Shifting Tides

July 9th, 2009

Note: this first part of my post was written on Wednesday evening …

 

Life has an ebb and flow, similar to that of the shifting tides. The tides flow in, and the tides flow out. A constant cycle of life occurs within the forces of these ever rising and receding currents. The pounding waters constantly change and shift the surrounding landscape, whether it consists of soft malleable sands or hard rocky cliffs.

 

My mother’s journey seems to be much like that of these ocean waves. On Tuesday, she showed tiny signs of strength, yet today Mom seems to have renewed the statement “I am ready now … ready to be free.”

 

While I was expecting changes to happen, I was still surprised at how rapidly the situation shifted. My mother has again stopped eating, and has spent the entire day sleeping. While her pulse is normal, her breathing is extremely shallow, and she is completely non-responsive to my attempts to rouse or communicate with her. 

 

As I piece these words together, midnight is fast approaching. I find myself sitting on a love seat next to mom’s bed. The lights are dark, and the room is almost totally silent. Her breathing is eerily quiet and so shallow that I sometimes wonder if she is still breathing. As I place my ear next to her cheek, I still can hardly hear even the slightest sounds. Only the warmth of her body and the faint energy of a pulse give me clues that she is still connected to this physical realm.

 

As I left my mother’s side this afternoon, I had formulated no plans to return—yet an inner awareness whispered in my soul, “You will be back this evening.” As the afternoon and evening unfolded, I sensed no feelings of urgency—yet that strong internal calling continued to tug at me “You know you want to be alone with your mother this evening. You know you need to go see her.”

 

Having no clue as to why, I slipped into her room at 9:30 p.m., and have been here ever since. A desire to begin meditating flowed through my soul. Within a minute of sinking deeper into the silence, a thought flashed into my mind. “Climb into bed with Mom … cuddle with her for a while.”

 

Surprised by this feeling, I hesitated at first. “I can’t do that … it feels uncomfortable … I wont do that.” A minute later, following my heart as a guide, I climbed over the low railing at the edge of her bed. Mom was lying on her left side, with her back toward me. I carefully positioned myself directly behind her, placing my face gently against her shoulders. Reaching my hand over her side, I let my fingers follow she slant of her right arm until they arrived at her hands. Gently covering her hands with mine, I was amazed at how much warmth radiated from within. Just yesterday she had seemed so very cold as she sat quietly in her wheelchair.

 

For approximately ten minutes, I gently held her in a soft embrace as I whispered messages of love and gratitude into her ears. Then, I carefully climbed back over the railing and maneuvered myself back to my love seat.

 

Resuming my meditation, I began imagining myself as being surrounded by my father, mom’s parents and her four siblings—all of whom have already passed on before. One by one, I expressed my love and gratitude to each of them, asking them to embrace my dear sweet mother and to care for her beautiful soul.

 

Finally, I picked up my tiny laptop, and have been typing up a storm ever since—writing and re-writing my thoughts—feeing driven to record each precious moment.

 

While I do not feel like tonight will be the night of her passing, I do sense that her hours in this physical existence are very limited. Tonight is a beautiful experience, one I will not easily forget. Gratitude permeates my very essence for these few precious hours of silence and stillness with my Mom.

 

Blessings in Every Moment

 

I finally climbed into my own bed shortly after 1:00 a.m. early this morning—and now, just six hours later I am again awake, compelled to complete my narrative.

 

Appearances can be very deceiving. To the outside observer, the events surrounding yesterday might appear tragic and difficult, but in reality, the entire day was a beautiful blessing, a profound experience of living in the moment—each and every moment.

 

I began Wednesday morning much as I am now—composing a heartfelt blog entry. The entire morning was abundant with beautiful, peaceful writing and loving conversation. Even my thirty minute drive to Provo was a spiritual feast as I engaged in a beautiful phone conversation with Lori.

 

It was shortly before 1:00 p.m. when I steered my Camry into the parking lot of the assisted living center. A pleasant surprise greeted me as I unexpectedly made eye contact with my brother who was just beginning to drive away. As our eyes connected, he stepped on the brake, shifted his small pickup truck into reverse, and pulled back into a parking stall. What I expected to a brief conversation unfolded into a magical two and a half hour exchange.

 

With eight years separating us in age, I never got to know my brother well while in my youth. He was already leaving home by the time I left sixth grade, and at those young ages, an eight year gap in age can seem bigger than the Grand Canyon. Yes, we have interacted throughout our lives, but I have not really felt close to him until the last few years.

 

For most of my life it was I who kept the walls up—hiding behind those walls to protect my shameful secrets. After going through my life transitions, I strongly desired a closer relationship, but the awkwardness of my gender changes had a way of driving a hidden wedge between us.

 

Even though the health struggles of both my parents have been difficult, the hidden treasures have been enormous—at least for me. In addition to the incredible insights into unconditional love (from many different angles), I have regained a close and loving relationship with all my siblings. If it were not for my parent’s declining health, I would probably have drifted away from my siblings after transitioning. I felt like a misfit, and felt little hope of that changing any time soon. However, as we worked together to care for my parents, those imaginary barriers have crumbled—being replaced by a sense of healing and connection that continues to grow and strengthen.

 

My conversation today with my brother left me feeling a deep sense of gratitude. I was a sponge, literally absorbing his words as he filled me in on fun details about my parents, grandparents, family vacations, and other childhood memories. My brother even shared a few stories about my great grandparents—stories he had gleaned from various family histories and personal interactions. Throughout our two and a half hours together, we stood in the direct sunlight, in 95 degree temperatures—but neither of us seemed to mind because we were connecting at the heart level, and we both sensed the magic of the moment.

 

After my brother drove away, I entered the building, having already learned of Mom’s changed condition. Spending only fifteen minutes by her side, I felt a pull to be elsewhere, but somehow I knew that I would be back later in the evening.

 

The mountains always have a way of nourishing my spirit. As I drove up Provo canyon, I could already feel myself on the trail. But I had a short stop to make first.

 

We buried my father’s fragile remains three short years ago, in a beautiful small cemetery just a few miles east of Deer Creek Reservoir. The cemetery overlooks the Heber valley, and is not far from the farmland that was once my great grandfather’s sheep ranch—property that is now mostly underwater. After parking my car, I strolled past my grandparent’s headstone, and sat myself down right on top of my mom and dad’s own granite marker—the place where my mother will soon rest next to her beloved husband.

 

“Dad,” I began, “I know you are not really here. This spot just contains your physical remains … but for some reason I feel closer to you here at this spot. I have a favor to ask of you.”

 

At this moment, a few tears streamed down my cheek. After a brief pause, I continued, “If you have any influence in the outcome of events, would you please visit Mom, take her hand in yours, comfort her, reassure her, and guide her to her new home with you? Would you do this for me … for her?”

 

As emotional as that moment was … I was finished … I was at peace. After just a few minutes, I returned to my car and again resumed my quest for the mountains. As I continued driving, I felt a special closeness with my dear father.

 

Thirty minutes later I stopped my car in gorgeous surroundings, taking in a vista that was now quite familiar. This is a spot that I come to often—a favorite little trailhead near the entrance gate of the Uintah National Forest on the Mirror Lake highway—a short ten minute drive east of the small town of Kamas.

 

Surrounded by beautiful mountains, covered in pine and aspen trees, this peaceful little trail follows a small stream that gradually winds its way up the isolated, peaceful canyon.

 

My father’s presence continued to linger in my heart. He loved botany and geology, and loved the wilderness. In his late twenties he spent several summers in the remote wilderness of Montana as a forest ranger. I often wonder if he felt the same incredible peaceful energy when he wandered on similar trails.

 

The trail was quite different than it had been just five weeks ago when my footprints had last graced this fertile soil. The overflowing stream waters had receded somewhat, leaving only moist damp soil in spots where the trail had been previously flooded. Thick growths of abundant plant life now crowded the trail, with a gentle misting of brilliant color provided by occasional clumps of radiant wildflowers.

 

At times I found myself drifting away, and had to remind myself to slow down, to inhale the cool mountain air, to listen to the rustling of the aspen leaves barely audible above the sounds of the noisy stream splashing nearby. After reaching a dead end, where following the trail would require wading through the swift waters, I turned around and slowly began retracing my steps.

 

A few minutes later, a peripheral movement captured my attention. Freezing in my tracks, I was thrilled to begin observing a young buck, only about 50 feet away. He had not yet detected my presence, and was wandering around in his own little peaceful world. Standing as still as a statue, I silently studied his every movement.

 

This beautiful young deer stood just over four feet tall, glowing with a kind of youthful presence and innocence. His two small antlers were perhaps eight or nine inches in length, covered in what appeared to be a thick fur, and capped on the end by two little round furry nubs. Minutes later, my new friend began walking casually in my direction. Pausing slightly about ten feet to my left, his eyes suddenly stared right into my own. For a few seconds, I communed with his soul before his fear got the best of him and he darted away, some fifty yards down the trail.

 

As I approached his new position, he again scampered away, splashing across the stream and disappearing into the thick underbrush.

 

What an incredible experience! This young buck reminded me of the complete cycle of nature—as one life fades away, new life is constantly rising up to take it’s place. In fact, as my mother prepares to return to her home, my eighth grandchild is only a week or two away from entering this mortal realm.

 

After a beautiful hike, my next destination was my favorite “A Course In Miracles” study group in Heber. After a glorious reunion with friends, I again checked in with my soul. “Yup, I’m still going back to be with my mom.” I told myself.

 

I did not know why I was going, but I did know that I had no choice. As I left my mother’s side at 12:30 a.m. this morning, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for late night joining with her soul.

 

A short while ago, my phone rang. It was the hospice nurse telling me words that I already know. “I just spent a while with your mother,” he began, “based on her current condition, and her already malnourished state, I think it is safe to say that her time of passing is near. While it is impossible to say,“ he continued, “she could pass in a matter of hours, up to perhaps a few days.

 

As I prepare to hop back in my car, I am ready for just about anything. I am fully aware that emotions will be strong, but peace and love seem to follow me wherever I go—I know they will be my constant companions as I take my next steps into the unknown.

 

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

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