Stillness, Silence, and Solitude II

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Continued

Solitude

At home, I am not solitary. I live with my spouse, my dog, and two cats, in a vibrant retirement community in a college town where intellectual work, art, theater, and music flourish. Tourists stroll the streets in summer. I am always meeting people I know well—or not at all. This social identity feels so natural, so me, that it is hard to believe it is constructed or conditioned.

Entering solitude, for me, is like going home. Though I am far from my physical home, I feel more at home here. Alone, I am more aware of my feelings, more curious, open, at ease, and forgiving. In the quiet of this cold winter morning, I ask: Who is my essential self? Is it distinct from my conditioned self? Does my essence emerge in solitude, or in relationship with others, or somehow in both? The witness self—the continuous, conscious observer—appears more readily for me in solitude.

Still, I must be careful. I am convinced that truth lies in balance rather than extremes. Perhaps I value solitude so deeply because I have so little of it.

Stillness

I arrived with the hope that my days alone would be unstructured, guided by the heart’s promptings. I imagined staying in my pajamas all day, doing nothing at all. That fantasy dissolved when I decided to bring the dog. I have meandered from one activity to another, discovering that it is far easier to imagine being still than to be still.

What do I want from stillness? The word that arises first is settling. I long for the persistent sense of inner agitation to give way to calm. Through meditation, I have learned that this happens when I sit still for long periods. Buddhist teachings liken the mind to a muddy pond: when left undisturbed, the sediment slowly settles, and the water clears. In my own experience, my body settles first, then my mind, and finally my emotions; clarity emerges.

With clarity, my actions become more intentional. This week, in my efforts to be still, I have taken special care to cook nourishing food and arrange it beautifully in the mismatched bowls and plates I found in the cupboards. I eat slowly—and, of course, silently—savoring each mouthful, noticing flavors and textures, surprised and grateful. No conversation distracts me from chewing thoroughly, to the relief of my delicate digestive system.

I read slowly, reflecting on what I read, appreciating the symmetry and beauty of language, and letting words sink into my consciousness, hoping they will water the seeds of my own writing.

Slowness, I tell myself, is the first step toward stillness, as the dog and I head out on our thrice-daily walks. Snow, ice, and mud slow us down, and we accept and adapt to them all. He stops often to sniff each new scent. I stop too—standing still, looking around, breathing, inhabiting the moment.

Fast and slow, motion and stillness, cannot exist without each other. Neither is inherently good or bad; each has its season, even if I have my preferences.

Silence

It almost goes without saying that outer silence supports inner silence. Alone and still, silence becomes tangible. I soak it in, treasuring it. I resent the heater kicking on with its low hum, the sound of the upstairs neighbor’s truck pulling into the driveway, his boots pounding up the stairs, the clicking of my keyboard as I type. When these sounds subside, I sink into the silence and luxuriate in its nothingness. It wraps around me like the heat in an empty sauna.

For a moment, I imagine never speaking again, never hearing another word. I contemplate the silent emptiness of death, and while I imagine it, I notice a quiet gratitude arise. Then the heater kicks on once more, and I feel my body tense—just slightly—reminding me how much stress accumulates when we are constantly bombarded by sound. How restorative silence feels, with its sisters, solitude and stillness.

And yet, silence is not the same for everyone. If I could not hear, would I long for sound? My partner is functionally deaf. Without her hearing aids, she hears nothing at all. Deaf since early childhood, her experience of silence is marked by alienation, misunderstanding, and disconnection. For her, sound can be orienting and connecting—or overwhelming. She reminds me that silence, like solitude, is not inherently sacred; its meaning depends entirely on context.

As I bring these reflections to a close, I search my OneDrive for a poem I wrote some time ago and read it carefully, recalling the feelings behind the words.

THREE MAGI

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.

What is the soul’s star I seek during this week of stillness, silence, and solitude? As I ponder the question, my witness-self watches thought-clouds drift across the sky of my mind: essential, real, true, authentic, love, compassion, home. Any of these could be my soul’s star. And these three wise magi—Stillness, Silence, and Solitude—are my companions and guides as I walk home.

I rise from the computer and walk slowly to the kitchen to boil more water for tea. The kettle whistles, breaking the silence. The dog stirs, stretches, and hops down from his chair to follow me. I look out the window at the fresh snowfall, still undisturbed. I remember that I have a few more days alone before rejoining those whose lives are bound to mine. I give thanks.

I give thanks.

Author’s Note

This essay grew out of a week-long solitary retreat in central Maine in 2023, and reflects my ongoing spiritual inquiry into stillness, silence, and solitude. Written as contemplative nonfiction, it blends my lived experience with reflective practice. My intention is not to idealize the three s’s, but to examine what they offer when approached with curiosity, humility, and balance.

Okay: Part Two

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Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

Over the last three years, I visited Sarah about every couple of months.  I’d call or email a day or so in advance, and we’d agree on a time in the early afternoon.  Sarah didn’t see well or move quickly, so I would ring the doorbell, peek in the window to see her sitting in her usual chair awaiting my arrival, and then I’d open the unlocked door and announce myself.  “It’s Moriah.”

“Come in, come in.” 

I’d settle in the chair opposite her, and she’d ask how I was.  I’d tell her exactly what was on my mind at that moment, no matter how personal or difficult it was to admit or express.  Her head shook, and her voice quavered more and more as the months passed, but I listened closely to every word she said in response. I had come to rely on her utter sincerity and genuine concern. I was convinced Sarah, who had only recently become my friend, understood and cared deeply about me.  When I was finished opening my heart, I’d ask about her, and she would tell me—honestly but without drama—the health problems and every day difficulties she was experiencing; not in a complaining fashion, but matter-of-factly, always ending with gratefulness for the simple gifts in her life that brought her happiness.

I learned that Sarah was a Buddhist of Tibetan lineage and that she meditated regularly.  I meditate too, so that created a bond between us.  She told me about her teacher and some of the practices she had learned.  She joined me several times to meditate with a local mindfulness group. She always asked me about my writing and insisted on buying my novel when it was published.  I don’t know if she was able to get someone to read it to her. Her near blindness prevented her from doing so herself.

Sarah was so quiet and undemanding that people may have forgotten she lived in the neighborhood.  She would tell me she felt lonely and she was hungry for news about the neighbors and the goings-on in our retirement community.

She found workarounds for her limitations, though.  A personal assistant helped her with email, bill-paying, and the ubiquitous paperwork that inundates us all. Her daughter, Riley, came every evening to have dinner with her and help with anything that Sarah could not do on her own.

About a month ago, we noticed more traffic in and out of Sarah’s driveway. Riley began coming during the day, as well as in the evenings. Then she started staying overnight also.  I stopped in for a short visit to learn that Sarah was on hospice and declining rapidly.  Riley led me to Sarah’s room, where she was stretched out in a recliner with a cool cloth on her forehead.  She clasped my hand, told me how much I meant to her, and thanked me for our friendship.  She knew her time was short and was ready for death. We were both aware that this was, perhaps, goodbye. 

But it was not. She lived for another week or so, and I saw her a few more times.  The last one was the evening of her death. She was unconscious, breathing very lightly and gently.  While her daughter took a short break, I played a Buddhist chant, hoping that Sarah could hear and understand the reassuring words.  In the early morning, while I slept, a text came in that she was gone.  I saw it as soon as I awoke and rushed to her house in my pajamas to see her one last time, standing by her bed, kissing her smooth forehead and gazing at her peaceful face.

After that, Riley came and went from the house, handling the tasks one does after death: taking care of property, family, and financial matters with the help of Sarah’s personal assistant.  When I was finally able to catch her alone one evening, just before Christmas, she showed me the memorial altar she had lovingly and sensitively created around Sarah’s colorful tree. In the center sat her urn, carved with a Tree of Life.  Surrounding it were photographs and mementos from her life, several that I recognized, and one, a Buddha card I had given her a while back.  The altar was characteristically Sarah—unpretentious and beautiful. 

Sarah told me she was okay after Joe’s death, and I am okay after hers.  Each morning for the forty-nine days of her journey through the bardo or transitional state, I am ringing a bell and saying this gatha in her honor: “Body speech and mind in perfect oneness, I send my heart along with the sound of this bell.  May all who hear it (especially Sarah) be awakened from forgetfulness and transcend all anxiety and sorrow.”  Because everything is impermanent, I am letting Sarah go, along with the bell’s vibrations, into the universe on her journey home to the Source of Life.

The End

Okay: Part One

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Though I am categorizing this as a story, it is creative nonfiction — based on real events. Names have been changed to protect privacy. Each of us approaches and responds to death uniquely. I want to honor that particularity.

I was away when Sarah’s husband died. A neighbor sent me a staccato email, “Joe died this morning. Been over with food support.” We all expected Joe’s death. He had been on hospice for about a week and was declining rapidly. A couple of days before I left on my trip, when no hospice volunteers or caregivers were available, I sat by his bedside for a few hours one evening while Sarah rested. He talked deliriously for most of the time, the large-screen TV just feet from the end of his bed, blinking incessantly with wild-animal videos from the San Diego Zoo. I found the flashing images distracting and asked if I should turn them off. He said no, he liked the creatures, so I put down the remote and repositioned my chair so my eyes would not stray to the screen. I muted the sound, but the colors still danced on the wall behind his bed.

I had not talked with Joe for a while. Before COVID struck, we went out for coffee a few times. He told me about his life, work, and some of his unusual adventures. I mostly listened, except when asked a specific question, but the conversation always floated back to whatever was on his mind. He’d had a challenging career as an engineer, a happy family life, and enjoyed travel and living abroad. I relished getting to know him, and as a bonus, he introduced me to an excellent local café.

Now, as I sat beside his bed, he told me that he was content with the way things were ending. His children had taken good care of him during the last months, and he knew they would be there for Sarah after he was gone. He had completed everything he felt he needed to do and was ready to die. Even his garage workshop, where he had repaired all sorts of electrical and mechanical gadgets for folks in the neighborhood, was in order, thanks to his son’s help.

I moistened his cracked lips and dry mouth. I said I was happy to sit with him, that he needn’t talk, that he could close his eyes and rest, and he did so for about five minutes. Then the phone rang—his son was calling to say goodnight. I held the receiver up to his ear. After the call, there was no stopping his flow of words. As I hung up the phone, he launched into tale after tale about his life, much of it incoherent, with occasional dramatic bursts of clarity. He kept this up for nearly two hours until Sarah came into his room from her nap, and I rose to go home. I said goodnight and told him I was glad we had spent some time together. Indeed, I was grateful to have the opportunity to say goodbye to this gentle and kind nonagenarian. However, I didn’t know if I was saying goodbye for the night or forever. The next day, I left for a week’s vacation.

When the email announcing his death came, I decided to give it a day before calling Sarah. I know a lot of details must be settled immediately after death, and she and the children would be occupied. So, when I called, I just said I had heard, asked how she was, and told her I would come for a visit when I got home. She was grateful, and I found the call easier than expected. She seemed poised and peaceful, and that eased my shy discomfort. 

A day after I arrived home from my trip, I went into my garden and picked a few autumn flowers—some dahlias, some ferns, and tiny sunflower blossoms. I placed them in a vase and, taking a deep breath, called Sarah to ask if I could come over. She said a visit then would be fine. It took her a while to push her walker to the door, but it finally opened, and she warmly welcomed me. I offered the flowers, and she led me to a table along the dining room wall where she had put pictures of Joe, a copy of his death notice, and another small bouquet. Finally, she added my little offering to the display, invited me to sit, and suggested tea.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve just had my morning coffee. How are you?”

“Well, I’m okay, really,” she replied. I smiled and nodded, my eyes inviting her to say more. It seemed clear to me that she was, indeed, okay.

“Things went well at the end,” she continued. “He had finished everything he wanted to complete, made all the necessary legal and financial arrangements. He said goodbye to the children. Once he stopped eating and drinking, things went pretty quickly. I was sitting with him when he died, and he was peaceful. After that, my daughter came, and we just sat there for a couple of hours, looking at him, saying our goodbyes, and quietly talking until we were ready to call the funeral home. Of course, I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept much in the last month, but I’m relieved that it all went so smoothly. We had wonderful help from hospice and the children. I couldn’t have asked for it to go any better.”

I told Sarah about the few hours I spent with Joe the week before—that he had expressed gratitude for his life and peacefulness about death. I wanted to validate her sense that his end had been good. She smiled and thanked me for being there for Joe and here, now for her.

“Do you have the support you need right now?”

“I do. I’ve never lived alone in my entire life, and my health is still good enough that I think I can do that for a while. I’d like to see what it’s like to be on my own. So many people have been in and out of here, all his caregivers, hospice nurses, people bringing food, family. I’m enjoying the quiet and getting some rest. Yes, I think I will be fine, and I know the kids will help when I need it. And I’m fortunate that I can afford to stay here. Very fortunate.”

I asked a few more practical questions, to which she had ready answers, delivered calmly and confidently. She said that hospice had offered her grief counseling, and she might consider it. She thanked me for the few hours I spent with Joe before his death, and I expressed my gratitude for them. I said I sensed that she would, indeed, be okay.

As I got up to go, she remembered something she wanted to tell me. On the day of Joe’s death, an appliance technician had arrived in the morning to install a new dishwasher. Unfortunately, theirs had broken down, and the one ordered a couple of weeks ago had just come in. She explained to the fellow that Joe was dying and suggested perhaps he could come back another day. “I’ll be quiet,” the technician replied, so she let him go ahead with the installation.   

I chuckled and thought that Joe, an engineer and consummate handyman, would have appreciated that life goes on and dishwashers get hooked up, even while one is dying. Neither Sarah nor I put our thoughts about the peculiar irony of Joe’s final morning into words, but Sarah had a twinkle in her eye as she waved goodbye from behind the screen door. I walked home smiling and feeling okay, too.

Continued in Part Two

2025 Wrap-Up: Looking Back, Looking Forward

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I’m closing out 2025 with a review of the most popular articles I’ve posted on this blog since its inception in January 2017. With All Due Respect has a limited audience of just over one hundred followers, composed chiefly of friends, former colleagues, and a few strangers who have found me through internet searches. It’s intriguing what people find interesting. 

LOOKING BACK …

…at my stats over the last nine years, the most popular post, the one with over 1.5K hits, surprisingly is Nursing Homes: Clothing and Incontinence. It has topped the list of most-read annually for the life of the blog, including in 2025. Indeed, five of the top fifteen articles are related to aging, senior health care, and nursing homes. Is this surprising? Is aging of concern just for my peers, or more generally these days?

This article on incontinence and the treatment of patient clothing in nursing facilities gets at the very heart of human dignity and the respect or lack thereof that we demonstrate toward one another. Incontinence is often viewed by those who are gradually losing control over their lives and their bodies as the last frontier, the most humiliating, debasing loss. I’m not surprised that search engines have brought readers to my humble blog post.

I imagine a reader, perhaps a daughter, exhausted by months or years of care for her elderly parents, seeking advice on what to expect if she gives in and places one or both in a nursing facility.  What would upset Mom most, she wonders. What would Dad hate the most about it? Sitting in a urine puddle in a bed or wheelchair, she suspects. So, she searches the internet to find out how nursing homes manage incontinent patients.  Up pops my post, and she is mesmerized and appalled.

Little has changed in nursing facilities in the nine years since I wrote that article. The better-funded and staffed ones do a more acceptable job of managing incontinence and clothing care. However, the direction of senior health care funding in this country does not bode well for the future of even these places. The general societal attitude toward the elderly has not improved appreciably, though end-of-life care through hospice and Death with Dignity legislation have advanced the quality of life approaching death for many.

Curiously, my second-most popular blog post is The Waterwheel, with 803 hits.  It quotes well-known and beloved poet Rumi’s wisdom and was written just a few days after the start of the COVID pandemic. Its message of taking up and letting go, embracing and relinquishing, is just as personally, socially, and politically relevant now as it was in March 2020. I suspect most readers find it by googling “Rumi” or, perhaps, “letting go,” a frequent theme in my writing.

The Anatomy of Respect, with 617 hits, comes in third. It goes to the heart and root of this blog over the last nine years by emphasizing the role of listening deeply to understand and develop respect.  I have tried to link each essay, poem, and story in the blog to the theme of respect and have encouraged my readers to share their experiences and reflections in response.  Truthfully, only a few readers have done so.

The most extensive dialogue with a reader occurred when a self-described, deeply conservative Republican, then Trump supporter, businessman, and father, Ryan, challenged me to engage in conversation about our differences after I posted the next-most-popular article (with 323 hits), Deep Listening, in December 2020. Our exchange of philosophical, political, and religious ideas, recorded in the comments following the Deep Listening article, began in February 2021. It ended in July 2022 when his family and business life became too busy and complicated for him to continue writing. It was fascinating and encouraging to see how much we had in common. Also, it was extremely challenging to be open-minded and respectful when we differed.

Often, at the beginning of a new year, I launch a new theme with the intention of focusing my writing on a particular aspect of respect throughout the year. It’s not always apparent how the theme relates to my overall subject. For instance, Practicing for the Big Let Go, begun in January 2024, initiated my reflections on letting go in everyday situations as a way of preparing for our final surrender at the time of death. What does this have to do with respect? Letting go involves engaging with the fundamental truth of impermanence—constant change. It requires respect for oneself, others, the flow of events, and our nature as human beings.

LOOKING FORWARD

As 2026 looms on the horizon, and I take stock of the world around me, close to home and farther away, I find it disingenuous to wish an uncomplicated and joyful “Happy New Year” to my friends. I wonder which aspect of respect we will encounter, reflect on, and perhaps write about in the coming year.  As I grow older, my journey toward self-awareness takes me into more vulnerable, authentic, and intuitive territory. As I approach the culmination of life, I’m confronted by my affinity, even my oneness, with those whose ideas and actions I find disturbing or even abhorrent. Painful as it sometimes is, I sense my kinship and interdependence with everyone and everything. Thich Nhat Hanh called this “interbeing.” Acknowledging our interbeing, my three-fold aim to do no harm, help everyone, and embrace life just as it is, is a perennial and unrelenting challenge.

So, instead of “Happy New Year,” here’s my wish for us all. May we seek to respect one another, and may we meet next year’s opportunities to do so with courage, accept their invitation with curiosity, and respond with compassion.

Love in All Seasons

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“Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.”

—Anne Brontë

One morning, a couple of years ago, as I accompanied my dog on his first walk of the day along a well-worn trail through the woods near my home, I was surprised by something I had not noticed before. I saw a path, intentionally bordered on either side by clean barkless branches, which led away from the beaten track over dead leaves, broken sticks, and brown ferns shriveled by frost.

 It was the height of tick season in Maine, so I hesitated to step into the underbrush, trailing my dog on his lead, but my eyes followed the branch borders of the path deeper into the woods.  There, on a stick wedged between two conjoined tree trunks, something brown and out of place dangled.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I had to get closer to be sure. 

Taking a deep breath and hoping no deer ticks would crawl up my legs or bury themselves in my dog’s curious muzzle, I stepped onto the path and gingerly picked my way about twenty paces into the woods.  My eyes had not deceived me.  A sturdy pair of men’s walking shoes hung by their laces, artfully draped over the stick. What could this mean?  Who would leave their shoes behind in the woods?  These lace-ups still had a lot of life in them.

Something prevented me from touching them—some intuition that this was a holy place.  I took a picture of them, and retraced my steps, my dog tugging me back to our usual route. However, the image of the shoes stayed with me for the rest of our morning walk, and the place where they hung became the destination for frequent pilgrimages in days to come.

After several visits, I began to suspect that these were my neighbor Simon’s shoes, and that they had been lovingly arranged in the woods where he frequently walked, his camera dangling from his neck.  Simon had died several months before, and I surmised that his widow deposited the shoes in a setting he loved near their home, where she could visit them often to commune with her husband.  I took the risk of asking her if I had guessed correctly, and she, blushing but shyly pleased that someone else had discovered her memorial, confirmed it. 

Over the last couple of years, my pup and I have visited Simon’s shoes countless times.  Cynthia, Simon’s wife, adds bits of flora to mark the seasons—sometimes delicate wildflowers in spring, ferns in summer, red, yellow, and golden leaves in fall, and, of course, winter provides its own decoration. Each time I set out on my pilgrimage, I look forward to discovering these simple but artful adornments.

All I know of Simon are these shoes and the few memories of her beloved husband that Cynthia has shared with me. By the time the couple moved into my neighborhood, he had already begun to decline.  I would pass him on my afternoon walks and receive a silent smile in response to my cheerful hello.  He was, by then, not much of a conversationalist, especially with strangers.  His soft-spoken words were sparing, but the few I heard were direct and gentle. 

I marveled that the memorial shoes were in such good shape.  According to his wife, Simon had worn them on hikes all over Europe and America.  Once, on a walking trip in Ireland, amid a powerful wind and rainstorm, he and Cynthia took refuge in a farmhouse along their way.  The family welcomed them to warm up and dry off at the hearth. So, Simon propped his feet in front of the open fire, scorching the soles of his shoes before he realized what was happening. Thrifty as he was, he saw no reason to replace the singed footwear. Like his shoes, Simon was humble, loyal, and resilient.

Simon’s memorial shoes, their constancy, adaptation, and beauty in every season, have become an icon for me.  A symbol for the humility that embraces and accepts what is, even when the reality is absence. Gradually, these old shoes will succumb to the elements and disintegrate, but not before they have taught many passersby a profound lesson.  We continue after death, transformed surely, but ultimately, reunited with the elements that made us, enlivened us, warmed us, fed us, cleansed us, and sheltered us. Finally, we come home.

Simon and Cynthia are not the real names of my neighbors.

Practicing for the Big Let Go: Love

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I have mentioned here before that I meet monthly on Zoom with a group of women who talk about our experiences of aging and our musings on death. We explore our stories, insights, discomfort, and fear about the inevitable decline of our bodies and the certain end for us all. A few weeks ago, we had a courageous discussion about dying, our own and that of those we love. Not surprisingly, most of us expressed more fear about the possibility of a painful, demeaning, drawn-out dying process than about the moment of death and what, if anything, comes after it. We ventured onto the delicate topics of Death with Dignity and Physician-Assisted Death, which is legal in some countries, including Canada, where I was born.

I told the story of my Canadian cousin’s husband’s death. I’ll call him Leigh and her Meredith. He suffered for years from debilitating cancer, which was diagnosed just after his retirement when they had planned finally to begin their travel adventures together. Leigh, supporting and delighting in Meredith’s wanderlust and love of natural beauty, encouraged her to go exploring on her own and with their daughters. He enjoyed her travels vicariously and enthusiastically. However, as time went on, she traveled less as he needed more care and experienced frequent hospitalizations for treatment and long energy-less periods confined at home.

Though he tried his best not to be a burden for his family and patiently bore the symptoms of his disease, it troubled him that Meredith’s life centered around him and his ups and downs. He recognized her profound sadness as she watched him suffer, helpless to alleviate it, and worried about how she would cope with what they had good reason to believe would be a painful and degrading end. As the pain increased and his energy ebbed, recognizing his own and Meredith’s exhaustion and the toll his suffering was taking on her, he decided to apply for MAID, Medical Assistance in Dying. Canadian law provides this option for individuals who are terminally ill or in intolerable pain.

Together, Leigh and Meredith navigated all the legal requirements and preparations and finally arrived at the day of his death. Meredith and both of their adult children gathered around his hospital bed, said their goodbyes, and expressed their love and gratefulness for each other. Medical personnel administered the necessary medications, and quietly and peacefully, Leigh went to sleep and then ceased to breathe. Meredith experienced the meticulously planned and compassionately orchestrated end as a gift of love Leigh gave to himself, her, and their daughters. Years later, she still speaks movingly of this gift and her memories of their last intimate moments together. She says Leigh was right; a horrible end would have been much more difficult for both of them to endure and for her to recover from. Instead of her beloved in agony, her last memory of him is tender and peaceful.

I did not tell the story of my mother’s death in that morning’s discussion group. In her early eighties, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer after a long period of ignored symptoms and then months of waiting for tests and doctors’ appointments. The specialists said that her only hope of survival was a drastic surgery in which her abdominal organs would be removed from her body to make the tumor on her pancreas accessible for excision. Then, they would replace the organs, and everyone hoped everything would work properly again. It was a risky option back then for even a younger, more fit person, but it was a long shot for someone in their early eighties. By demonstrating determination and pestering her doctors, she got them to agree to perform the surgery, even though success was extremely uncertain. She wowed them on the pre-surgery stress tests, proving that she was strong enough to withstand the operation, but as the day approached, she was anxious and irritable. 

One evening, I asked her why she was willing to put herself through such trauma for perhaps just a few more years of extended life when she could not count on a full recovery or high-quality health. She responded without hesitation, as though she had already asked herself that very question and was certain of the answer. “It’s for your father,” she said. “He will be too lonely when I die. But don’t tell him.” I didn’t press her further. She and my dad did not have an overtly romantic relationship. I can’t remember her ever expressing feelings of love to anyone. On the contrary, she tossed criticism liberally in all directions. But they had been married for more than fifty years, and their lives were so intertwined that she knew her death would be his undoing. 

She had the surgery. The team opened her up and saw an abdomen riddled with cancer, so they closed her and sent her to recovery. The surgeon told us the outcome and gave a prognosis of one to three months. She lived through the night and, early the next morning, experienced massive internal bleeding, was taken back to surgery, and died of heart failure. My father’s sobbing heartbreak is seared into my memory, as is the sight of his forlorn, defeated figure standing outside her empty bedroom at home that evening.

I’m not sure if my mother ever told my father that she loved him, but she knew how much he loved her, and she was willing to endure a horrendous surgery out of compassion for him—her gift of love. He lived for five lonely years after her death, making the best of each day but missing her profoundly. It was tough to watch.

Another member of the aging-and-death discussion group shared a glimpse into a recent awakening. She’s been seeking understanding of love, what it is, how it feels, how it manifests, for quite some time. Recently, she and her husband were walking during an outing. He is older than she and is slowing down slightly. She found herself dropping back to match his slower pace and wondering at the tender willingness she felt as she did so. Could this be love, she asked herself—some facet of love? 

As I draw nearer to my own inevitable death—The Big Let Go—I ask myself what will be most important to me, and I know instantaneously and completely that it will be love. Everything else will fall away, and the only important activity will be loving—giving and receiving it. Knowing this, shall I start to practice now? Let go of all but love, in every moment and situation, and lean into loving—fall into it, and trust it utterly.

Dignity or Indignity

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I frequently visit a long-term care facility near my home. My dog and I go once a week to offer pet therapy to the residents. We walk from room to room, greeting the patients who pet the dog, smile at his simple tricks, and feed him treats as a reward. Occasionally, I also serve as a hospice volunteer in this facility, watching with someone who is dying through the dark hours of the night. For one reason or another, I’ve spent a good deal of time visiting nursing homes in Maine and Massachusetts, and this facility, in my experience, is one of the best. From an outsider’s point of view, it is clean and well-managed, with a full complement of services and a clientele that seems satisfied with their care. The staff is friendly to my dog and me, speaks kindly to the patients and treats them with gentleness.

            Still, even in this seemingly best-case scenario, there are sometimes heart-breaking and gut-wrenching situations. Recently, nearing the end of a morning visit with my dog, I approached a patient we know well, who loves the little pup and whose attention he welcomes. She was sitting in her wheelchair in the hallway outside her room, looking anxious. I asked her what was bothering her, and she said she had been waiting for a long time for someone to take her to the bathroom. The young social worker who had just left her side had gone in search of a nursing aide to assist her. “It’s so hard,” she said, “when one gets old and bladder control is not what it used to be, and you call and call, and no one comes. Things have gotten worse,” she said. “One waits longer and longer now.” I expressed my sympathy and felt frustration rising in my chest. I also noticed a high-pitched wailing coming from the room opposite hers.

Someone else was also in distress. The room had a barrier across the door with a large stop sign in the center, indicating that only authorized personnel could enter. These detachable and portable barriers became common at the height of Covid outbreaks. “Help! Please help!” came the weak plea from the bathroom inside the room, but I could not go in to see what the matter was. I surmised the resident, whom we also know well, had been sitting on the toilet for a long time and was in discomfort or pain. The social worker approached again and reported that a nurse would be along shortly, after she finished putting another patient in bed. Timidly, I pointed toward the Stop sign and asked if she knew someone else needed help. She looked daggers at me, I guessed, for interfering, so I said goodbye to our friend in the wheelchair and walked on, frustrated, sad, and embarrassed for all of us.

The next day, when talking about aging with a group of healthy women in their sixties and seventies, I told this story and commented that this sort of indignity may await us all. I believe this common occurrence in senior care facilities is not the fault of nurses or other staff, social workers, or families, I argued, but the result of an ageist society that does not value the lives of those who are no longer financially or physically productive. An uncomfortable silence, a few somber nods of recognition, and a change of subject followed my candid expression of opinion. Understandably, no one wanted to discuss toileting in nursing homes or dwell on the possibility of finding ourselves in similar situations down the aging road.

I wrote about the indignities of the senior healthcare system in an extended series on The Elderly and End-of-life Care in 2017 when I launched this blog. Things have not changed since then, and because of further staffing shortages, they have worsened in many ways.

This kind of indignity may await all of us. More and more of us are living into our nineties because of medical advances producing life-prolonging disease treatments and cures. The healthcare system is stretched beyond measure, caring for an ever-increasing percentage of seniors in our population. We take advantage of every possible means to prolong our lives. Covid has decimated the ranks of healthcare professionals, and the greed of insurance and drug companies complicates matters further. I frequently hear my contemporaries say that the system is broken. They can’t get direct face time with their primary care doctors, or appointments with specialists, or get their prescriptions promptly. Doctors and nurses are quitting in frustration or from burnout. In-home care is exorbitantly expensive, and the agencies that deploy homecare workers are limping along with a few staff members. Of course, the financially secure have it far better than low-income people. That goes without saying, but no matter how financially secure you are, your dignity will be in jeopardy if you can’t get someone to take you to the bathroom.

Or will it? In these recent posts, I’ve been encouraging us to think about practicing for The Big Let Go—death. I’ve been recommending we consider learning to let go in small ways in ordinary daily situations to be ready to let go in a big way at the end of our lives. Am I suggesting that we must let go of our dignity? No. I am proposing that we consider where our dignity truly resides.

Does our dignity depend on how others treat us, or is it reflected in and demonstrated by how we treat others? My friend waiting for assistance to go to the bathroom was calm, polite, and sad but not angry, even though she faced the indignity of potentially soiling herself while she waited. The other patient, pleading for assistance from her bathroom, said, “Please.” Can we learn to relinquish the external signs of dignity while holding on to our inner poise, beauty, and self-esteem? And how can we practice doing that today?

How do we respond when someone wounds our dignity in small or large ways? Can we still insist upon the outward recognition of everyone’s dignity while more highly valuing intrinsic worthiness, integrity, humility, and courage as the essence of our humanity?

We may not all end up in situations like the patient in the wheelchair waiting for assistance with toileting. We may be lucky enough to die suddenly or in the comfort of our homes, surrounded by those who love us and tend promptly and respectfully to all our needs. We may live an active and independent life, avoiding physical dependency on others to the end. But if we don’t practice letting go of external signs of respect while holding fast to inner dignity, we may lack the necessary interior resources to draw upon as we approach The Big Let Go.

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?

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.