Death Teaches Us

"Death teaches us not to place our reliance on the flesh,

but on God. Therefore, death is a friend," the Master said.  "We should not grieve unduly about the passing of loved ones.  It is selfish to desire that they remain always near us for our pleasure, security and comfort.  Rather, rejoice that they have been summoned to advance toward soul freedom in a new and better environment in the Astral world."

"The sorrow of separation causes most men to cry for awhile; then they forget.  But the wise feel impelled to seek their vanished dear ones in the heart of the eternal.  What devotees lose in the finite life, they find again in the Infinite."

                                          
                                                -Paramahansa Yogananda

        Today, I wake up to gentle, gentle rain.. sombering and introspective, my thoughts fall softly in both remembrance and expectation. I sit in the middle of a line of time, a point in my life line, reflecting on Seasons that have come and gone, and the beauty of a returning season of darkness, and Light.  What was is no longer. What is, is.

The omnipresence of gentle main falling around my shoulders, only dampening my old blue jean jacket, like a cloak as I sweep up broken glass.  Our changing weather is ever present, once again coloring the sky with steel blade uniformity, and softly encouraging  as leaves fall, moistening the earth as she receives the fallen.  A stunning realization, simultaneous with recognition of those who have died, a dedication to this day in  remembrance honor of our war veterans. 

      Late last night, I watched the APT special film, "Alabama Remembers"  in which individuals from Birmingham, Mobile, and other small towns around Alabama, who had survived WWII were telling their stories, dramatized by actual photographs of them, and of scenes in the great War.  As they relived their stories, of heroic and horrific actions, of killing, of saving, of witnessing, of warning.. of preparation for battle, and the fear of the Unknown, the dour outcomes of open fire, skirmish, and attacks, the human element on the ground, connected or disconnecting emotionally as they fought as kids, not really knowing what they were fighting for.  These old men, and old women, now in their 80's, breaking into tears, heart-broken and  psychologically wounded forever from their youth re-entered the "zone" of the past, to share the depths of their souls, and give us a small window into the horror of the big war against Hitler's atrocities.

    Some of the women were nurses, ministering the wounded, many times with only a prayer or blessing before the final breath of a soldier. Air raids were planned, 16-17 year old kids, right out of high school, were charged with  flying directly into enemy anti-aircraft fire, and dropping destructive bombs on villages and towns of innocent women and children.  Warships lined the English Channel so close together that "you could jump from one to the other".. Planes flew in formation, pre-dawn, teenagers and young family men on the way to possible death and annihilation.   

Paratroopers readying to jump out of the airplane and onto the ground at this "Battle of the Bulge" were told by their officer that if anyone hesitated in the open door, that they would be immediately shot." There was no time for expression of fear, only spontaneous immediate action in the envelope of fear. Everyone performed in the command of duty. When battle was upon you, there was only "the entering" in such times, great losses, heroic behaviors, desperate survival instinct, killing, and suffering, grieving for buddies and those who didn't make it. The horror of the aftermath of any battle engaged the conscience, the mind, the psyche, and the dream life of those who entered the engagement. An ant in a disposed anthill. 

    Even so, there was compassion along the way. One man told of walking around a completely annihilated German village, that our soldiers had just destroyed a day earlier with an air raid, and a woman crying out to them to help her bury her 3 year old son.

       Another told of a young severely wounded German soldier laying in the rubble, who called to him in thirst for a drink of water. He opened his own canteen, and just as he was to pour this water into the boy's mouth, a comrade put his rifle in his back and said, "if you give him that water, I will shoot you right here on the spot."  His heart was defeated not only by the circumstances of awful destruction, the enemy, the innocent, but also by his own commanders and comrades.  He left, but circled around again, only to find the young man was dead. I watched him break down and cry before the camera.

     I watched many of the old men tear up, lips quivering, reliving the nightmare of their youth, and telling that although they did return and stuff the war atrocities out of their life, that they would wake up 60 years later, still screaming from their dreams.  These Alabama veterans told of their faith, their prayers, facing fear in the face of death itself, the realization that it was very likely that they too, would die in combat, in the very mission they were executing in the moment.  They still trembled and wept.

 

    One man told that he, nor anyone else really knew what they were fighting in Europe for, until they were captured as prisoners and forced to shovel heaps of dead bodies at Dachau into mass graves.  He told that the Germans loaded people in boxcars and rode them around non stop til they died, and then dumped them for burial. We've all seen the scenes of the Dachau concentration camps, but to see a man, who was the same age as my father, dressed like an everyday old man in his parka and Veteran's bill hat, a man who did make it home to find his wife waiting for him, to see his 3 year old daughter for the first time, who went on into business, or farming, or teaching, raise his kids in the church, and buy groceries at A & P, hunt deer in the woods, have Thanksgiving turkeys on the table.  To see his discomfort and distress at remembering and telling his war experience, gave me sobering melancholy and regret that I grew up without ever really deeply talking to my own Dad about his experience on the Philippine Islands and the war in the South Asian Seas.

   He had related a few stories, one about how he lied about his age. He was only 15 when he enlisted.  How he was trained to be the navigator in a bomber, sitting in the rear of the plane, beside the gunner. They were in a few air skirmishes, and how it was hell sitting back there in the dense noise of engines.  He always had hearing loss from that, which worsened as he aged. I remember him telling that they were preparing for the big mission. Nobody really knew what kind of weapons they would be dropping, but they were on the way to Japan for a big mission. Just as they got into anti-aircraft fire, my Dad faintly heard a radio message that "the War was Over."  He shouted up to the captain, "Turn around. The War is Over"  He screamed "What? Are you sure?"  "Yes, I'm sure"  Verified by Morse code.  Who knows what they were about to drop? They didn't know themselves.  

    

      I know there were other experiences and images of Japanese occupation of the South Seas, the extreme poverty of the local people, the jungle, long days at sea living on Navy ships, the take-offs and landings on aircraft carriers and improvised  air strips in the jungle islands, rescuing P.O.W.'s when the war was over,the sacrifices, demands and commands of war-time.  I wish I had known enough to ask questions.

      Dad used to love to show my brother his war photos of planes, people, and company, the aerial photos of his missions. In his wallet, he carried a photo of Mother, his Carolyn, whom he would come home to marry.  I was born into the baby boom, and grew up in a comfortable little 50's house, built at wars end, across the street from a huge gorgeous collie, one of my most cherished childhood memories, given baths in the kitchen sink, watching Arthur Godfrey, Jack Benny, the Micky Mouse club, and wrestling matches, on our modern t.v. that appeared in our small living room.  Seeing my first Christmas tree, my second birthday, my third Easter with bunnies, bonnets, and Easter eggs. What did it all mean? 

      Here was another entire reality. Dad went to work designing and making "high chairs" and "baby tenders".. before joining an insurance company as a salesman, and going on to becoming assistant district manager, promoted to the Home Office as sales trainer, Vice President and corporate financial planner. We owed our prosperity to Liberty National Insurance Company.   We had an air-conditioner and a pecan tree, a mixed breed dog and a Siamese cat.  After I baked my "mandatory" cake every Saturday afternoon, a chore imposed on my by Mother, I would play outside with my brother and the neighborhood boys.  We had hamburgers every Saturday night, watched "The Everglades" and "Lawrence Welk", "Palladin" and "Gunsmoke".  On weeknights, us kids had to go to bed early, while mom and dad sometimes watched "Newsreel footage" of the bombing of Berlin or Dresden. I would go to bed terrified of the burning buildings, and of fire. Not all the horrific images of the destruction of war escaped my eyes.  I would fantasize being burned by fire, like the victims I was seeing on these newsreels after I was sent to bed. 

     We took family vacations to American sites of historic significance: St. Augustine, Florida, Jamestown and Williamsburg, Virginia and places like the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, and Mammoth Cave, Kentucky. Yes, I was born into a free land of plenty, family first, Methodism, and an opportunity to learn skills and crafts from my parents, good schools, and a college education.  Life was good in the 50's and early 60's. We had a two tone Chevrolet Bel Air and a Dodge with tail fins.  Mother caught the biggest fish of a lifetime in "Torch Club" Convention trip to Miami, but she always maintained that her biggest catch of all time was Dad.  And she was truly the love of his life.

    Every thing he did was for her. He wrote love poems to her, not only in his teens, but again in later years. After their deaths, we have found beautiful poems written by Dad to his beloved. They surface memories and day dreams of beautiful times gone by, never to be relived. I remember sitting on the porch with dad, he was crying not long after mother's death and not long before his own.  "I should have died when Mother did.  My life is not worth living without her. Where did the time go?  How fast life has fleeted away, so much goodness, so beautiful a home we built. Now it's almost over. I should already be dead."  " I LOVE LIVING".  "I wish we were just beginning."  "I would do it the same, all over again."  "I loved her so much. She was my precious angel."   I couldn't help but feel my own tears rising to realize what a wonderful nest I was born into, and feel the gratitude for the opportunity to be raised in a congenial and loving home, given full of opportunities and life experiences, from my early piano lessons to the family projects, building our own house, camping, and clearing brush for a lake house too. Precious experiences and gracious prosperity, the nest egg that father Walter Sr. delivered to his beloveds.

     Not long thereafter, just last year, I sat at the VA Hospital, Safe Harbor Palliative Care Unit, as my father lay dying, finally giving up life to go to his bride. He had succumbed twice one night, while at the VA for an ear infection. They brought him back twice, we found him on life support and a ventilator.  We knew he did not want to live a compromised life as an invalid. We knew he was ready to go. Previous days and months had shown us a very different Dad than the one we knew. Not the builder, the provider, the creative genius. Old age pain had set in, dementia and a loss of Spirit for living. We took him off the ventilator, and he hung on diminishing, and died a week later at the V.A.  "This is where I want to be.  I can die here, he said.  They will keep me comfortable. This is where I need to be," he had spoken the night before he "died" twice, and was resuscitated against his directive. After lingering a week, near the end, his last words to me were:

"I love you. 

I love Walter.

And I love America".

 

It was the last thing he ever spoke.

                                    

    Today on Veteran's Day, behind this gentle rain, it is getting colder and darker. Canadian geese are moving and chattering.  It is windy, and leaves fall from trees. The landscape is turning brown.  The trees are still holding colorful leaves, but they too, soon will fall.  It's the nature of things. To birth, to live, and to fall back to earth, to die. 

I honor those who lived and died, who gave their lives in living and in dying.  I honor the mystery of this changing season, the changing weather, the growing older.  I am still clinging to the vine. 

     Another childhood memory emerges; hearing Maddoc Thomas, a young newly ordained older brother of my then best friend Allen Thomas, sister of Choir Master Timothy Thomas, son of the great Hugh Thomas, Choir Master extra-ordinaire, give the blessing over turkey and cranberry.  It struck me deep, and still does. He preceded his prayer with Jesus words, "I am the Vine, and ye are the branches... He who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit for apart from Me, you can do nothing." 

    Today, I am blessed. I think on the vine.

I think on the branches, and the metaphorical branches of service. I think on the "I AM,"  the vine,
the branches, the fruit, the fallen leaves,
the hope of new birth in the Spring,

and drink the wine of vintage Life.

   

Our changing Weather: Hands

Our changing Weather: Hands:    Always maintain a light touch, smiling and warm.      A  Hand is the giver, profound metaphor for Help.  A giving hand is an extensio...

   Today, Barack Hussein Obama has been duly elected for another four year term as the President of the United States of America. Democracy prevails and this outcome is so very significant in the future of our country and the world.

   I celebrate a forward step in our struggle for equality, wise discrimination and compassionate leadership that has every one's interest at heart. Thank you, Mr. President for enduring the long, vehement, distracting path of scrutiny, criticism, and personal attack as you steadily resolved to address the global security interest, the national weather crisis, and the ongoing economic and social problems that we face as a nation.  

      All things of worth take time to accomplish, the detail, the cooperation, the resolve to achieve an end.   People must work together and be patient and enduring. Our Society is used to having its candy, and eating it on whim.  Real life is larger. Real Life shows us that suffering is everywhere. From climate change, species preservation, economic recovery, citizen's welfare, national health care and global peace and leadership are all enormous issues  to address, and it will take not only a compassionate and astute Commander in Chief, but a compassionate and aware Congress, and electorate.

    I am encouraged that we are growing as a nation to recognise and express the idea that "we are all in this together," and that sacrifices must be made by everyone for the good of all. Grow up everybody. Put away the greediness, materialism  and consumerism that is spoiling the American and even "Christian" ideals of our Society. Put away the narrow minded thinking that America is a white male dominated society.  It is not. There are people of all races, colors and creeds, women, people of many varying walks of life, circumstance, orientation and creed. We are the true "melting pot" Society.  Let's own it. 

    This is no communism. We are a democratic Society that is not afraid.  Too long, we have been spoiled by rampant materialism and the false notion that our national resources are endless. Too quickly, we have destroyed and plundered our national environmental treasures.  If man is the master of the animals, the fields, and the wilderness, then he must take restock and remeasure.  We must take notice of the changes resulting from too many years of unleashed exploitation, and change the way we do it.  We should be good stewards of our environment, above and beyond all other interests, if we are to pass prosperity, health and human stewardship to future generations. 

     We must take care of our population, all of it, and bring prosperity down to what is really important.  It would not be a 4 car garage, a house as big as a cathedral, or endless yachts and toys, excessive travel and eating. The world is becoming so much smaller. We have made it that way in a massive corporate commercial invasion of the earth. The table then is set for everyone in the family to eat.  As spoiled Americans, we must scale down on excessive commodity buying, and we must share the wealth.  The 1 per cent, the 49 per cent, the 99 per cent, globally, nationally, and regionally, a well-being inclusive of everyone. 

       I want to believe that the re-election of President Obama is an indicator that our Society is moving in that direction, and not completely lost to the excesses and narrow thinking of the past, but that we are sharing a new hope for a mature and higher development of our national conscience and policies towards those in need, whether globally or in the back streets of our own cities and neighborhoods.  I know that the country is split, but democratic ideals for the good of all have prevailed.
It is a good indicator that there is a dawning.

   As we push toward 12/12/12, I pray for this light of dawn to continue to rise in the consciousness of fellow Americans.  That we can replace greed and excess with moderation and compassion, fear with action, and helplessness with hope. That everyone will get an opportunity for education,  health care, and happiness, a prosperity of the heart, and a healing of the wounded. 

    Let there not be indolence or sloth, but let there be gratitude and choice, that we can choose the higher road, and all do our part to make sure that we are a caring and compassionate society, with not only policies that benefit the few, but all of humanity, and seek to preserve as well all species and habitats, all of creation, the rare earth itself.  It belongs not to us to exploit and destroy. We are merely temporary inhabitants.  We belong to it. Therefore, to respect life, earth, each other, wild species and habitats, and even those who oppose us, and our enemies is the greatest mission.  Living together with respect, generosity and gratitude is the all and the ultimate. 

    And then you die.  

And then....what?

Hands

  
Always maintain a light touch, smiling and warm.

    A  Hand is the giver, profound metaphor for Help.  A giving hand is an extension of motive and directed energy.  Open and receptive, and holding a space of passion,
for you, my dearest lover, friend, family, sister/brother..

    A Hand full of Life, at once relaxed, filled with warmth, moving red blood, an  outermost appendage, precise and exacting, it moves in the service of work and duty. So many tasks at Hand, opening to form and shaping, change and cleansing.  Lending a Hand to activity, production, work, making, and even writing. Extending mind thoughts to script and scribble, wrapped around the wooden lead pencil, facilitating thought, ideas, or love and poetry.  The servant of the Mind.

   My own hand, warm and alive, carressing and feeling, taking notice of form and texture.  Is it rough or ragged, soft as velvet, dry and crunchy, leafy, cold like stone, wet, soft, or wooly, the coat of a pet?  Dermis awareness tempered by elements, warm and hot, coolness to cold and freezing.  Shapes pointed or round, surfaces felt in so many textures. 

   The feeding Hand - hand to mouth, hand to hurt, hand clinched to maintain strength, to contain frustration and anger.  Hand as tool, smoothing, spreading, moulding, shaping.  Hand, the strong base of an inverted body, to hold, to push, to pull.

    Hand expressive -  language of signing, movement, gestures, flowing articulation of dancer's hands.  Hand expressive -  executing the sonic inventions of musicians on every sort and kind of instrument.  The musical melodies and the rhythms played from musical insturments are birthed from moving hands.  Even the Hands themselves are the instruments. Every art, craft, and invention is the product of busy hands.   

    Softly, in my own hand, I feel my own skin.  Hand feels its own skin and the dynamism of its own partnering hand, its own skin shape, form, living movement and potential.  I open my hand in wonder of its endless works -  pouring, making, doing, forming, shaping, the instrument of instruments.  It knows in its own "hand memory" how to play the music.

   My hand is a bridge to come to you, as I write, as I touch, as I feel your response.  All things are possible when mind and heart command the hand. 

    I  reach out with my hands, giving hands.  I accept with receiving hands.  My thankful hands come together, "Namaste".  My active hands reach to the sky and feel the coolness and gentle movement of air, the faint warmth of the sun. The subtle but penetrating awareness of warm on a clear, cool morning.  The Hand -  a guage of contrast, the body antennae, mediator of elements, doer of chores, master of goals and accomplishments, performing a never ending stream of help and healing and happening.

    Through these hands, I receive whatever is my need, it is always supplied.  The eyes of my hands pulsate in giving
and in receiving, exchanging energy with matter. 
I chop wood.  I carry water.  I paint pictures. 
I  play violin.