Dancing Spirits part 2
09/03/12 05:22
Different cultures have different ways of talking about time. We are prone to describe the past as “behind” us and the future as “before” us. In several tribal cultures, the mode of speaking is just the opposite. In such cultures, the past is that which is before. The past has been experienced and is known so it can be “seen” as something that lies before an individual. The future is unknown and unseen as something that is behind one. It may seem like a silly distinction – a quirk of language and perception, but in fact there are fundamental differences between the ways in which humans interpret events. Sometimes the differences in interpretation bring conflict that erupts into violence. The art of resolving conflict often requires the ability to see things differently – and to understand the perspective of the other.
How we view time affects our perceptions of many things. Whether it is ahead or behind, all humans live with a limited amount of time. Most of us know that we will one day die. Whether or not we are aware of it, we come with an expiration date. Whether we perceive time as linear or circular or in another shape or form, death looms as a huge transition. The span between this moment and the moment of our death is finite.
My work brings that truth to me every day. Here are a few vignettes from my life:
We are in a hospital room. It has been a tiring day for the patient. She was an elder for a long time before she broke her hip. Since then she has endured surgery and physical therapy and no small amount of pain. A couple of days ago she commented, “I wouldn’t recommend taking this up as a hobby.” This day she is tired and having trouble keeping her eyes open. Still she wants to be a part of the conversations in the room and share with those who have come to visit. She begins to tell us a recipe that came from her grandparents. She describes to us the difference between sour cream, whipped cream, cottage cheese and clotted milk. She tells us that when she was a child, the women in her family would put milk into shallow bowls and leave it standing over night. She was struggling to remember the exact process, but after standing, it was heated and the clots were skimmed off of the top. This produced something the adults thought was wonderful – fit for Sunday breakfast – but that she as a child did not like. Her memories of the details were delightful for those of us who were there. We knew that pain and loss and grief and sadness were not just a part of what she had experienced, but that the day when we lose her will come. We were aware of how frail she was. So the gift of this moment and of her remembering the recipes became a rare treasure to be savored. It was sweeter than clotted milk.
Another scene: I am in the kitchen of a home that I entered for the first time just minutes ago. I am working hard to remember the names of the people I have just met – the family who lives in the home. There are two uniformed officers present and I am wearing an official identification badge. The family is struggling to come to grips with a sudden, traumatic and unexpected loss. Their emotions are raw. Tears are just beneath the surface and erupt unexpectedly. Just holding composure to speak with the strangers in their home is a huge effort. Their day has unfolded in ways that they could not have anticipated. The meanings of familiar places have been altered by the death of a son and a brother. They have known death and loss and grief before, but nothing like what they are experiencing. Their world seems unreal, unpredictable, out of control. There is information that I want to communicate, resources that I want to share. They don’t want to talk about it. They don’t even want to think about it. But they cannot avoid the death that has entered their lives today.
A conversation: After more than 65 years of marriage, the couple knows that one of them will likely die before the other. In fact one partner in the marriage is so old and frail that her body is shutting down. The process is not sudden. It is not dramatic. It requires incredible patience to sit and wait for the time that is coming. She has access to good care and they have long discussed which medical procedures they will pursue and which they will decline. The paperwork is complete. The advance directives and power of attorney have been established. But discussing these things in theory is not the same thing as making decisions in context. When she was in the hospice house her strongest desire was to come home. She made it the focus of her attention and worked hard. At home she can do little but lie in bed, being turned by others on a regular schedule. Home health care workers come in for eleven hours a day. Her beloved takes the night shift. We talk about how it is going. “Slowly,” he says. But I know that he is doing exactly what he wants to be doing. There is a bit of triumph in the plan that has brought her home. There is a bit of nervousness about the time that is yet to come. But there is no need to change the pace. There is no need to count minutes or hours. What is important right now is being together. Even if all they can do is share the same space and the sense of being incredibly tired.
Those are some of the stories I am privileged to witness. And those are from just one day – yesterday. I drove home in the dark, past my normal dinnertime, once again out of my schedule – not confined by the usual constraints of time. As I drove I kept looking to the north sky. I was hoping for a glimpse of the lights. The plan had been to bundle up and sit outside on my front porch and ponder the night sky for a while before turning in to bed. Plans are made to be changed. I didn’t see the northern lights. But I saw a gorgeous full moon and Venus and Jupiter engaged in their circle dance with us around the sun that had set.
I didn’t need to see the lights to remember that we are dancing with the spirits of those who are no longer living, but clearly remembered.
As I went into the warmth and light of our home with the aromas that meant that I was about to be well fed, I remembered the recipes and the tears and the sense of time that had been shared. For a moment I didn’t know if I was coming or going – if the future is ahead or behind. And it was not a problem. It was just right to be surrounded by memories and anticipation and to be reminded that each moment is a precious gift. Surely I have been dancing with the spirits.
How we view time affects our perceptions of many things. Whether it is ahead or behind, all humans live with a limited amount of time. Most of us know that we will one day die. Whether or not we are aware of it, we come with an expiration date. Whether we perceive time as linear or circular or in another shape or form, death looms as a huge transition. The span between this moment and the moment of our death is finite.
My work brings that truth to me every day. Here are a few vignettes from my life:
We are in a hospital room. It has been a tiring day for the patient. She was an elder for a long time before she broke her hip. Since then she has endured surgery and physical therapy and no small amount of pain. A couple of days ago she commented, “I wouldn’t recommend taking this up as a hobby.” This day she is tired and having trouble keeping her eyes open. Still she wants to be a part of the conversations in the room and share with those who have come to visit. She begins to tell us a recipe that came from her grandparents. She describes to us the difference between sour cream, whipped cream, cottage cheese and clotted milk. She tells us that when she was a child, the women in her family would put milk into shallow bowls and leave it standing over night. She was struggling to remember the exact process, but after standing, it was heated and the clots were skimmed off of the top. This produced something the adults thought was wonderful – fit for Sunday breakfast – but that she as a child did not like. Her memories of the details were delightful for those of us who were there. We knew that pain and loss and grief and sadness were not just a part of what she had experienced, but that the day when we lose her will come. We were aware of how frail she was. So the gift of this moment and of her remembering the recipes became a rare treasure to be savored. It was sweeter than clotted milk.
Another scene: I am in the kitchen of a home that I entered for the first time just minutes ago. I am working hard to remember the names of the people I have just met – the family who lives in the home. There are two uniformed officers present and I am wearing an official identification badge. The family is struggling to come to grips with a sudden, traumatic and unexpected loss. Their emotions are raw. Tears are just beneath the surface and erupt unexpectedly. Just holding composure to speak with the strangers in their home is a huge effort. Their day has unfolded in ways that they could not have anticipated. The meanings of familiar places have been altered by the death of a son and a brother. They have known death and loss and grief before, but nothing like what they are experiencing. Their world seems unreal, unpredictable, out of control. There is information that I want to communicate, resources that I want to share. They don’t want to talk about it. They don’t even want to think about it. But they cannot avoid the death that has entered their lives today.
A conversation: After more than 65 years of marriage, the couple knows that one of them will likely die before the other. In fact one partner in the marriage is so old and frail that her body is shutting down. The process is not sudden. It is not dramatic. It requires incredible patience to sit and wait for the time that is coming. She has access to good care and they have long discussed which medical procedures they will pursue and which they will decline. The paperwork is complete. The advance directives and power of attorney have been established. But discussing these things in theory is not the same thing as making decisions in context. When she was in the hospice house her strongest desire was to come home. She made it the focus of her attention and worked hard. At home she can do little but lie in bed, being turned by others on a regular schedule. Home health care workers come in for eleven hours a day. Her beloved takes the night shift. We talk about how it is going. “Slowly,” he says. But I know that he is doing exactly what he wants to be doing. There is a bit of triumph in the plan that has brought her home. There is a bit of nervousness about the time that is yet to come. But there is no need to change the pace. There is no need to count minutes or hours. What is important right now is being together. Even if all they can do is share the same space and the sense of being incredibly tired.
Those are some of the stories I am privileged to witness. And those are from just one day – yesterday. I drove home in the dark, past my normal dinnertime, once again out of my schedule – not confined by the usual constraints of time. As I drove I kept looking to the north sky. I was hoping for a glimpse of the lights. The plan had been to bundle up and sit outside on my front porch and ponder the night sky for a while before turning in to bed. Plans are made to be changed. I didn’t see the northern lights. But I saw a gorgeous full moon and Venus and Jupiter engaged in their circle dance with us around the sun that had set.
I didn’t need to see the lights to remember that we are dancing with the spirits of those who are no longer living, but clearly remembered.
As I went into the warmth and light of our home with the aromas that meant that I was about to be well fed, I remembered the recipes and the tears and the sense of time that had been shared. For a moment I didn’t know if I was coming or going – if the future is ahead or behind. And it was not a problem. It was just right to be surrounded by memories and anticipation and to be reminded that each moment is a precious gift. Surely I have been dancing with the spirits.