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.

Memories…

Watched a PBS special about memory/the brain. Perhaps I can understand slightly why Balboa didn’t want to publish my memoir. There is a chance that some of what I remember isn’t entirely “true” though it is my Truth. Each of us experiences reality differently and though the abuses I recall have made real pathways in my brain…I’m a writer, given to embellishment.

So I’m editing my book of essays. Much less revealing of the depth of abuse, but still, a memoir of sorts. Plus, let’s face it…just writing the first book helped me finish getting over any real or imagined abuses, so win/win!

That win/win is something I always seek. Found it!

Also whereas I only felt "done" when I sent in the manuscript for the book, NOW I feel "relieved"...again win/win.

All is well. Stay tuned!

SEPTEMBER 28, 2015 EDIT

And the bad news is…

I’ve been notified by Balboa Press that some of the entries in my memoir may be considered libelous. In order to use those poems I would need to get notarized statements from the people who I mention as being abusive (or just generally awful to me) before we can publish the work. Here is an example of something they consider potentially libelous:

Best friend’s brother, Scott

Stumbles through my small, sick world

Lusty, crazy nights!

Well, as it turns out, I don’t have to have a statement from people who are dead. However, in another complication, I DO need their permission (dead for less than 70 years…) to use images of me that were taken of me as a child.

Therefore, I’m thinking I’ve learned a very expensive lesson here. Somehow celebrities can write how horrible their childhoods were, but I can’t mention the things that happened to me! I asked the good people at Balboa Press, “Then, what, pray tell, am I recovering from?” as the book becomes an uplifting tome as I find peace of mind through recovery. (I have received no response though it’s been more than  week…)

At any rate, I’m not going to publish the book. It was a book I needed to write, but apparently not one I needed to publish. I’ll make a few copies for my friends and call it good (and I WILL use the childhood images…so sue me!)

Now I’ve got to notify all the friends who went to the trouble to give me copyright permission. I know they were excited to see their images in print (so was I!) It was a long and arduous process, tracking down people I hadn’t seen in decades, but I did it. Only to discover that I would also need to ask people to admit, in writing in front of a notary, that they had been mean to me ten years (or 50 years) ago! Yep, an expensive lesson.

So goodbye for now, Little Valencia…I’ll tell your story to a select few. But your dream of having other people see that recovery is possible…is dead for now. I’m sorry, dear little hurt child. You are nonetheless, loved by me and many others.

And on another subject all together...

I've recently submitted my memoir to the publisher. It got pretty complicated after submission, but I've already paid for it, so going forward. Here's an interesting note...once I submitted it, I completely lost interest in it. It's done. So am I!

That was not the response I was expecting. I thought I'd be excited (nope), anxious (pretty intense stuff in there), scared (of the reaction of family and friends) - but again, no...or relieved. Instead, I'm just done.

I'm already putting together my next two books in my head. Much of the text is written, just need to spend time putting them in a cohesive format.

Perhaps this isn't actually another subject at all...I do want to "leave" these words as my legacy more or less. So perhaps this is about death as well. Planning for the time when I'm no longer here.

Because I've spent a lifetime putting words on paper, I can't expect anyone to ever wade through them all (I can barely read an entire year's journal myself!) So my memoir is a condensed version of the ups and down of my life. Very condensed. Written in Haiku!

My next two books are written in (1) essay form and (2) fictionalized story form. Those will be easier to read for most people. Whether I publish them or not, I'll make sure to get them into book format before long. Or Valencia Bathe will...one of us!

At any rate, I'm a writer and now things are written. That feels good in a way. Mostly just glad it's over...the book, not my life...! I'll be putting words "on paper" for the rest of my life, whether it's a day or 25 years. Nobody will ever need to wonder how I felt about things! And so it is!

Four articles of interest

Here's a place to read up on "the latest" in death and dying; four interesting posts. It appears to be sponsored by or part of PBS.

http://us3.campaign-archive1.com/?u=f254e8e727c963f12db297d6d&id=c04a302b1f

AUGUST 6, 2015

When I'm Gone by Rafael Zoeler

This is a most amazing, but fictional, story about a man who knew he was dying and left letters for his son. Most are somewhat humorous, some will give you goosebumps, but overall an uplifting experience. Take a few minutes to read it...and maybe you'll want to write a letter or two...

https://medium.com/@rafaelzoehler/when-i-m-gone-f1611ceb759f

The author says it's fiction, but it's powerful nonetheless. It's called "When I'm Gone" by Rafael Zoeler.

Not everyone gets it when I say, "Enjoy" when reading about death, but you just might enjoy this one.