Let Go?” Well, it’s Death, of course—the most crucial moment of letting go in our lives. Death is when no more alternatives, options, arguments, or excuses exist. Procrastination is impossible; the hope of avoidance is patently hopeless, and you are entirely alone, whether or not a friend or loved one is sitting at the bedside holding your hand. It is the ultimate moment of giving in, surrendering, and trusting—letting go of control and our grip on life.

Some go out fighting, refusing to let go until death steals their last breath. That’s usually not a pretty or dignified exit, which is what we all want, whether we say so or not. How often have you heard someone say they hope they die peacefully in their sleep? And speaking of sleep, it’s a perfect opportunity for practicing letting go—or death, to put it bluntly.

What does it mean to practice something? The Oxford Dictionary defines practice as “repeated exercise in or performance of an activity or skill to acquire or maintain proficiency in it.” Synonyms are training, rehearsal, repetition, drill, and warm-up. Practice makes perfect, we say flippantly. Practice is mundane and often drudgery; perfection is sublime and unachievable. The child practices the piano faithfully to win an invitation to play at Carnegie Hall; you practice your golf swing to win the office tournament. I practice drawing to become an artist or throwing pots to become a potter. We practice silent restraint so that our angry words don’t hurt others, or we practice listening attentively and openly to understand one another.

Practice develops skills and changes habits. It can change your life, even set you free from addictions and compulsions. In a sense, we are what we practice—from the mundane (I brush and floss my teeth meticulously to have a healthy, attractive smile) to the sublime (I practice meditation daily to be in touch with my true self and reality.)

The notion that one might practice letting go throughout one’s life to be good at it when the time for death arrives is, for many, weird and morbid. It may be so for those who see death as a tragedy, a loss, something to be resisted and put off. But in all faith traditions and reports of near-death experiences, death is portrayed either as a moment of release, culmination, reward, or welcoming, or, conversely, of terror and punishment, depending on what one has practiced in life.

Buddhists are encouraged to think of death frequently to be ready for it and for what it can teach them about how to live before it arrives. Charnel Ground meditation involves imagining or observing the gradual dissolution and decay of the body to internalize the truth that all things are impermanent—everything changes and passes away.

Buddhistdoor.com 12-16-02

Christian reflection on death focuses more on reward or punishment and is encouraged to put the fear of God, the ultimate Judge, into its adherents. According to theologians, Jesus died and rose again to save us from death and damnation.

https://www.goodreads.com

But in general, and particularly at this time in history, we ignore death until it becomes unignorable, and then we lament it. So, how counter-cultural is the notion of practicing to do death well—gracefully, peacefully, with joy and dignity—instead of hanging on for or to dear life? Can one practice gently relinquishing, letting go, releasing, and opening to the unknown daily to prepare for The Big Let Go?

Pema Chodron, in her book How We Live, is How We Die, quotes a verse from a Tibetan Buddhist teacher, Dzigar Kongdrul Rinpoche,


“When the appearances of this life dissolve,
May I, with ease and great happiness,
Let go of all attachments to this life
As a son or daughter returning home.” (p.22)

I find this image of a child returning home enormously comforting. It conjures up memories of long day trips when I was young, perhaps to visit relatives or friends or the beach. Days full of play and food would end with a car ride homeward in the dark. We kids would fall asleep in the backseat, lulled by full stomachs, the hum of the car engine, and the rocking of the seats beneath us. Then, when we finally arrived home, we’d be carried inside, undressed, and put to bed in the safety and familiarity of our rooms. What ease and great (sleepy) happiness! 

Or imagine the scene of the Prodigal Son in Jesus’ parable. The dirty, starving, ashamed son returns home to a father’s generous welcome, greeted with a feast, new clothes, and the warm embrace of forgiveness. What ease (relief) and great happiness!

Death may not resemble either of these images, but I believe it is a return to the source of all life. If death is a return to our source, it is impossible to do it without letting go of our attachments to this life—a tall order indeed. It involves letting go of our attachment to our youthful good looks, our health and strength, career and family successes, fame, financial security, mental acuity, friendships, loves, regrets, anger, fear, and failures. I could go on.

Since dropping these far-reaching and self-defining attachments is a momentous task, I believe it is worth practicing now for the challenge ahead of us. For some time, I have been trying to recognize small and large opportunities for letting go in my daily life—letting go of people, outcomes, feelings, memories, hopes, expectations, opinions, and judgments. When I encounter an opportunity for letting go, I try to notice what it feels like in my body, first to hold on and then to let go. Viscerally, the experience of holding on is tight and painful; letting go is a feeling of “ease and great happiness.”

            Over the next few posts, I will explore some everyday experiences of letting go, keeping in mind that you, like I, may want to develop a skill that will stand us in good stead when The Big Let Go arrives. Will you reflect and practice with me?

Everything is an Opportunity for Waking Up

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Heedful of the 15-mile-an-hour speed limit, I drive carefully through the empty streets of my retirement community on an ordinary day. Suddenly, I see something extraordinary.  

A Great Blue Heron presides regally on the left side of the road. Holy s_ _ t! I whisper to myself as I pull cautiously to a stop. The bird is immense, nearly as tall as I am. It looks at me intensely, slowly turning its small head atop its slender curved neck so that one eye can focus on my fire engine red car a mere twenty feet away. Its black legs equal nearly half its height. A pale blue-grey, aerodynamic cluster of chest feathers and folded wings perch atop them. The neck flows upward from this central mass and is crowned by a proportionally small head and a disproportionally long, pointed beak. The bird stares calmly; I stare, slack-jawed and awestruck. Moments pass, each of us immobile. Then, gracefully, the heron lifts one thin pole of a leg, revealing four equally skinny toes, three in front and one in back, bends its miniature knee backward, and steps over the low wooden barrier on the side of the road. It follows with the second leg and glides elegantly down the steep bank littered with fallen oak leaves, broken branches, and rotting tree trunks toward a shallow pond.

Wanting more, I push the gear shift into “park,” slide out of the car and grab my iPhone from my right back pocket. I walk quickly but fluidly—not to frighten the bird—to the side of the road and look down the bank. The heron has already reached the pond and is moving deliberately through the water on its stick legs. It is well camouflaged by autumn golds and browns—bare branches, yellowed leaves, and black water. Its body feathers blend with the trees, and its legs, neck, and pointed beak are almost indistinguishable from the willowy saplings around it.   The Great Blue appears to be the forest gliding through itself.

The terrain is too steep and cluttered with woodland debris for me to descend on the same route as the bird, so I swing around to the right and take the familiar path to the pond, clicking pictures of the heron whenever it emerges into view through the underbrush. Click, click, click. (None of the shots are any good; it turns out later.)

Finally, he stands still at the edge of the pond. I do, too. I am entranced—all glowing eyes and beating heart. I don’t know how to take in such exquisite beauty, powerful fragility, and deep composure. The heron and I are alone together. From my perspective, I am the admirer, and he is the admired—there is no space in my mind to consider his perspective.

For several minutes, neither of us moves. Then I think, I have to tell someone! Quietly and slowly, I turn and walk back to my car, still idling by the side of the road, the driver’s door open. I slip my phone back into my pocket, drive the remaining minute to my front door, and burst in, “There’s a Great Blue Heron in the pond!”

Sarah Faith is impressed and immediately Googles “Great Blue Heron” on her iPad, reading aloud to me the information the search engine pulls up. It is a large bird with a wingspan of 5.5 to 6.6 feet and a height of 3.2 to 4.5 feet. It hunts alone but nests in colonies, usually in tall trees near water sources. It feeds mainly on fish but also eats other aquatic animals, insects, and rodents, and it can eat up to two pounds of fish per day.

In Native American tradition, it is associated with good luck and loyalty. In Christianity, it represents perseverance and patience. In Celtic tradition, it heralds renewal and calmness in challenging situations. It symbolizes the characteristics of balance, strength, clarity, and connectedness.

The facts, myths, and omens wash through my ears and into my brain. Google encourages me to consider my encounter with this bird a fortuitous event. But I’m only half paying attention, impatiently, to the information. I feel a powerful urge to return to the pond as quickly as possible to see if the heron is still there—to feast my eyes on this miracle again. But I don’t go alone. My entrenched sense of responsibility reminds me that my dog needs his afternoon walk, so I leash up the frisky little guy and take him with me, insisting, “No barking!” as we go.

It takes only a couple of minutes for us to reach the pond. Lo and behold, the heron is still there, standing stalk still in the same spot it was ten minutes before. Because it is camouflaged, the dog doesn’t see it, and it is too far away for him to pick up a scent, so while he sniffs the decaying leaves at our feet, I stand and gaze again. The heron is not fishing; it’s waiting. Motionless, we watch each other.

Moments pass, and I have another brilliant idea. I must share this experience with someone likely to appreciate its specialness as I do. I think of my neighbor on the street next to the pond, a woman who loves the forest and its creatures. You stay there, I silently tell the bird, I’ll be right back.

I knock on my neighbor’s door; sure enough, she’s interested in seeing a Great Blue. While she puts her coat on, the dog and I shuffle from foot to foot impatiently. When she emerges from her front door, and we walk toward the pond, we hear a faint drone in the distance. “Leaf blowers!” she exclaims, extremely annoyed. “They ruin this place. They drive me nuts!”

I try to be sympathetic, but I want her to focus on the beautiful bird I am sharing with her. However, the noise from the blowers has ruined it for her, and perhaps for the heron too, because he looks around anxiously after a few more moments and glides upstream toward the footbridge. My neighbor and I decide it’s time to move on and leave him in peace. She invites me to walk in the woods a little longer, and we take the dog for his afternoon stroll together, chatting quietly about the quotidian details of our lives: sleepless nights, failing health, and community news.

Later that afternoon, in a pause between activities, I recall the image of the Great Blue. I’m antsy and annoyed with myself. I sense I’ve missed a profound opportunity for communion and insight. I rehearse the compulsive behaviors that prevent me from being fully present in life: photographing experiences to preserve them, researching facts to understand, seeking to share soul-stirring occasions with others to pursue intimacy, and letting responsibilities deflect me from my heart’s call. Why could I not simply stand still and look, listen, and open myself? Why could I not be fully aware of the essence of the encounter? Might a veil have lifted? Might I have seen the truth?

The following morning, during meditation, I calm my agitation and recall the image of the Great Blue, as I first saw it, regal, by the side of the road. I breathe deeply and gaze long, feasting on the mental vision with my third eye, the eye of intuition. The bird, in all its majestic peacefulness, revisits me. This time, instead of analyzing it, I recognize it. I know it for who it is—an avatar. The divine source of everything, incarnate in the form of a Great Blue Heron, stands amid an ordinary day. Solitary yet inseparable from the world, it moves effortlessly through beauty, chaos, and debris, self-assured, serene, and unafraid.

In the last few weeks, I’ve repeatedly returned to my mental picture of the Great Blue Heron. Each time, I feel revisited by an inexpressible peace and humble confidence that the bird and I are kin. I am also an avatar, an incarnation, though partial and flawed, of the source of all goodness. Each time the vision of the Great Blue returns to me, I am certain of the indestructibility of this exquisite world, the love from which it is born, and my intrinsic place within it.

Be Kind

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I must admit up front that I am nervous about holding my mobile phone against my ear for long periods. Research has not conclusively shown that radio frequencies emitted by cell phones cause cancer, but it has not disproven it either. So, when possible, I place my phone in speaker mode, especially when I expect to get an automated response to my call, like when I call the pharmacy to check on the status of a prescription.

            I did this one morning about a month ago. I touched the various numbers that led me along the path to discovering the status of my order but met with a roadblock on the way, so I went back to the main menu and pressed the number to speak with a pharmacist. A woman came on, and I began to explain the situation to her. Suddenly she interrupted me to bark, “Stop yelling at me!”

            I was flabbergasted since I thought I was talking in a normal voice, so I stammered, “I’m not yelling.”

            “Yes, you are!” 

            “Well,” I hesitated, “I have my phone on speaker, and perhaps the volume is too high; let me turn it down.”

            “That’s not it, you’re yelling. Just answer my question!”

            I meekly asked her to repeat the question, answered it, and was told the prescription awaited pick-up. “Okay,” I whispered and hung up.

            Wow, I thought, she’s having a bad day.

            About a week later, I had an unrelated conversation with a healthcare professional in my community. She asked me if I had noticed the signs posted at the local hospital and in virtually all doctors’ offices asking patients to be kind to staff and one another. I had not paid much attention but had a vague recollection that I had seen such signs and that they were also displayed in yards throughout my town. “BE NICE,” “BE KIND,” they reminded. She noted that these signs were relatively new.

Before the pandemic and the concurrent escalating political divide, such reminders were not as necessary because unkindness, rudeness, anger, and frustration were not as prevalent in public as they are now. People, she reflected, are just not as patient and thoughtful of one another as they used to be, and healthcare professionals, while not the only ones encountering such bad behavior, are some of the most frequently abused. The same essential personnel who risked their lives to come to work during the height of COVID, while many of us avoided public places, are being disrespected and insulted. No wonder they are quitting their jobs in droves, she posited.

            Her words and the encounter with the pharmacist started me thinking about two things:  how little we know about the people we encounter daily and how much we need to give one another the benefit of the doubt in every situation.

            To go back to the pharmacist. She had no idea why my voice was coming through the line so loudly; she didn’t know that my phone was on speaker or that my spouse was hard of hearing, and that I habitually speak in a louder-than-normal voice. I didn’t know whether the call she received just before mine had been an unpleasant encounter with a demanding customer or if she was alone in the pharmacy trying to catch up on a several-day backlog of script orders. We experienced each other as impatient and rude, but did we take a moment to consider each other’s circumstances, limitations, pressures, and challenges? Did we assume the other was a good person, needing patience and kindness, or did we conclude that she was obnoxious, demanding, and unworthy of respect? Did we have the capacity to give each other the benefit of the doubt and try to calm rather than stoke the flames of irritability?

            A couple of weeks after my conversation with the healthcare professional in my community, I went to a specialist’s office at the local hospital. I saw kindness signs posted at every turn of the corridor, in every elevator, and at three different sites within the specialist’s reception area—a desperate plea to patients to calm themselves and treat others respectfully.

            How do we increase our bandwidth for kindness and respect in all the encounters of our daily lives? We can start by getting in touch with our own innate goodness, being kind to ourselves, and understanding where our instinctual and habitual reactions come from. Then, we can assume that the other problematic person is also innately good, dealing with some of the same human challenges we are, and deserves to be cut some slack. And we can imagine walking in their shoes even briefly or shifting to see the situation from their perspective.

Monica Guzman’s book, I Never Thought of It That Way, uses the acronym INTOIT (to capture the title’s notion) and encourages us to be open to INTOIT moments when our perspective is changed, broadened, or softened by seeing things newly through the eyes of another. She encourages us to ask, with genuine curiosity, the fundamental question, “What am I missing?” To acknowledge that the picture in my head is not the complete picture of any person or situation; it’s just my perspective.

We cannot know all the conditions and circumstances that have made someone who they are at the moment we encounter them or why they say and do what they say and do that may aggravate or thrill us. But since we long for understanding and respect, we can infer that they, too, yearn for it, along with grace, kindness, courtesy, and indulgence. As the Dalai Lama says, “Genuine compassion is based on a recognition that others, like oneself, want happiness.”

            Kindness is as kindness does. It is not a warm, fuzzy feeling but a way of being and acting. It is not needed now, more than ever, but now as much as ever. Be kind.

In the Twinkling of an Eye

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I’m sitting on the small beach in downtown Bar Harbor, Maine, on a cool, showery day in late June. My sister, Ann, visiting me from Nova Scotia, has just arrived on the CAT, the ferry between Bar Harbor and Yarmouth. We’ve walked the main street, popping in and out of shops, and are now killing a little time before having lunch at a nearby Italian Restaurant—she’ll tell anyone how much she loves pasta!

Ann saunters down the short stretch of rocky beach, eyes trained on the ground before her, searching for elusive beach glass and unusually shaped and colored beach stones. I’m wearing my navy Sketchers with white soles, and I don’t want to get them wet and dirty, so I have decided to sit still on a large stone at one end of the beach and wait for Ann to carry out her meticulous search. 

A few feet away sit two fortyish women, also perched on large stones, chatting easily about summer clothing they have purchased or hope to purchase. A few children—I’m not paying attention—ranging in age from about eight to perhaps sixteen, wander back and forth from their mothers to the water’s edge. A teenage boy settles beside one of the women and sorts through the wet stones at his feet. 

All this is happening within my peripheral vision. I’m staring off into space, focusing on my private thoughts, so I only half see what happens next in the twinkling of an eye. The teenager picks up a stone, large enough to fill the palm of his hand, and raises his arm to toss it into the water. He pulls his arm back, but instead of throwing forward, he loses his grip on the stone, and it flies sideways, out of his control.

I hear a crunch, like a finger poking through an eggshell, then a gasp and an “Oh my God!” I focus my attention on the group.  One of the women clutches her head in her hands, bright red blood spreading through her quickly matting hair and dripping between her fingers. Her face is pink and blotchy, and she is rocking back and forth, gasping for breath. 

“Mom! I’m so sorry. I’m sorry! Mom! Mom!” the boy pleads in a hushed but urgent voice. His mother doesn’t answer. She’s trying desperately to master the pain. The second woman and the children cluster; they whisper urgently to one another, asking what to do. The woman at the center of the circle is silent, rocking. I sit still, saying nothing, willing them to know what to do next. I’m tempted to pull out my phone and dial 911, but I wait. This is their crisis; let them handle it. I have no right to intrude, at least not yet.

“Can you walk? Let’s get you off the beach,” says the other mother. She and the boy lift the injured woman, holding her under one arm and by the other elbow, wrapping arms around her waist. She leans on them, and they slowly and jerkily shuffle toward the parking lot just a couple hundred yards away. As they trudge, the uninjured mother pulls her phone out of her bag, and I hear the beep, beep, beep of the dial tone.

I watch them go, then turn to see that Ann, oblivious to this scene, has almost completed her beachcombing and is ready for lunch. When she approaches, I tell her what’s happened, emphasizing the eerie sound of the stone connecting with the woman’s skull. We talk about how a day, and sometimes a life, can change in a moment—from a relaxed vacation at the seashore to a head injury that may have traumatic and lasting effects. As Ann and I leave the beach for the restaurant, the ambulance arrives, sirens wailing, lights flashing. That family’s day has changed irreversibly, without warning or intent, in the twinkling of an eye.

I cannot get this incident out of my mind for the rest of the day. I wonder how the woman feels, whether she is still in the emergency room or if the injury was serious enough to put her in ICU. Or was it just a minor cut, and she is already back at the B&B with her husband, family, and friends, sipping a cocktail before dinner?

That night I lay in bed before sleep, musing on life’s fragility, insecurity, and uncertainty even in the calmest and most seemingly benign situations. When we wake up each morning, we never know what the day will hold—celebration or grief, joy or tragedy, safety or danger, a new beginning, or a sudden end. I carry my reflections to the extreme, as I am wont to do, and imagine what it must have been like for Jews to wake up in the morning in Auschwitz, wondering if they would eat the usual wormy porridge, freeze while pointlessly hauling heavy rocks, or die in a shower of gas. Or would they see a smile from a fellow prisoner handing them a scrap of bread or hear the sound of the tramping boots of friendly soldiers opening the gates to deliver them from hell?

How do we live with such overwhelming uncertainty? We pretend that it doesn’t exist, that we know what to expect and what the future holds. We forget or do not allow ourselves to remember that circumstances, large or tiny, change in the twinkling of an eye.

After our recent trip to Italy, where my partner spent five days in the hospital with acute asthmatic bronchitis, I grumbled about the time and effort of filing the trip insurance claim to recover the extra medical, food, and accommodation costs. I slogged irritably through the tedious paperwork and bureaucracy, expecting it to drag on for many months. One morning, I determined I could no longer avoid filing what the instructions told me were the last pieces of information necessary to complete the claim. I logged on to the insurance website to do so, frustrated, bored, and tired of it all. Lo and behold, in the twinkling of an eye, my mood and my day changed. The claim status page announced that the company had mailed checks for nearly $1000 more than I had originally claimed. “Hallelujah!” I shouted. We never know, do we?

It’s a truism, and while we are tired of hearing it, the only way to live with uncertainty is to accept it and face it, moment by moment, trusting that we will have the inner and outer resources to meet whatever arises. Let’s not pretend, though, that the unpredictability and changeableness of life are not uncomfortable. Let’s be real. However, the more we try to resist the constantly changing nature of our existence, the more certainty and control we try to establish in our minds or circumstances, the more anxiety we bring to ourselves. The more expectations we entertain, the more disappointment, dread, and suffering we invite.

“Let go, accept, and surrender” are hard words to hear or say—challenging attitudes to adopt. But they, like all new habits, become easier with practice. Embracing life just as it is, moment by moment, can lead to the only security and confidence we will ever know in the face of our groundlessness. All occasions are opportunities for understanding and insight. There is a kernel of goodness at the heart of everyone and everything.

The only truth we can hold onto as things constantly change in the twinkling of an eye is the promise given to St. Julian of Norwich in the 14th century, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Aging Gracefully

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Nice phrase. Has a certain ring to it—a kind of quiet aspirational quality. But. But aging is seldom pretty, calm, or comfortable. Though, in some older people, you have probably witnessed a peaceful grace that shines from the inside out.

Consider this:

Today at 7:00 a.m., after my morning swim, I sat in the hot tub at my local Y, soothing sore seventy-one-year-old muscles. As I aimed the jets at painful spots and rested amid the frothing water, I again observed a scene I had watched many times before. A ninety-ish gentleman emerged from the nearby therapy pool, gripping the rail and stepping up one watery step at a time. Close behind him came a similarly aged woman in a black bathing suit, also taking it slow and easy. The man grabbed the cane he had stowed in a large blue bucket at the top of the steps, jabbed it soundly at the damp poolside tile—clack, clack, clack—and shuffled gingerly over to his walker, a black rollator with brakes and a storage compartment below a vinyl seat. He grabbed the rollator, swung it around, and I noticed it had a helium “Happy Birthday” balloon attached. Sweet, I thought.

The woman, who I assumed was his wife, was now at the top of the steps, so he grabbed a low-tech aluminum walker with two wheels in front and small plastic ski-like slides on the back and pushed it to the edge of the pool so she could steady herself with it. Then he picked up a faded bath towel from the seat of his walker and handed it to his wife, who deliberately unfolded it and spread it gently over his wet back. The woman then removed her cane from the plastic bucket, clutched it and the walker handles, and they hobbled slowly off together in the direction of the family changing room.

I had watched this scenario—shall I call it a carefully choreographed dance—and marveled at its unwavering precision at least a dozen times before as I soaked in the hot tub. Each knew exactly what to expect from the other; no instructions were given, and no questions were asked. This morning, the gracefulness of their movements, the serenity of their faces, and the harmony of their interdependence struck me anew, and the phrase “aging gracefully” rose in my mind.

For the last nine months or so, I have regularly joined a group of women about my age on Zoom to discuss aging. The conversation has ranged from how we are experiencing the physical and mental effects of aging to our concern for aging spouses and friends, worries about giving and receiving care, and our fears about losing our capacities and our impending death. It’s been a rich conversation, and I believe we have learned much from one another. I think I can safely say that each of us aspires to age gracefully but fears we will not.

A wise Buddhist Nun, Pema Chödrön, has written a book about the dying process called, How We Live is How We Die. I highly recommend it, even if you are only 45. I think she would agree that the same applies to aging: how we live is how we age. Gracefulness is a habit—“a settled or regular tendency or practice, especially one that is hard to give up.” Good habits, like problematic ones, are acquired over time by returning to and reinforcing a pattern of thought, speech, or behavior.

We will not age gracefully unless we live gracefully now. And it is never too late to start practicing and, therefore, reinforcing habits of gracefulness. Who do you want to be when you are 90? Strive to be that person today, tomorrow, and the next day. And when you flounder, gracefully and kindly pick yourself up, throw a warm, dry towel of kindness over your bruised, scared, and diminished ego, let go of self-judgment, and start again on the walk toward the perpetual “changing room” of your life.

Chodron has written another book called, Living Beautifully with Uncertainty and Change. How we respond to the inevitable experience of constant uncertainty and change, the unavoidable human condition, will determine how graceful we become. Like a martial artist—a Tai Chi practitioner, for instance—instead of resisting, we accept what comes, flow with it, and transform ourselves into skillful and graceful old warriors.

It is possible that the aged couple described above hate each other, fight constantly, and are bitter and angry, but I don’t think so. That’s not what shone through their wrinkled faces and bodies. A couple of days ago, I attended my neighbor’s hundred and first birthday party. Another neighbor, a talented photographic artist, snapped photos throughout the celebration and sent the collection to all the guests afterward. Laughing faces, raised champagne glasses, attentive gazes, looks of joyful abandon, kind understanding, quiet admiration. I thanked the photographer for his knack for making old people look beautiful. He responded, “It is because they are beautiful.” He’s right. His lens captured graceful aging in that moment, in that place.

I look forward to my next visit to the hot tub, not just for its soothing effects on my body. I’m longing to see the graceful dance of that beautiful old couple again.

A Post-Valentine’s Day Meditation on Love

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Love is imperfect.
It can sometimes be impatient, disappointed, and frustrated.
It may be dissatisfied—want more.
Too often it puts its own needs first,
And fails to see the needs of the beloved.

Love goes on trying, though.
It stays in the mess—
Believes things will change,
Or that it will change.
It recognizes its own suffering,
And so, realizes the beloved is suffering too.

Love does the best it can and 
Accepts with gratitude
The best the beloved has to offer,
Even when that best doesn’t satisfy the 
Mysterious longing inside.
It knows the longing is impossible to fill.

Love doesn’t dwell on desiring more.
It dwells on gratitude for what is.
It sees its own imperfection,
As well as that of the beloved,
And it feels compassion and
Tenderness for both.

Love doesn’t give up.
It doesn’t pretend to know
What the future holds,
Or how it will feel tomorrow.
It focuses on now,
Is self-aware,
Open, and vulnerable.

Love accepts whatever comes,
Holds it lightly,
And lets it go when time moves on.
It sees the good and praises;
Sees the flaws, 
And keeps silent.

Love often fails to understand.
Still, it keeps on seeking.
It accepts that it may never comprehend—
There's so much it can never know.

Love disappoints its noble
Aspirations,
Acknowledges its limitations,
But forgives itself,
And begins anew.

Love fails,
Over and over 
And over again,
But Love
Never ends.

Noticing Respect in 2022

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“Is treating someone respectfully fundamentally different from respecting him, her, or it?”

I posed this question in my first blog post in 2022, and I return to it in my last. (Though technically, it’s 2023 already, today is New Year’s Day Observed on the iPhone calendar.)

In the last year, I have reflected on, written about, and invited your comments on various instances of respect—situations I have encountered in daily life that have caused me to examine the meaning of respect more closely. For example, I wrote about respecting others through an open, honest, invitational style of communication embraced by Maine’s CDC Director, Dr. Nirav Shah, as he interacted with the people of our state during the height of the COVID pandemic.

I shared the “Just Like Me” practice of recognizing that everyone, even those whose ideas and actions are sometimes antithetical to our own, has many of the same human attributes, desires, hopes, fears, sorrows, and losses as we do. This practice encourages points of identification to generate empathy and nurture even the tiniest grain of respect. In “Respect Amid Conflict,” I wrote about two principles crucial to navigating conflict respectfully: understanding oneself and seeking to understand the other, ferreting out one’s deepest motivations and underlying assumptions, and keeping an open heart and mind about the experience and perspective of the other.

In “Respect in Extremis,” I reflected on respecting the essence of a human being when accomplishments, attractiveness, and self-control are stripped away at the end of life. In the article titled “What Is,” I illustrated the habit of noticing and accepting the ordinary miracle of each moment, welcoming and flowing with it instead of resisting and wishing things were different. In “Two Tales About Respect,” I explored how experiencing disrespect from another may tap into our lack of self-respect. I also exemplified how inner doubt and confusion about the right thing to do in a situation can cause one to act disrespectfully toward others.

The three posts about my friends Jack and Vicky dealt in depth with their experience of years of homelessness, followed by a brief period of stable housing, Vicky’s severe illness, and ultimately their deaths within two weeks of each other. The articles, telling the story of our friendship, were my memorial gift to honor them. Their backgrounds and life experience and mine were dramatically different, yet we came to understand, respect, and love one another.   And finally, “Respecting Limitations and Letting Go.” Recognizing and accepting our limitations and those of others is a lesson we must all learn as we grow older. Learning to let go when the time is right will prepare us for the end of life when we must ultimately let go of everything.

So, back to the original question: “Is treating someone respectfully fundamentally different from respecting him, her, or it?” I’m currently living in a divisive atmosphere. There are many perspectives on the problem we share, but for clarity, I think I can safely say that two slightly porous camps have emerged. Each wants respect from the other. Each desires to be heard, understood, honored and treated kindly and politely. Trust has been damaged, and respect is frayed and floundering. 

But can we treat each other respectfully, even if each camp has done and said things that have damaged the esteem we formerly felt for one another? And would respectful words and actions move us toward restoring genuine respect? Would they help us navigate this situation, repair the divisions, and solve the problems? 

And what would treating each other with respect look like, even if we are not feeling it? We could begin with the old gem, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That might include giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, not presuming to understand all the complicated nuances of the situation or the difficulties others face. Listen and communicate. Recognize defensiveness in yourself, but don’t act out. Don’t say hurtful things, be gentle, and practice courtesy. Don’t avoid one another (downcast eyes, looking away) but take risks to build genuine relationships. Listen; communicate. Keep things in perspective by remembering to be grateful. Notice the good and speak up about it. Keep working at the solution, don’t give up or bail. Listen and communicate directly, face-to-face, and eye-to-eye. Behave respectfully, and you may earn respect.

So, I would posit that treating someone respectfully is not fundamentally different from respecting that person. Famously it is said you can’t make peace; you have to be peace. You can’t create respect; you have to be respect.

Three Magi

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Stillness
Silence 
Solitude

Three Magi, wise and noble,
Enticed 
By intuition, 
A common secret dream.
Set off to find the source of all that Is—
of love,
of hope,
of truth.

Stillness ambles imperceptibly.
Motionless she travels far—
deeper,
nearer,
clearer.

Silence speaks no words
Adds nothing to the frantic roar 
of hate,
despair, 
and lies.

Solitude bears destiny as she strides forth.
Knows birth and death and all between alone. Her heart
A pulsing,
throbbing,
longing.

Three Magi, 
seeking their soul’s star,
walk home.

Respecting Limitations and Letting Go

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One of my dreams for retirement was to adopt a dog and train it as a therapy dog. I had owned several cats over my 63 years but never a dog, and I wanted one badly, almost like some women long to have children. I had admired service dogs for many years—their calm, competent demeanor and the trust between them and the people they serve. But I knew I didn’t have the patience or skill to train service dogs. Still, I imagined I could meet the training standards for a therapy dog—well-behaved in public, gentle, reliable, and willing to allow himself to be petted to comfort others. 

So, shortly after retirement, I adopted Digby. I had not planned on getting a puppy, but he was so darn cute I couldn’t resist him. When I met him for the first time, he had just had surgery to repair a broken leg, and he lay on the couch beside me, a huge cone circling his head, licking my hand like crazy, trying to make friends and quell his anxiety. He weighed about ten pounds and was white and apricot, a mix of Pomeranian and Papillon. I thought he would make a perfect therapy dog. His cuteness alone would bring joy to those he visited, and he was small enough to lift onto beds and into laps.

And so, the training journey began. Digby was six months old; still an exuberant, sometimes crazed puppy, and I was sixty-three, inexperienced, with limited energy and patience. The mixture was not quite a recipe for disaster but certainly portended frustration and exasperation for both of us. I could not control his barking, chewing, cat chasing, and peeing indoors for a long time. Likewise, he could not figure out how to please me.

Once we started training classes, I quickly learned I needed training as much as he did. Consistency was my biggest problem. I could not remember to act or react using the same commands in the same order (click, praise, and reward) each time I taught a new behavior. But I persisted, for almost three years, class after class—beginners’ obedience, intermediate, tricks, agility, nose works, advanced obedience, and Canine Good Citizen, repeating some of these classes multiple times. Eventually, he stopped chewing everything in sight and peeing indoors and could walk calmly next to my left knee, which I called “walking nicely.” However, he’s never stopped barking or cat chasing.

Finally, Digby and I made it to the moment of truth, evaluation by a representative of a therapy dog licensing organization in a real live therapy context—a senior healthcare facility. We were both nervous and needed correction and pointers from the evaluator, but after three trials, we were certified. He got his little red heart therapy dog tag, and I got a certificate I could show to volunteer coordinators in settings where we would visit to offer comfort and entertainment. Along the way, I learned that Digby was a performer and a ham. He loved doing tricks to entertain an audience, but he was less comfortable being trotted around from one person to another for pets and cuddles. He loved children and was great at Read to Dog programs in local libraries and schools, but he was terrified of being surrounded by a group of college students seeking the calming presence of a dog during exam week. He was more freaked out than they were. Digby had his limitations, and I had to tailor our volunteer commitments to those.

After discovering his strengths and weaknesses, I focused our therapy work on tricks shows. We offered them to seniors in various healthcare facilities and children at a local library. He loved the mental stimulation, the applause, and the treats he got as rewards. His audiences loved him! “What an amazing little dog!” they clapped and shouted. To keep him stimulated, I taught him more and more tricks, up to 35 or so, and built him an indoor agility course, including a hoop to jump through, a tunnel, a teeter-totter, a ramp for climbing, and poles to weave around. He danced, shook hands, rolled over, crawled, spun, played soccer by rolling a ball through goalposts, and dazzled in many more ways. 

Watch Digby training to roll a ball through goalposts.

Performing together created a special bond between us. I was so proud of the little guy when he turned on a dime and did precisely what I asked, trick after trick, for over half an hour. He looked to me for guidance during the performances in ways he didn’t in other situations. We depended on each other. I loved seeing him succeed and bring joy to the audience; he loved my excitement and praise.

But he got older, and so did I.  After nearly four years of performing, Digby’s formerly broken leg began to show some weakness. He barked more during shows (sometimes frightening the children), tired more quickly, and became impatient during some of the tricks. On the other hand, I found it harder to load the heavy agility equipment in and out of the car and set it up in various venues. And it was hard for me to keep up with Digby as he ran around the agility course. I’d often be nervous about his behavior and enormously relieved when he performed well. We’d come home after a show and take a long nap together, both stressed and tired.

It seemed like Digby’s run as a therapy dog performer had been a short one, barely four years, but I decided we needed to retire, for both our sakes. It was a hard decision. I had invested much time, money, and effort in training. But it wasn’t just that; I would also miss the interdependence we had developed as we trained and performed together and the intimacy it brought to our relationship. And he would miss the mental and physical challenges of doing tricks and the admiration of his audiences. I wondered how I would keep him stimulated and exercised, especially during the long, cold Maine winters. When they heard of our retirement, the volunteer coordinators we worked with were disappointed but said they understood.

I tell this rather long story as an illustration of how many of us feel as we age and bump up against increasing limitations—our inability, for one reason or another, to continue doing the things we love or keep longstanding commitments. Sometimes it feels like failure to admit I no longer have the energy, skill, or interest I once had for certain activities. I hate letting others down, and I may experience a sense of diminishment as the circumference of my life shrinks.

I have three choices. I can try to push myself beyond my limits, whine about my losses, or accept and respect my limitations. Like all living things, I am of a nature to grow old, lose my freshness and vigor, decline into poor health, and eventually die. I try to mitigate these inevitable changes as long as I can—exercising to stay healthy and strong, eating well, and staying involved in work or leisure that stimulates my mind and keeps me connected to others. But do I know how to let go gracefully, when the time is right, of things I can no longer do safely or happily? I built my ego around the things I have accomplished, and when those accomplishments fade, who am I? Do I have anything to contribute? Do I matter to those I love or to the world around me? Respecting my limitations and letting go of what no longer serves me is an opportunity to turn inward and get to know who I am at my core—the I who will survive, transcend, and continue beyond the increasing outward limitations and diminishments.

Digby, reputed to be a fantastic trickster, will soon blend into the growing pack of aging dogs taking shorter and shorter walks around our retirement community. And, though it may not happen quickly, I will one day acquire a walking stick to keep me from tottering as he “walks nicely” beside me.  

Accepting and respecting my limitations is an opportunity to learn graceful letting go and practice it daily as I approach the biggest “let go” of all. As Pema Chodron’s recent book says, How We Live Is How We Die.