Death and Writing


This last three weeks I keep telling myself that I want to make a post here. With so much that’s so important happening in my life, there’s no shortage of material.  Three weeks ago I returned from an 8 day retreat called Enlightened Society Assembly at Shambhala Mountain Center (SMC).  I heartily recommend both.  Those 8 days marked a major shift for me — I’m still finding out exactly what that shift is entailing.  I know there’s a shift because I feel different.  Not quite so self-conscious and worried about whether I’m measuring up to expectations.  What’s really live for me today, though, is death.  I promise that I did not premeditate that sentence, but now that it’s out I’m going to have to leave it. 

                                                           Still life with skull and a writing quill by Pieter Claesz.
                                                          (Apparently, I'm not the only one who associates 
                                                           death and writing.) Retrieved from 
                                                           http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/435904


Maitri Moon’s grandmother died last night; we found out this morning around 10 AM.  She had just turned 93 less than a week ago.  She wasn’t in good health, and she was ready to go.  When I found out, I remember evaluating how I felt: no pushing-away/suppressing, no overwhelming grief, warm concern for Maitri’s mother, from whom I’d just heard the news.  Maitri and I had a hiking date today, and we found ourselves talking about how we’d live if we found out that death was 1 year away.  In the past those kinds of ponderings and conversations have felt theoretical and speculative.  I’ve felt removed from the possibility of death.  This time, death felt quite immediate.  I didn’t have much hmming-and-hawing about the changes that I would make in my life. I would quit grad-school, visit people and places that I love, and practice a lot.  Most surprising was finding the urge to spend a lot of time writing.  This is part of that shift I started out talking about.  Being certain about something yet still being surprised by it.  I have no sense of having manufactured that desire to write.  Maybe that’s a little spontaneity peeking through. 

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