My Year of Hopefulness - Trinity Churchyard

A happy side effect of losing close family members at a young age is that I never feel uncomfortable with the concept of death. I often talk to my relatives who have crossed-over. I think about them all of the time; I find reminders of them everywhere; I feel their presence in my daily life. On and off in my life I've done volunteer work in nursing homes, with hospice, and in critical care facilities in hospitals. It's something I'm considering doing again - there's so much to be learned about life from the dying.

Because of my comfort with death and dying, I find comfort in places like cemeteries. They're such peaceful places. On my lunch break yesterday, I went to do an errand and went past Trinity Churchyard, this tiny plot of land that sits at the corner of Wall Street and Broadway. It's a small green haven among the concrete and constant construction in the area. It is the final resting place for a number of famous New Yorkers, Alexander Hamilton being the most iconic figure there. I couldn't resist stepping inside for a moment. Once I crossed through the gate, the noise of the city seemed to dissipate. I don't know how that happened. The sunshine seemed a little brighter, the air felt a little sweeter. It actually felt homey.

Much to my relief, many other people were seated on the benches that are dotted along the cemetery paths. People enjoying their lunch, talking with friends, sitting quietly, thinking. It was a sweet thing to see the living and the dead co-exist in such an easy harmony. It's exactly what a final resting place should be.

I felt drawn to take a look into Trinity Church as well. I felt like I was peeking into someone's home. It's a fairly small church when compared to the likes of St. Pat's or St. John the Divine, but it feels warmer, like a place where you could take your problems and worries and ask for help. In the main hall, I felt like I was so close to something holy, a kind and empathic ear.

In the back of the church there is a small chapel meant for quiet contemplation and prayer. There was a man at the front weeping, softly. He must be going through a very hard time. I lit one of the candles just outside the chapel and took a seat in the back. I thanked God for helping me through these last few weeks, offered up my immense gratitude for my wonderful friends and family who have been so supportive and helpful.

Just before I left, I found myself saying a little prayer for the man at the front of the chapel. I don't know him, will probably never know him. I don't know what he's going through but it must be something very difficult. I prayed that the same strength I've found in the past few weeks will touch him as well, that somehow the strength and positive outlook that's been such a gift to me will find its way to him also. With all of the abundant blessings in my own life, I felt that it was the least I could do.

My Year of Hopefulness - Love is all around us

Yesterday my friend, Ken, called me with an incredible story that's too good to keep to myself. Last Fall he lost his mom to a terminal respiratory disease that she had managed for a number of years. Ken was very close to his mom and he's a rough go of it for the past 6 months. One of his friends gave him a gift certificate to a nearby greenhouse and nursery so he could buy a tree in honor of his mom to plant in his yard.

When Ken was a teenager, Evita had just opened on Broadway and the song "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" was the mot popular song around. Ken's mom used to crack herself up by changing up the words to "Don't cry for me Sargent Tina..." She'd sing that all the time, making everyone around her laugh.

Ken was at the nursery yesterday with a friend, choosing a tree to honor his mom. They were specifically looking for a crabapple tree because of their beautiful flowers and found one they really liked. Variety: the Sargent Tina Crabapple. Maybe a coincidence...

Ken and his friend, Linda, get back to Ken's house and plant the tree in the yard. They place the last shovelful of dirt around the tree and head back inside the house. Just as they get into the house, the song Hold Me Kiss Me Thrill Me was on the radio. That song was the only song Ken's mother requested for her memorial service when she and Ken were choosing the music while his mom was in hospice. Coincidence, I think not...

Losing people is hard, though experiences like Ken's remind me that we don't ever lose the ones we love. They just cross over, and they'll be there when we cross over, too. We'll be with them again, and while it's hard to accept that they don't exist in the form in which we knew them and loved them, their love is still very much a part of our lives, always. Their love is truly all around us.

The photo above depicts the blossoms of a Sargent Tina Crabapple and is from http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2072/3534629428_bef4ba6e37.jpg?v=0.

My Year of Hopefulness - Our after-effect

Whenever I think about Penn, I imagine it to look like it did when I was there as a student. And every time I go back, I am always surprised to see how much it has changed. The place I imagine in my mind isn't in the world anymore. Change happened without me.

My friend, Jamie, and I took a stroll along Battery Park at lunch time this week and a woman stopped us. She looked a little lost. "When does this park end?" she asked us. "I haven't been in this neighborhood for 20 years and it looks completely different. This park wasn't even here then!"

When we leave a place, we have a tendency to fix it in our minds. Even though we change and grow, we expect places we've been and people we've known to stay the same. It's too much for us to imagine that life goes on without us.

Today I went to the funeral services for my Aunt Lorraine. She was a lovely lady that never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, or any other important occasion that involved her family members and friends. She lived a happy, long life, and I'm so glad that we had the opportunity to have her with us for so long.

On my drive home from the funeral, I kept looking at the clock, registering in my mind that all these minutes were unraveling, that I was traveling mile after mile, and my Aunt Rain wasn't here with us anymore. Time went on, and we'll all go on to make new memories even though she won't be with us. And she's going on without us, too.

I shed tears over the injustice of it all, of having to let go of people we love as a natural course of life. Change and time cannot be stopped. One day will fold into the next, whether or not we're around. What changes because of our existence and the interaction we have in specific places with specific people is the how. How will one day become the next for me because I had my Aunt Lorraine as a role model? How does she live on in all of us even if she can't be with us? And how do we want the world to go once our time has come and gone? This is really the only work that needs our attention.

The above images is from http://clock-desktop.com/screens/shiny_clock/palms-clock.jpg

My Year of Hopefulness - Bearing defeat without losing heart

"The greatest test of courage on the earth is to bear defeat without losing heart." - R. G. Ingersoll

I read this quote last week on Twitter (http://www.twitter.com/tamow) and knew I wanted to blog about it though couldn't decide on how to steer this post. This morning I sadly realized how critical it is for us to have courage. I am beginning to think that it might be the most vital skill we can develop and cultivate.

My mom let me know that my Great Aunt Lorraine passed away this morning. In her mid-80's, she lived a largely healthy and incredible happy life, one that my grandmother would define as "good, clean living". Honest, hard working, and loving, my Aunt Lorraine was thoughtful and generous, never forgetting a birthday or anniversary. I will miss her. She went through several bouts of cancer and chemotherapy eventually got the best of her.

She passed away from a from condition called MDS, a chemotherapy-induced form of leukemia. Chemotherapy is a poison, and the hope is that in targeted doses it will kill the cancer before killing the person being treated. Chemotherapy gave my Aunt Lorraine extra years that she would not have had otherwise, though I always find it discouraging to hear that science has failed us in some way. When she was first diagnosed, I was angry with her doctors. No wonder some people refuse treatment all together. Who wants those toxic substances floating around their bodies to cause unspeakable pain and suffering later on?

The art of medicine, and those who seek treatment through it, are engaging in a constantly morphing, emerging field. When someone is lost because science couldn't save them, there is cause to feel defeated and disappointed by doctors, the very heroes who are supposed to literally save us. The truth is that we can't give up on medicine, on the process of trial and error, on the development of new processes and treatments. Without taking these risks, advancement isn't possible. And advancements let my family have my Aunt Lorraine for as long as we did, in relatively good health. She had great courage to continue fighting cancer and she never lost heart. Her doctors pushed forward doing the best they could to give her more time. They had great courage, too.

My Aunt Lorraine's passing is also a reminder that our time here is short and precious. The times we're living in are testing us to the nth degree, and many are walking around disillusioned and disappointed, in themselves, in the failings of their government and financial system, in their companies. I understand that feeling, and on occasion I share it.

Many times in our lives, we will have to bear defeat, learn from it, get up, and keep going. With hope of better days, it's a little easier to keep going. As I've said before, hope isn't a strategy for success. It's a tool to make the journey easier, and it makes courage more attainable. My Aunt Lorraine had hope that the chemotherapy treatments she endured would help her live longer. And she was right. I am inspired by her ability to look defeat in the eye and hang on to her heart, her family. We must all do the same - the alternative is not an option if we intend to live as well and as long as she did.

My Year of Hopefulness - Trade-offs

Be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars. --Henry Van Dyke

A friend of mine recently lost his father and as we talked about loss, we delved into the topic of trade-offs. It's part of life to enjoy good, happy times for a while. And yet somewhere in the back of our minds, we are conscious of the fact that these moments are fleeting. Part of experiencing life, and love, and a connection to others also requires us to have the ability to let go. It's an odd and scary thing if we think about it too long, so it usually comes to us as a passing thought, and then we send it away.

I used to have a very hard time dealing with the loss of someone. It seemed so unfair to me to have someone we love taken away. Was it really worth it to feel a connection to people? Did it make sense to spend so much of our very brief time on this planet cultivating relationships with others that eventually fall away, for one reason or another.

Many years ago, a friend of mine was dealing with the loss of his grandfather. Knowing how much he loved his grandfather and how close he was to him, I expressed my extreme sympathy for his loss. And without a tear in his eye or a choked up feeling in his throat, he said, "Please don't be sorry. I'm not." I just couldn't understand. How on Earth could he not be sorry?

"I had this amazing person in my life for so many years. I was so lucky to know that kind of love and closeness to someone for so long. He taught me an amazing amount throughout my whole life that I'm able to pass on to others. He was such a gift and I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to have him in my life."

I think about this conversation every time I or someone I care about must deal with losing someone. It's so hard to imagine letting go, and I find that emphasizing the gift of their presence in our lives for however long we have them eases the sadness. It doesn't eliminate the sadness and it doesn't betray the person's memory. It just helps us keep perspective, and we helps us to begin to understand that it is all worth. The cultivation of relationships is what this life we live is all about. They are the very essence of human experience.