Last night three very nice and strong young men came to my Dad's house to pick up the china cupboard we had listed on Craigslist. Sunday Marie and her husband came to see it, and she fell in love with it and clearly wanted it. However, this monster-sized one-piece stalwart of our family dining room was not going to leave the house easily. The couple examined and strategized how to manage the move, while my husband and I continued the ongoing packing and emptying of my Dad's house, readying it for a For Sale sign.
Last night they returned and I checked one more item off the list. Yes! We are moving on and moving out.
Moving On and Out as a Spiritual Path
If you have gone through this process of dealing with your parents' home and belongings, either because of their deaths or moving them into a senior living facility, you know how challenging doing this can be. Exhausting--emotionally and physically exhausting.
I know there are many ways to accomplish this process--all of them require time and lots of decisions, and none of them are without effort. Our family has chosen a more hands-on method perhaps than some of you have elected, but like being on a spiritual path, no one way is the right and only way.
Of course, this process of selling and cleaning and packing and sorting and choosing and tossing and delegating is a spiritual path, too, although sometimes it feels like a detour.
Challenges
Sunday as I waited for this charming couple to make their decision, I could feel my Sunday slipping away. I wanted to return to my "real life." I want the task of getting Dad's house ready to sell to be over --and to do what I want to do, but--and here's the rub--I don't really want to do the tasks right in front of me. When I arrive at Dad's, sometimes I am almost paralyzed. My husband and sister zoom around me, but I have a hard time revving up to get the job done.
You may have heard writers sometimes say that what they love about writing is "having written," and not the doing of the writing itself. I happen to love the writing process, but when it comes to Dad's house, I want it DONE. I want to look back at what we have accomplished.
I am not present to the task OR I wonder if I am too much present to it. Either way we are in the midst of it, and it will get done, thanks to our ongoing time and efforts. We will do it--we are doing it, but I am having a hard time viewing it as anything but duty, a drain on my time and energy. I feel my own life drifting away. Where's the room for the work I feel as a call? The writing I want and need to do? The groups I would like to start and the spiritual direction practice I would like to resurrect? The reconnecting with friends and family here and staying connected with friends and family at a distance? All that seems piled away in boxes going to Goodwill.
Pausing in the Midst
This much is clear: I need to pause occasionally, to find the moments of beauty, of grace, of love, of the Divine. I stop and watch the sparrows at the bird feeder outside our dining room window and Mr and Mrs Cardinal in the bushes. I allow my heart to open like the unbroken expanse of snow in Dad's backyard. I give myself a breather when I unearth a forgotten treasure like the tiny heart-shaped frame with a sweet picture of Mom and Dad in it. We engage in some memory sharing as we work and that lightens the load as well. I am delighted when the woman who bought many pieces of wicker for her new beauty salon sends me a thank you note. How nice is that!
I know this work offers me lessons about shedding your stuff before your family has to do it for you, but I pray I can see the opportunities as well. How is this time as life-enhancing as sitting at my desk and writing?
Words of Wisdom
Thomas Moore in his new book A Religion of One's Own, A Guide to Creating a Personal Spirituality in a Secular World, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/thomas-moore/finding-religion_b_3955997.html encourages "digging into your work as though it were the meaning of your life." The operative words for me are "as if." Maybe I need to fake it a bit, hoping that the doing will expand into greater meaning. Moore quotes the Gospel of Thomas in which Jesus says, "Split a piece of wood. I am there."
God is there as I schlepp more boxes to Goodwill, as we throw years of neglect and denial into garbage bags. God is in that house as we prepare it for another family's history and life. We have had ours there, and as we detach ourselves enough to do the work that needs to be done, we need to remember that this too is sacred ground.
From the Tao Te Ching
See simplicity in the complicated
Achieve greatness in little things.
Today is another day in which it is necessary and good to devote myself to chopping wood, to doing the tasks one little thing at a time, to focus on what is in front of me at the moment, to breathe in the sense of God's presence around and within me. Amen
An Invitation
What aspects of your life right now feel more like a detour than your "real life"? What are your strategies for coping and growing and finding God's presence?
Meet my father. This picture was taken in his home the day he came home from rehab following back surgery. Looks pretty good for almost 90, doesn't he? His physicians, nurses, physical therapists, and other health care providers were all astounded at his age and said they guessed he was much younger. Of course, he is delighted with those compliments, but still, he knows that living alone in his large home is no longer the best option for him. He has made the decision to move into a new senior living complex in the fall, and while this will be a major change for him, he is expressing eagerness and even excitement about the move. Ever since my mother died 10 years ago he has stated firmly that he wanted to stay in the house, so I wondered if he might have second thoughts the day after making the deposit for his new apartment. He assured me that was not the case and furthermore, he said, "I will not make this hard on you."
Amazing! Believe me, I know how fortunate I am to have an elderly parent who is undemanding and also willing and able to make good decisions for his own health and wellbeing. I know of too many cases where that is clearly not the case. True, there may be days ahead of negotiating, but his outlook is positive, and he is open to this next stage of his life.
The thing is that not only is this the next stage of HIS life; it is also the next stage of MY life, and I need to be at least as open to change as he is. As I think about the last few weeks, I am aware of so many moments of learning and flashes of insight. I will share three:
1. Do the next thing. There were moments when I felt overwhelmed and remembered why I chose teaching as a profession and not nursing, but a friend told me I could do anything. She reminded me I am the woman who wrestled a sheep in the ditch, after all! When we lived at Sweetwater Farm, we had three sheep, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, and one of them escaped from the barn one morning after Bruce had gone to work. I heard cars honking on the road in front of the house and what option did I have but to go charging after it? Amazingly, I tackled it to the ground and then wondered what to do! A passing motorist took pity on us and helped me restore Blynken to its proper place, and all was well. Blynken was safe, and I had a great story. So yes, I am the woman who wrestled a sheep in the ditch, but I can't do everything. What I realized, however, is that I can do the next thing. These past weeks I did whatever the next thing was and then the next thing and the next. The feeling of being overwhelmed lessened as I reminded myself to focus on the next step.
2. Grow bigger and deeper. I have said for years that as I get older I want to expand my world. I want my world to get bigger, instead of smaller. Even as I have said that, however, I have been aware that in many ways one's world actually gets smaller with age--friends and family die, one's ability to be out in the world or to experience the world lessens due to health or financial issues, and even one's physical space, moving from home to apartment to nursing home, gets smaller and smaller. A friend commented recently that his father in-law's world has gotten smaller and smaller, and I suspect in his observation was a desire not to let that happen to himself and perhaps an unconscious fear that it will. I know people who are squeezing as much travel time into their lives right now, for example, because they know at some point travel will not be as easy a proposition. For many retirement represents a loss of interaction in the world, and there can be a feeling of diminishment and lack of purpose.
Still, I feel a commitment to the idea of an expanding world even into the late years. What I realize is that my definition of "world" is changing. Where I sense the expansion can come is in my inner world, my spiritual world, my knowledge of my essence, my True Self, my acquaintance with the God within and without. There are not limits to that kind of growth.
"A door opens in the center of our being and we seem to fall though it into immense depths, which although they are infinite--are still accessible to us All eternity seems to have become ours in this one placid and breathless contact." Kathleen Dowling Singh in The Grace in Dying, p. 15.
My father is a model for me in his dedication to his spiritual practice of reading scripture and other devotions, including studying a section of Luther's Large Catechism every day. He may not be doing all the things that previously gave him pleasure and stimulated his intellectual growth, but his spirit is getting bigger and bigger.
3. Let go and live. When it was time to say goodbye to Dad before they took him in for surgery, I was aware that this could be the last time I would see my father alive. Given his age and his past history of heart issues, surgery was a risky proposition. I thought about all the other times I have said goodbye to him or other loved ones, in most cases fully expecting that a hello would follow soon. This time the outcome seemed good, but was not a sure thing. I told him I loved him, said goodbye, and let go.
Letting go of hurts, of disappointments, of expectations, of hopes and dreams, of fears, of possibilities, of plans and routines, of viewpoints, of worries, of control is no small task, but it is one we are asked to do every day of our lives in some way. Each time we let go of our grasp on whatever binds us, we practice dying just a bit. We move towards an acceptance of our own physical death. With that understanding comes freedom, I think, to live in a way that can be transformative. A life full of the fruits of the Spirit--"love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, trustfulness, gentleness, and self-control." Galatians 5:22. A life that provides evidence of an ongoing encounter with God.
Everyday it seems I discover opportunities to relearn the lessons that offered themselves so clearly these last weeks with my father. Do the next thing. Grow bigger and deeper. Let go and live. I welcome hearing how these lessons are alive in your own life.
An ah ha moment. As I was driving to Minnesota last week, I realized why I was not so eager to pack up and head west this time. True, it was minus something degrees and was doomed to stay that way the whole time I was there, but that was not the reason, at least not entirely. One of my intentions for the new year is to spend more time with my father, more casual and normal time, more one on one time, and this would be the first of those times in the new year. I enjoy being with Dad, so why had I lingered at home that morning and why had I taken my time packing for the three days in the apartment?
Ah ha! When my mother was dying of colon cancer, I spent a week every month with her and then longer when she was closer to death. I would leave our country sanctuary in Ohio and fly to Minneapolis on a Sunday morning and then return home on Friday evening. The decision to be with her at those times was intentional, knowing that each month I would more than likely see changes in her, but I was never sure what they might be and what might be required of me. How much less of her would there be and how much closer would we be to saying goodbye?
Ah ha! My intention to spend time with Dad on my own every month feels like that time with Mom and reminds me of the inch by inch grieving I did all those months, leading to the power punch grieving when she died. The difference is that Dad is in good health and doing well. Obviously, at 89 his death could happen at any time--this is no time to be an ostrich daughter-- but there is no current diagnosis driving my decision.
Ah ha! There were two tasks Mom always wanted me to do during my stays with her: clean the refrigerator and straighten the linen closet. "Your father doesn't know how to fold the towels." And along with having lunch with him, what was I planning to do during this visit? Clean the refrigerator and straighten the linen closet! The heart remembers more than we can imagine and just the thought of those tasks brought me back to those days, doing things that Mom could no longer do for herself, but remained important symbols of her role as Mrs Clean.
Both of those tasks were ways of saying, "Mom, don't worry. Your house will be cared for. Dad will be cared for." Straightening the linen closet, especially was almost a ritual. Refolding and smoothing and stacking. Piles of pink for the guest bathroom. Piles of pale blue for the master bathroom. I was stunned to see so many pink towels frayed and worn, but Mom was married to a certain shade of pink to match the wallpaper in that bathroom, and she couldn't find the right shade of pink in replacement towels. I made an executive decision and eliminated a towel or two every time I came. Not only were there stacks of those towels, enough for a girls' locker room, but Mom no longer opened that closet door.
And now for the blue towels. My sister bought Dad some fresh, thick white towels for his birthday this summer, thinking they would replace the worn, faded, and frayed light blue towels Mom favored in their bathroom. Mom has been dead for almost 10 years now, and he has used the same towels. Guess what we found on the floor of the linen closet? The white towels still in the box, just as Amy had given him. We chuckled and tsk-tsked and set about refolding and smoothing and stacking, but also eliminating the worst of the blue towels.
Later in the day my sister and I bought new blue towels. We didn't look at the price. We didn't even test for thickness or softness. Nope, we swarmed through the linen department like Goldilocks. This one's too grey. This one's too green. This one's too bright. This one's too dull. This one, this blue, is just right, close to what Dad expects to see when he opens the linen closet.
Ah ha! How much there is to learn about being in a different role in life--the daughter of an elderly parent. The daughter of an only parent. The daughter still missing her mother. The daughter seeing her father still missing his wife. Sometimes it is the simple things, the every day tasks, such as folding towels, that reminds us of how life changes and how life stays the same.
