Sharing the Message with You

Just after I published the last post, I had to suddenly shop for a new car. My trusty 12-year-old Pontiac Vibe developed a problem that only the most obscure of electronic solutions could solve. After two months at the local dealer's service department, the obscure could not be found. It was un-driveable. I had to act fast. I do not live in a city where public transportation is an option.

I found what I thought was just the car for me at a dealership in Oklahoma City (A beautiful shade of red). I test drove the car, and although there were little things that bothered me about the car and the dealer, I decided to buy it. The little things: a windshield wiper missing on the driver's side, scratches in the paint, and the cargo carrier that came standard with Honda CRVs was missing. I discussed these things with the manager, whose demeanor immediately made my inner psyhic hair stand on end. He was brisk, unfriendly, and gave off  coldness. Still, I needed a car, and fast. They replaced the windshield wiper, covered one scratch. I compromised on the cargo carrier and bought the car.

STOP FILM HERE. There is no such thing as little things. When one's inner hackles rise even in a minor sense of alarm, we need to listen. As I pulled out of the parking lot with my new, used Honda CRV, I said a prayer for the journey home, which would normally take two hours on a 75 mph tollway.

At just the "right" spot--one of only 3 exits between the dealership and my home--the power steering went out. I was barely able to slowly pull the car into a gas station at one of these exits. I called the dealership. The sales manager agreed to send a tow truck to pick up the car at what was now the dark hour of 7:30 p.m. That was the extent of his "courtesy." No offer on another car, no loaner vehicle to drive home, nothing but a look of relief on his face when I returned to the dealership. I could not tell if the relief was for himself or for me. Fortunately, a dear friend had gone with me to buy the car, and he drove me back home. I have no idea what I would have done otherwise.

A few minutes--no, seconds--either way, a different, sharp-turn exit on the highway, the car certainly would have flipped, been hit by someone behind me, or my car would have hit someone in front of me. Either way, I would have:  been killed or, given my medical history, been disabled for life. And, the same could have happened to any unsuspecting soul driving near my disabled car.

I went to another dealership. I test drove the car I thought I wanted, but the inner voice said, "Not this one." I test drove the car that I didn't know I wanted, and the inner voice said, "This is it." So, a blue rather than red car, but a beautiful, Swedish-crystal kind of blue.

The messages, I believe, are these:

My prayer for a safe journey home, whispered in an Oklahoma City parking lot, was heard and answered.

The signs were there in advance that something about the transaction was wrong. I was wrong to let my logic override the signs.

What we want is never more important than the quiet whisper or urge within that guides. What we want is never more right, safe, or true than what this inner voice shares with us, especially when we have asked for our inner voice to be connected to the divine.

Life hangs by that single hair holding the mythological sword of Damocles. Moments, perhaps just one moment, stood between me and the end of my life. On a beautiful October day.

This blog is about grief and all that it brings. I cannot help but add this post to remind us all to stay in touch with the divine power that, however invisible, is as real as the hands at the ends of our arms, and to remind us that all life, all, is fragile, tenuous, and therefore, nothing is to be taken for granted or assumed to be ours for the long-term. For this reason, gratitude has every right to be our constant companion, no matter our circumstances.

I encourage you to read the post I wrote after hearing actor Glenn Morshower speak about our inner "audibles." Grief is inevitable, but it can also sometimes be avoidable... especially when we listen to that special voice with no sound.

Grateful to be here. Grateful to share this blog space with all of you. Soon, more great writing to come from JD DeHart, Tasha Raella and Rejeanne Davis. Stay tuned!  Be grateful. Listen to your inner voice.

Forever Thankful

Ours will be the smallest Thanksgiving ever this year, with a grand total of three at our table. Our family's first incomplete Thanksgiving occurred the year our mother died. That year we set her usual place with a lighted candle. This year, I will light one beautiful candle for all the loved ones who have preceded me to another life and will remember them with deepest gratitude. The following poem has appeared at more than one friend's or family member's funeral service. I've found that it nearly always strikes a chord with others. Gratitude can indeed outweigh, outpace, and overshadow grief.  May your gratitude be greater than your grief, this Thanksgiving and always.

________________________________

Photo, Ysabel de la Rosa

I Accept

 

Grief is great pain borne on greater gratitude for all the

presence the absent one bequeathed

Gratitude for the music of the memories

I play and replay in mind and heart

Gratitude for all that was, is, and will be you:

the many gifts of time and heart, the work done well,

the laughter shared,

 the joy and the sorrow

Gratitude for all you gave to all and to me,

each gift of self wrapped ’round with love

I accept the pain your absence brings,

for I have known you, loved you, and you

have known me, loved me;

for God has loved us and

we have loved God together

For all this, I accept this great grief

with even greater gratitude

__________________________

Poem and photo copyright Ysabel de la Rosa, all rights reserved.

Which Way to Look?

Photo by 1MoreCreative, iStock Photo

There are days when I think I could have titled this blog, "Getting Along with Death," as well as "Getting Along with Grief."  I spent  time yesterday afternoon with my friend whose son died July 23rd. We shared memories of him:  an Eagle Scout, a cellist, an author, and vanguard software developer with AMD and Microsoft. In fact, on the day of his upcoming service, Microsoft headquarters will fly all flags at half mast to honor him. He was also a husband, father, brother .... and a good one, in all cases. His parents are outstanding people:  kind, giving, intelligent, strong of soul, heart and mind; people who go way out of their way to help others, and often.

I'm not proud of what I feel today, after seeing them yesterday. I feel no shame over my sadness or the tears that come, unbidden and unrelenting.  What I am struggling with, however, is that death--a natural part of life--can feel to me like a colossal unfairness. Or, perhaps I should say, that its timing can appear to me to be an act of colossal unfairness. 

I struggle with this.  Not only in the case of this exemplary, 49-year-old man who still had much to give, but also in the case of children wounded in wars they have nothing to do with, peaceful protestors gunned down this week in Syria, the parents and children in Somalia dying from malnutrition .... 

Here's the core feeling I don't feel proud of: Why do these innocent ones, and good, suffer in this way? Why do they meet an early death, when a lot of mean, stingy, and downright evil people live so much longer?

I once talked to a man who confessed that he had loaded up on qualudes one night and gone on a very fast motorcycle ride--in the Rocky Mountains, and with no helmet. He stayed safe, even as he defied all odds not to.  

Years ago, I worked in a company owned by a multimillionaire, whom I watched humiliate his employees repeatedly, and who would insist that we listen to his n-word jokes. He said we had to listen to them, because we were his "underlings."  He has done so much damage to other people over such a long period of time. I know people who lost great sums of money due to his unethical business dealings. And yet, he continues to prosper and live into a ripe old age.

These thoughts are simplistic, even simple-minded. Life is not a quid-pro-quo system of any kind. Nature is a creation of balance and precision, yes, but fairness?  We invented fairness.  It's a necessary concept for society, for safety, for many situations of human coexistence, but it has nothing to do with the timing of life and death.  

In my defense, I do know that my thoughts are not an attempt on my part to wish any person, no matter how mean or ill-behaved, any kind of harm.  What they do represent is my struggle with the inscrutable cosmos and with my own personal pain. These thoughts give my mind somewhere to go, provide a diversion even as the tears come down my cheeks.

Death feels unfair to me today, as I mourn the passing of an extraordinary human being, as I share the pain of my friends who bid a final farewell to that most precious of gifts, a child.  

Yet, I must accept that death is both given and natural.  And from that point, I must learn to look forward in the largest sense. Look forward to the day of my own passing and how I live each day until then.  Look to the future and know that the one future we all share is that we will leave these human bodies, and that, as the proverb says, "The rain falls on the just and the unjust." 

Even as I am reminded to look forward, I also remember to look backward in gratitude, as my friend and I did yesterday as we looked through her son's childhood and high-school photos. Her son was a beautiful man who lived a beautiful life. This is no cause for mourning, but for gratitude and celebration. His death does not do away with that life, even though it ends it. Death represents an ending, yes, but not a destroying. Even as I mourn his passing, I can affirm his life as it was lived and as it will be remembered.

Which way to look?  Both ways. Look forward with awareness, for "we do not know the hour," and look backward in love and gratitude. May my looking both ways be an action that illuminates each present, passing hour.



Text Copyright, Ysabel de la Rosa, 2011