Thank you Billy Crystal

A much beloved Muslim man died, the world grieved and a Jewish man eulogized him. 

Death, per se, doesn't bother me. We go when it's time to go. Sometimes we choose; sometimes Nature chooses. Some go quickly and some linger, but we all get there eventually. 

Still I cried... not only because Muhammad Ali died, but also because Billy Crystal loved him so much. What a passionate and hilarious tribute he gave. Then I watched a YouTube video of Billy's 1979 tribute to Ali and it was brilliant. Billy said, at the memorial service, that he got lost in that performance all those years ago and "became Ali". So true. I learned today that Ali called Billy his "Little Brother" based on the first time they met. A touching story. A life-long friendship. 

I cried and cried. My cat came to comfort me, mewing a sweet sound he only uses when I cry, trying to purr away the sobs coming from my heart. 

Then I listened to Josh Groban sing "To Where You Are" and finished my grieving...for today anyway. 

Immediately thereafter, I went into Nature. I basked in the glowing energy of the flowers all around: oleander limbs pulled downward with blossoms, a honeysuckle that has struggled for many years finally getting a foothold and beginning to shine. I observed fondly my small veggie garden: the onions, tomatoes, peppers and chives. I watered and pulled a few weeds. In my own quiet way, I worshiped the Earth. 

We Pagans must spend time with Nature, or we suffer greatly. To be happy on this slab of so-called civilization, we must be allowed to live within our own ethical code. Fitting ourselves into small boxes formed by bosses or general conformity causes us grievous injury. I may label myself, almost with Pagan Pride...but refuse to be labeled by others. 

The reward for a solitary Pagan practice...is blessed solitude, exactly what I need. 

I need to be the only energetic force in my space. I need the house to be full of emptiness so I can fill it with ideas and words. I need to write. I need to meditate. 

The outside world hurts me. I stay home, or near home, to dampen the pain that falls on -- and into -- my body -- out in the world. Even in the safety of my own little world, there are concerns to work through, fears to process and grieving to do... seeing Ali's children at the memorial service brought me face to face with the upcoming anniversary of my dad's death. That aggrieves me. 

And yet I laughed this morning. Then I cried. Then I moved into that holy space of grief, with Billy Crystal reminding me that in that oh-so-painful world, the one out there that drives me deep inside myself, a Jewish man and a Muslim man can love and respect each other. Build bridges not walls. 

I cried: grieving loss, missing loved ones, knowing that people are suffering, feeling the Earth's -- and the world's -- pain. Then I moved on into my day. Grieving on the go. 

My heart's a little more dented this morning...and a little more whole. 

If you want to see Billy Crystal eulogize Ali, go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMgPGbW1PGI 

Talk TO Death

I generally encourage people to talk about Death. But in this instance, I'm suggesting that we talk TO Death. I wrote this for a friend who is in hospice and debating whether to let go. I've encouraged her to "make Death her peer" and have an honest conversation with it/her.

If Death approaches, speak to it, recognize it. Ask questions. Tell it what you want. To the extent that you can, relax. This will well and truly be the adventure of a lifetime, to quote a friend. So be with it. Be there. But you don't have to be awake.

If you’re not conscious of this world, it may be easier to interact with the others. Ask those who come whatever you want to know. Whether they are fading off or coming near, encouraging you, ask, if you want to. You can say it out loud or to yourself. This is not the time to worry about what people with you think.

Speak to Death. Here’s an example. I’ve been having a painful twinge (OK, sometimes more than a twinge) in my side. Started at or near the scar from the removal of the lymph glands. Those twinges felt like bumble bee stings. A bit more than a twinge. It has moved and is now behind my armpit. Doesn’t hurt as much there, but it disturbing.

Thus I spoke out loud (to whom-or-whatever) and said, with arms lifted straight over my head toward the sky. I said, “If you are here for me, I’m willing to go. If you’re not, I just want you to know I don’t like this pain.

I shook my finger in Death’s face as it were.

Letting Death be my peer takes a great deal of the fear out of the experience. It forestalls panic in almost every case.

Of course, you’ve got to be ready to actually go with Death if She asks, too. That means living every day. Oh-so trite and so seldom done…but give it a shot. Rearranging knickknacks and pulling a few weeds may be all I do in any given day. Maybe I take a nap, too. That, as a retired woman who loves housework and gardening…is living...so much more than skydiving or running a Fortune 500 company.

Once you’ve reached a certain age, to be ascertained by your own personality and ideology, it’s time to go. It’s our job to move on. 

I feel so bad for my peers who are still taking care of parents. Even those who aren’t involved in it are frequently impacted by it in some way. And it’s my (not original) idea that none of us grow up all the way until our parents are gone. For some, like my friend Joan, that was at an early age.

But for others, people I know who seem elderly to me…and I’m well into elderly territory myself…are still talking about their parents. Of course by that time, there is hardly any good news. It’s about healthcare and the ills of advanced old age.

Nobody wants that. 

Even the parents (or the seniors I see where I work part-time) in their 90s who are relatively healthy usually can’t drive anymore. They can’t see well or hear without assistance. At least partially dependent except in rare cases. They are, by remaining alive, simply not doing their job.

It’s no secret that I envy people who die. Especially the ones who do it without making a big splash. Lots of tears, of course, but no need for hysteria (until later, during the actual grieving work). Sadness. Bereft. 

Death comes. Some of us stay for a while. Some go. We who are left are the ones who feel the pain.

We survivors should talk to Death, too. Perhaps that’s why I did today. Having just had another episode of the pain that literally runs along my ribs toward the back now, I’m serious.

And Death will do what needs to be done, no matter how hard we fight or practice denial. No need to be Invictus, there is no horror. No need to rage, rage. Just go gentle. 

Speak to Death.