Edge of Bardo

"The word "Bardo" comes from the Tibetan words "bar" meaning "in between"; "do" meaning "island" or "marking point."

I've taken great liberties with a definition of Bardo. I'm not a buddhist - don't really believe in a karma reproducing life. I'm more the garden variety Catholic girl who never grew up her version of heaven and hell after we die. So I prefer in my naivete to believe that my mother is on her way to heaven. And here is where I stole the Bardo concept. Maybe it was for my own solace. I could think of my mother lurking about for 30 days to energetically care for us and to let us feel her presence. Well I grabbed that concept and its been helpful for me this last month.

I've never been good at Good Byes. I prefer a wave of the hand and a tight hug, saying "Hey I'll see you soon." Not to dip into a despair of never seeing someone again. Maybe that is why when I see people I haven't seen in years, I am struck with the feeling of picking up right where we left off.

But I cannot escape the "ugh" of realizing I have no receiver at the end of my daily phone call to mom. I can call my dad - but boy oh boy - it just is not the same. My mom used to get excited about the smallest things for me. She had an interest in stupid small things - like what I was going to cook for dinner or what was at the grocery store. And I was interested in what she was telling me....maybe the funny Raymond show that they watched last night. Or I could listen to her work herself into a complaint and then say - "Oh I shouldn't say anything bad. It really is okay. I'm just feeling sorry for myself." And we would ping pong back and forth about sleep patterns, traffic, weather and any ol' thing that popped up between us.

God, I miss this woman. I miss her because she is my mom. I miss her because she was a good friend to me. I miss hearing her voice. There are a lot of people missing her as we move through the days without her. I reread her poem where the ship is waiting for her and it is with grand wide open arms that she is being received. Just the way she was sent out. With more love than one can imagine!

"...what we call death is only a change."

These words, written by Hazrat Khan, are a reflection of the same thing spoken of by many many teachers and pupils of a spiritual path. But when I'm in the middle of that change, I don't want to hear about it...I don't want to accept it and I don't even want to change the feeling of resistance. So while in a grief state, I hold that one truth out there - like it's in a distant field that I may eventually get to. But for now, the sadness and the pain of my loss are greater than any other vision.

On day 24 though, I can recognize the shift of grief, another perception of this transition. "When we see life end suddenly, we call it death...and once that word is spoken it is the end of the matter for us. But the word is never silent, it continues, if not in this then in another sphere." I am changing. Life is changing me. "It is like turning life inside out. We are walking on the same earth under the same sun, but we are looking at a different world with different eyes. Life is a different life to us and the meaning of every word is different."*

I can feel mom moving on - a distance growing between us. As the physicality dissipates, the spiritual increases. She has returned to her source and will come back to me millionfold. I just have to be awake for her visits.

Hazrat Khan- pg. 41 "Mastery"

Memories

Wow. My nephew-in-law, Chris Smith did this montage of photos for our family. I immediately got choked up and filled with emotion as I looked at the picture, realized the work it took to bring it together and "felt" the image of Gloria looking over all of us.

In this process of good-byes, I feel her presence around me - a slight shadow accompanying me through my days. Its a happy sensation, one of comfort that says, "Hey I know you're missing me. But I'm right here and I'm gonna stay here as long as you need me to." When I have a reprieve from the personal sadness, I am able to feel happy for her - that she has been moved on to the next level. From what I've read and heard, the next level is pretty darn great. And I know that she completed what she wanted and needed to do on this planet. She raised us, she loved being a mother and housewife. She loved seeing what we three girls were up to. She often lived vicariously through us, especially in her later years. I wouldn't have wanted her to live a moment longer than she did. Where she is at today is way better than I can ever imagine.

And now its up to me to live my life as fully as I possibly can because I really do know, without denial - that my time as a human being is limited.

A Birthday

So it's my birthday today. 52 years old. My mom died at 81 years old. I'm in a wake up call mode. Life is looking a little shorter these days. Have I lived the life I've wanted? Am I the person I want to be? Am I doing my life's work? The work that God designed for me? These are the questions I ask people while coaching. These are the kinds of things that we highlight and look at for the nuggets to help them live more happily and more joyous. And I ask myself the same questions and do the same work with my mentor. But it is all highlighted in bright yellow - these questions. And the answers? They are unfolding with a plea of patience to stay in the present and enjoy what I have. And I do have so much to be grateful for.

My brother-in-law, Bob lost his mother last year. Asking for a sign that she is near, Mary Brower gave her family pennies. Random pennies showing up in random places at just the right time. We found pennies while my mom was alive in the hospital and going between the different worlds of consciousness. We found a double penny at the mobile and promptly attributed it to Mary taking care of Gloria and showing her the ropes of heaven. And they showed us with double pennies.

Today, coming back to my hotel room, there was a penny outside my door. It wasn't there before because I had picked up a newspaper from that very place. Nope, this was a penny with a strange bright red stain on it. Red, a color my mother would have picked out for me. I think this penny was from my mom saying, "Happy Birthday Honey! and I love you!"
Thanks mom!

This grief's mantra and constant drone

It's a low lying, low flying repeat of the word, "mom. mom. mom. mom." I've been so busy and distracted with work; picking up the pieces of my dropped life. Its been kept at bay - the drone of busy'ness chattering above grief's constant reminders. "mom.mom.mom.mom"
But today, driving alone up to Ashland, I noticed over and over all the things I was storing up to tell her when I called. And every time I started storing an image to tell her about, a bite to eat I enjoyed, I caught myself and heard the drone. "mom.mom.mom." I couldn't call my mom because she isn't on this planet to pick up the phone. The consistent call to listen to the void of mom/gloria was with me all day and all this evening. When I was away I would call and tell her about all the things I was doing - driving conditions, price of gas, who I met with....small incidences in my life that she seemed to enjoy hearing about.

I think this is called missing her.

I remember several weeks ago when she was still alive and she had my attention 1,000%. The tragedy, the suffering and the shock of all that was going on replayed over and over in my head. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't rest. The "mom.mom.mom.mom" drone was so loud and deafening. It's only relief was through a breakthrough sob and cry. My body connecting to the words and expressing its angst. The drone would lessen and quiet with the tears. And in a few more minutes it would start up again until another crescendo - all in its own time, undetermined by any timeline of mine.

Today is the 17th day without my mother. I know the mantric drone of 'mom.mom.mom.mom'
will shift, change, get loud, get quiet, get sporadic and be constant - like a running river. I just don't know the journey - nor do I know the ocean that it will spill into.

Grief is having it's way

Grief is a funny thing. My mom died on April 1st, 2007. We were there for her last breaths on this earth. Profound experience. The spirit leaves the shell of a body and floats around us as if saying "Wheeee. I'm free! I'm free! Look at how light love makes me! Look how wonderful this other side is!"Meanwhile her daughters are weeping and sobbing at the disengagement of our experience from hers. Weeping and sobbing at the 81 years of human experience lost to us except through the memories and stories we have to pull from.

Grief is a funny thing. It feels right now like I am living on top of a huge surging tidal wave that rocks back and forth in my presence. Every once in awhile it spits forward in a grand fashion and sweeps me into uncontrollable tears and full experience of loss. I'm not minding it. I am expecting it.

Its the mind numbing and shell shocked feeling that is getting to me. Small sounds like children shrieking outside feel like nails on a chalkboard. Popping sounds make me jump like a gun has been fired. Small personal annoyances grow to magnitude proportions and sadly it's the person closest to me that gets fired upon. Yes, this is the part that is not fun.Its only been 16 days. And that does not count the three weeks of hospital hell before that. I am a hamster exhausted on its wheel but not giving up and simply getting off the treadmill. They say it's that easy. But my body is doing its grief thing - whether its running from it or running to it.

Grief is having its way with me today.