it is difficult to speak of the night

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It is difficult to speak of the night.
It is the other time. Not
an absence of day.
But where there are no flowers
to turn away into.
There is only this dark
and the familiar place of my body.
And the voices calling out
of me for love.

This is not the night of the young:
their simple midnight of fear.
Nor the later place to employ.
This dark is a major nation.
I turn to it at forty
and find the night in flood.
Find the dark deployed in process.

Clotted in parts, in parts
flowing with lights.
The voices still keen of the divorce
we are born into.
But they are farther off,
and do not interest me.

I am forty, and it is different.
Suddenly in mid passage
I come into myself. I leaf
gigantically. An empire yields
unexpectedly: cities, summer forests,
satrapies, horses.
A solitude: an enormity.
Thank god.


—Jack Gilbert

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Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower

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Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.


–Rainer Maria Rilke
from Sonnets to Orpheus, II - 29

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clipped from an interview with Krista Tippet
via ayearofbeinghere

Krista Tippett
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Passage

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He who

took the steps

by two

now pauses

on each tread

and I
who love him so
am filled
with dread.


–Marilyn Donnelly

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nothing but death

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There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain. 

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.

Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

–Pablo Neruda

Robert Bly version

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how to watch your brother die

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When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your wife, "My brother is dying. I have to fly
to California."
Try not to be too shocked that he already looks like
a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting by your brother's side,
"I'm his brother."
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
"I'm his lover. Thanks for coming."
Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why doctors are so remote.
Watch the lover's eyes as they stare into
your brother's eyes as they stare into
space.
Wonder what they see there.
Remember the time he was jealous and
opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud
even if he can't
understand you.
Realize the scar will be
all that's left of him.
Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria
say to the lover, "You're an extremely good-looking
young man."
Hear him say,
"I never thought I was good enough looking to
deserve your brother."
Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
"I'm sorry. I don't know what it means to be
the lover of another man."
Hear him say,
"It's just like a wife, only the commitment is
deeper because the odds against you are so much
greater."
Say nothing, but
take his hand like a brother's.
Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might
help him live longer.
Explain what they are to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
"You can't bring those across."
Begin to grow loud.
Feel the lover's hand on your arm
restraining you. See in the guard's eye
how much a man can hate another man.
Say to the lover, "How can you stand it?"
Hear him say, "You get used to it."
Think of one of your children getting used to
another man's hatred.
Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,
"He hasn't much time.
I'll be home soon." Before you hang up say,
"How could anyone's committment be deeper than
a husband and wife?" Hear her say,
"Please. I don't want to know the details."
When he slips into an irrevocable coma,
hold his lover in your arms while he sobs,
no longer strong. Wonder how much longer
you will be able to be strong.
Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms
whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possibly want.
Curse God, but do not
abandon Him.
Stare at the face of the funeral director
when he tells you he will not
embalm the body for fear of
contamination. Let him see in your eyes
how much a man can hate another man.
Stand beside a casket covered in flowers,
white flowers. Say,
"Thank you for coming," to each of the several hundred men
who file past in tears, some of them
holding hands. Know that your brother's life
was not what you imagined. Overhear two
mourners say, "I wonder who'll be next?" and
"I don't care anymore,
as long as it isn't you."
Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.
When your flight is announced say,
awkwardly, "If I can do anything, please
let me know." Do not flinch when he says,
"Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him
after he told you. He did."
Stop and let it soak in. Say,
"He forgave me, or he knew himself?"
"Both," the lover will say, not knowing what else
to do. Hold him like a brother while he
kisses you on the cheek. Think that
you haven't been kissed by a man since
your father died. Think,
"This is no moment not to be strong."
Fly first class and drink Scotch. Stroke
your split eyebrow with a finger and
think of your brother alive. Smile
at the memory and think
how your children will feel in your arms,
warm and friendly and without challenge.


–Michael Lassell
For Carl Morse©

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rain shadow ...

.
andy goldsworthy
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East Coker V, excerpt

 

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Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.


–T. S. Eliot
Four Quartets

 

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Mud

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God made mud. 

God got lonesome. 

So God said to some of the mud, "Sit up!" 

"See all I've made," said God, "the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars."

And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around. 

Lucky me, lucky mud.

I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done. 

Nice going, God. 

Nobody but you could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have. 

I feel very unimportant compared to You. 

The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud

that didn't even get to sit up and look around. 

I got so much, and most mud got so little. 

Thank you for the honor!

Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep. 

What memories for mud to have! 

What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met! 

I loved everything I saw! 

Good night.


–Kurt Vonnegut

(Cat's Cradle)

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One Woman's Quest to Die With Dignity—and What It Means for Us All

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Yesterday, a 29-year-old woman announced that she—not the rare tumor in her brain—is going to end her life on November 1.

Her goal is to raise awareness about a growing "dying with dignity" movement that gives terminally ill people the right to choose when they take their final breath.

In an online video campaign with advocacy organization Compassion & Choices, Brittany Maynard tells her story: Debilitating headaches, which started right after her wedding, eventually led to her beign diagnosed with stage IV glioblastoma multiforme, a fast-growing brain cancer that usually kills its victims in a matter of months.

"My glioblastoma is going to kill me, and that's out of my control," she told People in an exclusive interview. "I've discussed with many experts how I would die from it, and it's a terrible, terrible way to die. Being able to choose to go with dignity is less terrifying."

After exploring and weighing the options available to her, Maynard and her husband decided to move from San Francisco to Portland, where she would have access to Oregon's Death With Dignity Act (DWDA). Passed in 1997, the law "allows terminally ill Oregonians to end their lives through the voluntary self-administration of lethal medications, expressly prescribed by a physician for that purpose."

According the most recent data 1,173 people have had DWDA prescriptions written, and 752 patients have died from ingesting medications prescribed under the DWDA. To qualify under DWDA, a person has to be a mentally competent adult and a resident of the state of Oregon. "The goal is to give people who are terminally ill a dignified way to exit," George Eighmey, a retired Oregon legislator who helped pass the law, told Yahoo Health. "That begins with making sure they are getting the best possible care and that they have the opportunity to explore every option available to them."

Maynard's story shines a spotlight on the so-called "aid in dying" movement that has been slowly gaining acceptance in the United States. Since 2008, four other states have passed "death with dignity" legislation—Washington, Vermont, Montana, and New Mexico. For years, helping terminally ill patients end their lives was considered immoral and doctors who answered the call were shunned and stigmatized. Terms such as "euthanasia" and "assisted suicide" caused fear and misunderstanding, said Eighmey, who is now a board member for the Death With Dignity National Center. "The more educated people become, the less fear they have about it and the less stigma it carries," he said. "No one is pressured into using this law; in fact, very few people do. What's important is that the choice is available to anyone who qualifies."

Despite the momentum that DWDA laws have gained in recent years, there is still pushback, Eighmey said. "People try to make this a religious or political issue," he continued. "But the diversity of those who use this law does not support that argument." According to data Eighmey gathered over the years, more than 50 percent of people who participated in the program identified as belonging to a religion, and another 25 percent claimed to be spiritual. Politically, 41 percent said that they were Republican and 43% claimed to be Democrat. "It crosses religious and political barriers," he said. "This is an option that gives comfort to people no matter what they believe."

Advocates of DWDA, staunchly oppose the notion that people who choose this option are committing suicide. "The public general tends to thinks of suicide as something committed by a person who is severely depressed but physically healthy, yet they don't want to live," said Eighmey. "Aid in dying involves mentally competent people who are terminally ill but would love to live, if possible. People choose to do this not out of desperation, but to maintain some aspect of control in their lives."

Maynard specifically addressed the notion of "suicide" in her interview with People. "There is not a cell in my body that is suicidal or that wants to die," she said, "I want to live. I wish there was a cure for my disease but there's not."


–Ryan Wallace

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Photo courtesy of The Brittany Maynard Fund

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as one grows older

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It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.


—Sylvia Townsend Warner
Lolly Willowes

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fablesofthereconstruction
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Song To The Siren

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Dying as a defining feature of living

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Contemplating Mortality: The Need to Remember That Death Is a Human and Personal Event, and Not Just a Medical One

by Krista Tippett

It’s difficult to believe these days, when so many of us have had some experience of moving toward death with a loved one in hospice, or even a stranger on the CaringBridge website, how “badly” people died in this country until very recently. That’s the word Dr. Ira Byock uses. He began his life in emergency and family medicine and recalls that when people were deemed to be dying — when what was wrong with them was beyond “fixing” — they too often died in pain in the hospital or were simply sent home. Doctors practicing now still recall their training, implicit and explicit, that death was a failure of the body, and of medicine. We turned away from it, scientifically and culturally.

The palliative care and hospice movement arose first in England and then took hold in the U.S. in the 1970s and 80s to compassionately treat the pain of chronic illness and all the suffering — physical and otherwise — as the end of life approaches. Its spread has converged with the continued advance of medicine. In our lifetimes, many forms of cancer have transformed from fatal diagnoses to chronic illnesses.

As I was preparing for my interview with Dr. Byock, I re-read a gripping New Yorker article by the surgeon Atul Gawande . It chronicles the increasingly blurring boundaries between treating illness, prolonging life, and staving off death. When one woman asks him if her sister is dying, he realizes, “I wasn’t even sure what the word ‘dying’ meant anymore.”

Dr. Byock sees this as a human opportunity and challenge. Medicine is remarkable, he knows from the inside, and will continue to get more remarkable with the passage of time. But we must “grow the rest of the way up” and acknowledge that we have yet to make one person immortal. Even while we fight for life with all the tools at our disposal, we have to reckon with the reality of death. The good news, as he tells it, is that there are riches to be gained in that reckoning. That edge of life — which our miraculous medicine allows some to perch on longer than ever before — can be a time of unparalleled repair and celebration. Like it or not, as Dr. Byock says, death completes us. These days more than ever before, we can shape that moment of completion together with those we love.

With this kind of thinking, Dr. Byock is taking the impulse behind hospice to a new place. He goes so far as to suggest that dying can be a developmental stage of human learning and actualization — like adolescence or mid-life accomplishment. He names “the four things that matter most” — words that can be transformatively spoken and enacted — at the end of life: Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. These are four sentences, a mere eleven words, with a power to call up a lifetime of struggle in so many of our families.

I think here of that phrase attributed to Oliver Wendell Holmes that has recurred so often in my interviews: the “simplicity that lies on the other side of complexity.” For in the time of life we call dying, as Dr. Byock describes, these elemental human capacities like thanks, love, and forgiveness can unfold in their most complex and immediately redemptive power. I love this quote of the theologian Paul Tillich, which he put in the preface of his book The Four Things That Matter Most, and which points at the way being with dying has opened Dr. Byock’s imagination about the word “forgiveness”:

“Forgiving presupposes remembering. And it creates a forgetting not in the natural way we forget yesterday’s weather; but in the way of the great “in spite of” that says: I forget although I remember: Without this kind of forgetting no human relationship can endure healthily.”

One difficulty of this conversation is that there are no rules for when, in any life or any course of medical treatment, we can know we have crossed the boundary between fighting death and facing it. Dr. Byock suggests that this is not an either/or but a both/and. Still, there is something fierce and sacred in us that resists the end of our life and the death of those we love. That same impulse resists the kind of contemplation that happens in this conversation as well. One of Dr. Byock’s most basic insights may be his most helpful: we must remember that, even in the 21st century, death is never really a medical event but a human and personal event. Dying is a defining feature, strange and mysterious as it remains, of living.

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again and again

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Again and again, however we know the landscape of love

and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,

and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others

fall: again and again the two of us walk out together

under the ancient trees, lie down again and again

among the flowers, face to face with the sky.


–Rainer Maria Rilke

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