Читать книгу Danse Macabre - N. Thomas Johnson-Medland - Страница 8

The idea of death stalks us at every turn.

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It may actually be Death Himself that stalks us at every turn.

* * *

Whether it is the idea of death or Death Himself, it does not matter. We are stalked throughout our whole lives by the notion, the idea, the feeling, the reality, and the imminent haunting dream that we are going to “not be alive” someday. Someday, what we are now will either not be at all or will somehow be different—very different. We are stalked by this at every turn.

I used to think that this was just something that I knew because of my work in hospice and my presence in the Orthodox Church.

In hospice all of my patients and their families were so surrounded by the issues of death and dying that Death was palpable. In the Orthodox Church the Fathers of the Church are still taught, and one of the main spiritual prescriptions of the Fathers was and is to “remember your death”—it will help you to live more soberly.

But, as I have moved away from these two magnets of death, I have begun to realize that Becker (Ernest Becker and his associates) were and are correct. All of us are at some semblance of odds with the idea of death and Death Himself. Everything we do has some foretaste of our “some-day-not-doing” or “some-day-not-being” mixed up in it. We are obsessed with the reality that we will not be around some day. It lies just below the surface of everything we do. It is an anxiety that we keep with us, allowing it to taint—ever so minutely—everything we are and do.

If you do not believe that, then just tear apart your motives for a whole day. Dissect them down to the drivers behind each thing you do. At some point you will be left with the idea that you do the things you do because either you believe they will put you into heaven (or hell) or that you do the things you do because you want to be a part of a group of people that are associated with that kind of behavior (which is also a way of painting an image of “heaven or hell”—it is your version of people doing the right thing and you do not want to be separated or isolated from that group).

I know it is easy to recoil from this bold idea and statement. None of us wants to think of ourselves or humanity as lemmings headed to the cliff; making turns this way and that to avoid the final frontier that will come to be regardless. But, as has become clearly the motto for our age, “it is what it is”.

When we think about life, we think about belonging. We belong to a group or an ideal of what we think is the proper way. When we think about death, we think about being separated from our group or ideal—even if for an instant.

Death is that piece where we are “not-what-we-have-been”. People of faith and religious leaning will probably balk at what I am saying—at first blush. But, an honest man/woman will recognize that his/her faith is faith because they want to stay connected to God (or the Divine Ideal) and God’s community, even on the other side of the blinking instant of what we call death.

The reason the religious are religious is they do not want to be separated from this LIFE. They do not want to be separated from the TRUTH. Which is the premise that we are all doing what we do in life in response to the idea that we will not be alive some day.

* * *

This whole collection of words is about that idea. I am swimming in words about death and dying; about separation and belonging. This book is a wrestling with our wrestling with death. It is a suggestion to look at how you wrestle with your fear of “not-being” and see how it impacts the way you live. It is a call to actively working with your own beliefs and a request to acknowledge your mythologies of death and dying.

Bring it up out of the unconscious and make it conscious. Because, as the Gospel of Thomas, 70 states so clearly: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will kill you.”

Take a look at what is going on in yourself when you consider the idea of “not-being”. What does it make you do, believe, feel, intuit, and desire? Remember your death—as the Fathers taught. It drives who you are. Be aware of that.

* * *

This one morning, I could feel Death’s presence as I put on my socks. He was cold and heavy, sitting there without uttering a sound. He did not call to me, or draw a grasping hand at me. He just sat there. I could not even hear him breathe.

He lives on the back side of a fog we would do well to call ignorance. Sometimes we would do well to call the fog denial. Working with the dying has dissipated the fog some in my life. It is still there because so many people hide from the transformational ethos of dying, but I can see through it—like a haze—just a bit. The dying ones have made sure of that. They were eager to help me see.

* * *

It may not actually have been Death himself. It is hard to know if the presence you feel is Death or one of his minions (those that do His bidding). It is the same fine line between thinking about Death and thinking about dying. He and His minions have the same feel: cold and heavy, breathless. They are silent but clearly knowable. Talking about Death and dying has the same feel too. They are silencing. They bring an end to whatever is going on. Their lugubrious presence is heavy.

It felt like Death, though, this morning. Death sat there next to me on the bed. It sort of reminded me of the Looney Tunes cartoon when the sheep dog and the coyote go off to work together and punch in at the same time clock. Once they punch in, they become enemies, but before that they are just folks who know each other.

Death and I knew each other, but as I got closer to work—work at the hospice—He would become the very thing I was helping people to deal with. I would start to talk about Death like He was not there. He and I would be traveling together, but my job was to somehow open other peoples’ eyes to His presence in their life, so they could be “awake”.

* * *

You can tell when Death or His minions are in a room. You have been in a hospital room when nothing is being said, nothing is being felt. That not-saying and that not-feeling are because Death or His buddies are in the room—taking all of the life out of it. Death and his buddies consume everything—leaving a vacuous void. Silence beyond anything we could give word to.

If you are not sure of what I am talking about, just say the word “death” the next time you are talking with a group of people. Simply interject the word into the middle of the conversation—an absurd non-sequitur.

The blank, expressionless absence of words that saying “death” creates, that feeling is the feeling of Death himself. He has gained that feeling because we have filled his image with elemental impressions that are filled with fear. Our innards writhe at the mention of the word. The anxiety that swims in us is an overbearing pile of snakes. They steal our tongue and dull our minds. Just utter the word, you will see.

He is what we have created him to be. Not that Death does not have his own intrinsic meaning. It does. He does. But, impressions add to meaning—that is for sure. Fear has added an immense stock of impressions to what is conjured up when we hear the mention of “Death” or think in his direction.

When we do not talk about something, we are not saying that there is no belief behind that idea; that we have nothing inside us concerning that thing. We are saying that we struggle with being able to put words to what it is that is going on inside. This is what the Gospel of Thomas, 70 was getting at. If we do not put words to that thing in us, it will consume the whole of our days and drive us toward its own self fulfillment. Basic psychology, folks.

We can have all sorts of linear beliefs about death and dying; “bumper sticker phrases” to shield our hearts from the dread we feel. But, most people when faced with transformation are not permeated with a peaceful surrender that longs for transition. They recoil with some ancient lurking sickness that is beyond them. Their dark silence runs deep. We fear Death most often.

* * *

His minions are made up of the recently dead, and His spiritual envoys—angels of Death if you will. His minions are new arrivals and the long-dead alike. His minions do his bidding. They are journeymen and masters. His minions are also small thoughts, images, and inklings of the idea of separation, loss, and death. Little things that give us a glimpse—askance—of death.

You could say there are layers to the impressions and meaning of Death. There are pieces to the complete identity of Death. They float aloft like wisps of carbon around a fire. Those layers, those pieces, and those wisps make up the minions of Death.

Most of the time people do not recognize that things in our lives have multiple and graded meanings. They do not recognize the layers to things. They believe they have streamlined and singular beliefs about things like God and love and death and sex.

The fact is, most of us have concentric meanings and impressions about everything in our world. Without them we would be unable to survive. The echolocation of our lives is always seeking out where things are in conjunction to where we are. This sensing is able to identify depth where we had only thought there was a surface. We just do not rely on this sensing; we do not feel for more than initial soundings.

* * *

When you feel Death, it may be a minion. It may just be one of the recent dead who are unfamiliar with what has happened to them. It may be remnants of a conversation on the dismal topic. It may be Death himself has perched himself aloft in the space around you. It may simply be lineaments of your last funeral. You can feel Death, though. You can feel the presence of the idea of dying. It may be a missing of someone you no longer have within view; just outside your reach, and touch, and grasp.

* * *

When people die, some of them do not die knowing they are dying. Quick and sudden deaths are like this. These people seek out the living in order to carry on usual relationships with them. Since they do not know they are dead, they do not know they should stop living—and so they do not. They just keep on carrying on with “life” as they knew it. All the while, they are dead. Their echolocation is really poorly developed. It can happen with people that are in deep concentric rings of denial or ignorance—those who have not allowed things to come up and out into the conscious light.

These unclear dead folks—transformed people who do not know they are transformed—try to crash in to familiar scenes. They go down the hall from their death room and seek out urgent and familiar feelings. They look for “Clara” or “Bob” and launch off into some one-sided, unheard conversation.

They run after their sister that is running out of the house in tears. The gap between living and dying is not as cavernous as we had hoped. We see people who have died for weeks after the change has happened.

The newly dead try to meet up with people. They are trying to see if things are really as different as they feel, or if they are only exaggerating what they feel. It is sort of like walking into a meeting and immediately joining into the conversation. You kind of hope people will forget you were late. That is what the newly dead do, if they did not know Death was coming. They are hoping people will somehow forget they are late. They are a bit unsure of their own lateness as well.

It is amazing to me that more of them do not recognize something is odd right at the outset. But, for many it takes a while to orient their new world with the old world. Gibran was right: death is sort of like a denied poet or prophet. It is in our midst, but we have not ears to hear or eyes to see.

After a while, the newly dead begin to sense that something is different. At first, there is no real knowing, but there is a sensing that things are not the same. The “knowing” that they are dead, comes later. It happens when they meet another transformed person who comes to help, or it comes when they have attempted to talk to the living so many times that they can piece together why they fail to respond.

The living go through this same shift. We often see those who have died. They are just across the room. We see them at a distance in the mall. We are sure that they were in that meeting. We will eventually stop seeing the dead in our homes, and malls, and lives as well. We will get on with life and our minds will adjust. We tell ourselves it is over and they are gone. But the gap is not as cavernous as we had hoped.

We all have a period of adjustment to go through when death occurs. The living as well as the dead.

* * *

I have had patients meet up with me in my home. They are looking for someone they can openly confide in. They all live at least forty minutes away from me, and have no idea where I live, but they show up, wanting to connect. I mean dead ones meet me. The impressions of these patients meet me; their spirits meet me; the essence of who they are meets me. The newly dead seek out the familiar and will go at great lengths to feel comfortably familiar with their new life. And so, those who need me to help make sense out of what is going on have met up with me. If only in a dream.

I am not sure if this is a violation of patient privacy, other newly dead meeting me and seeding themselves into where I am going? But, at any rate, HIPAA violation or not, they seek out life because they don’t know it is missing. They follow me into my day. They hope I will not notice that they have shown up to the meeting late.

* * *

There was one MHMR patient I had visited for months while she was alive. She was—at first—unsure of why we were meeting, even though we were speaking about being sick and about death. Her parents would not allow any of us on the hospice staff to make the connection with her predicament and her dying. We could not talk about her death. I spoke about it tangentially for months.

I spoke about it tangentially because I believe that is all that is necessary for people to do the work themselves and make the inner connection. She did. Against her parents wishes she brought forth that which was within.

She showed up at my house one morning at two o’clock. She marched into my dream and waking all at once. She suddenly knew she was dying and her vaporous self tracked me down. She said to me, “I don’t know how to do this.” She wanted my help.

I explained it to her. I talked about transitions. I sat down, felt around my heart for an idea of what she was going through. When I felt/saw the scenario, I explained her way through it. I told her how to travel through the landscape of her dying.

When she arrived in my dream, I could smell her presence in my waking. It was the smell some dying people have mixed with her household odors. The smell was so strong that I knew she was coming to me before she actually appeared. I could smell her; in my sleeping and in my waking. I knew her in the shadows. The smell made my dream turn to lucidity.

We encounter these shadows in the land between waking and sleeping. We encounter the deeper mysteries in the lingering awareness that lacks domination by control: in the land of words and images, impressions and hunches. We can see and hear these things when we loosen our grip just a little bit. This ties dreaming to our wakefulness; dreaming is a part of the process of bringing forth that which is within to save us.

She was genuinely scared. She had no idea what to do. She remembered that I had told her if she had questions about what was happening, or needed help, that she should ask me. I would be honored and glad to help.

I felt into my heart to find out where we were; where she was. There had been a clear and deep-sapphire blue tunnel in front of us—as I felt around for impressions. From the center of the tunnel came a rich and scintillating gold light. It was so rich and dense; it looked like flowing or churning liquid gold. I knew this place well. It was the place people go to in meditation. I had been there before. It was then I realized that meditation builds a bridge to transformation.

The inner journey is a mirror of the outer. Meditation is tied to death. Meditation is tied to surrendering into the letting go that is death.

I told her about what I saw and told her that it was a good sign. It was the sign of peace and the unitive experience—good will and harmony. I told her people had sought this vision of God for thousands of years. Mystics strove to find this place. She had arrived at the Divine source and would be able to go on ahead. She had found the Pearl of Great Price.

She said she was scared. I told her how I had been at this place hundreds of times and it was a good place. This place was exactly where she needed to be. I assured her that the beauty of everything she saw around her was an important thing for her to focus on and concentrate on. She could trust this place.

She said she trusted me, and she would just look at the beauty of it all. I told her to go into the tunnel and enjoy her time there, that there would be friends for her to see. She left and went on her way. She trusted what we saw together, and that my having been there before was enough. She not only brought forth what was within, but she then entered into it.

When she was gone, the smell that had filled the room slowly disappeared as well. The smell was the distinct odor of dying, of household cleaners used to rid the home of the smell of death, and of cigarette smoke that had filled her home her last few months of life. It was in both the dream and in my waking nostrils. It faded after a few minutes of being awake.

It was gone. When I got to work that morning, I found out she had died in the early morning hours. I already knew that.

She must have been lonely, needed some more help—on the other side, or getting there—or been missed deeply. Two weeks after her death, her mother died—unexpectedly. I like to believe she took the journey for her daughter; she longed to go it together. Perhaps the reason the parents did not want to speak to the daughter about death was because the mother had sensed her own imminent demise. Who can say?

* * *

Sometimes when you feel the numbing presence of death it is one of Death’s spirits or angels coming to lure you onto the path. They don’t have any ability to bring you onto the path; they just randomly attempt to catch unsuspecting and weak victims. They hope you lose your focus just enough to steer off the road, or slip with the chainsaw. They hope they can surprise you into dying. Every close call you have had where you emerge knowing you almost died is a clear example. It may be that the minions have a bonus program for bringing in new members. If you have a sudden and traumatic end, they get a toaster or a sandwich grill. Who can say?

I was no fool. I wasn’t going that morning—that morning that I felt Death’s presence. I was not going to follow Him or them into my own death. But, I would certainly walk with them and find out who was getting ready to take the path. I would put on my socks and go off with Death to minister among the dying.

* * *

Working with the dying is like being in the underworld. It is all misty and hazy and you are not sure about what you are seeing or hearing. But, you learn to work with a deeper sense—intuition and discernment. You learn to listen for things, feel for things, look, taste, and touch for things with a more hyper-extended sense of understanding.

Like in dreams and dreamtime things in the luminal and liminal world of the dying are very metaphoric and operate on a vast array of planes of meaning and action. One thing means more than one thing. This is always an important distinction when applying therapeutic skill toward interpreting a life lived.

This same sort of dreamtime or dreamlike living occurs in leaping poetry. The connections made between disparate ideas, concepts, and objects in this kind of poetry are not only metaphoric, but able to span the full range of the synapses in the brain. Things may not immediately make sense in proximity to each other, but then, all of the sudden, the link is illuminated and we have an “ah ha moment” that makes everything liminal and luminal at once. It is dreamy.

Things that do not seem to be connected, related, or meaningful together become so because of the awakening moment. End-of-life has a lot of these awakening moments. These same sort of things happen quite frequently in meditative or contemplative states and experiences. We are opened to a much wider field of interpretation and awareness. We can see how one thing may be related to, similar to , or connected to another in this arena of “larger meaning”. This gives it an underworld or subconscious feel.

People in the end-stage-of-life, and to an extent the people immediately around them, are forced into seeing through the looking glass with a bit more intensity than every other day in life. The best we can do to describe it is to compare it to those really serious conversations, thoughts, and pacts that come about in the evening as the sun is setting. You know those serious conversations that happen around the fire, or heart to heart, or over a glass of wine. Everything else in life—except that moment—is meaningless. This conversation bears the weight of our whole worth and of the whole world.

Things are so different in this liminal and luminal space that often the morning after one of these serious and clarifying moments, people tend to down play how vital those conversations, thoughts, or pacts were. They may even deny that they said this or that. You know what I am talking about. That is how it is all of the time in the lives of people edging closer to death. Everything is vital and means something. More of life leans into the liminal and luminal as death approaches.

* * *

I know this language sounds silly to you. But, play along; the journey we shall take will bridge the gap between your fear and your living. Hold the words and let them ring aloud a bit. Find out where the words belong and where you are in relation to them.

Without these impressions, you will hold the images below the luminal life and keep them at bay for ever. That will kill you. Let these tales become the solid matter in the field of your echolocation. They will give resonance to your soundings.

Someday—generally sooner than we hope—Death will come for you. Can you honestly say that at this moment now you feel ready to make the transition? Is everything in your life in order and up to date? Have you mended everything that is torn? Have you added everything you were here to add? If not, dance with me among the stories of Death and dying and find some flowers to hold onto for beauty and sustenance against the change.

* * *

Who was there that morning—the morning I was putting on my socks—I do not know. I do know that one of the Death squad was there. I could feel them: heavy and lingering like that fog. They wanted something. I had no idea what it was. I could feel they wanted something.

I had put my socks on inside out. I had to take them off and turn them “right side out” (the lumps of loose string facing thread in) and put them back on. This focus; this “little-extra-to-get-it-right” time with my socks gave me the chance to step out of the routine and feel him there. He was close: very, very close. Small acts of routine behavior are often the bridges into contemplative space. Somehow the repetitive nature of routine enables us to step off the bridge and into the Stream-of Life. Routine can plunge us into the underworld—the world of “that which is within”.

Routine helps us to step outside of ourselves and notice things like this. Things like the presence of Death. Things like how much we love the people in our lives. I let the routine reveal to me the path of my day. Someone was dying and I would be needed sooner, rather than later.

My pager went off. When I returned the page, the nurse told what house to go to. That is where I went.