May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers
To break the dead shell of yesterday,
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love.
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.
~John O’Donahue
Dear Readers: I haven’t the steam to create something new for my post just now. I am filled with stories I want to tell, pictures of the first tomato I had last evening, pictures of the pumpkins growing big, but these will come in their own organic sweetness.
In June, I was on a pilgrimage in Provence. We studied Mary Magdalene’s influence on the contemplative monastic orders that flowered after her in the south of France. Some of you may know that she was considered the first disciple, according to the Gospel of Thomas that was discovered, with other codices, in the Egyptian desert in 1945 and called the Nag Hammadi Library. Naturally it is controversial, especially to the patriarchal church.
After being home less than a week, we got a call from my ninety-year-old father. My little sister had been taken to intensive care in a hospital in southern California. I didn’t think I could make the trip, but it was essential. Jill had been put on life support and wasn’t conscious. I was the only one who knew her wishes regarding these medical heroics. She would have hated everything being done to keep her alive. Jilly died on July 3rd an hour after we took her off life support.
I have no doubt that I was buoyed by Love to survive the week. I have no doubt that my time with the women on the retreat sustained me. On the night before Jill died, my nephew and I sang a mantra that we had used on the retreat: I am remembering who I am. I am remembering who I am.
We sang it for Jill, over and over, as it was meant to be. At times, we changed the words: You are remembering who you are. But Jilly never regained consciousness although we are sure she could hear us. Medical professionals say that hearing is the last sense to go.
I think that by sharing the news of what has happened, I will take Jill with me into the next pages of the garden and the stories yet to tell. Jilly was a wonderful gardener. At her small apartment in Long Beach, hers was the only one with dozens of plants around the entrance. People always felt good being with Jill; she had that welcoming gift.
Your words of comfort will be deeply appreciated. I am absorbing everything I can right now. And I will share these words with our Father and Stepmom. I will share them with Jilly’s best friends and with her son.
Rest in peace and love my beautiful sister. I will miss you so.
P.S: A blog that I’ve been part of for the past year, Vision & Verb, is closing after five creative years. Below I’ve included notes from the women who wrote in after Jill’s death. Because the site is closing down, I wish them to be saved, otherwise they’ll be lost. If you’d like to view these notes, please click on the links. Thanks so much to all.
Vision & Verb comments and condolences: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Dear Susie: So sorry to hear the news. Your sister was beautiful, and it sounds like she had a beautiful spirit, too. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thank you Beth. It IS her spirit that I will miss the most. She had talents I loved and envied–like being a natural comic. I’ll look for that spirit out in the world.
Oh Susie, I am so very sorry for your loss. I’m glad you were able to make sure your sister’s wishes were respected at the end, but it must have been so very hard. I’m glad you feel the preceding weeks gave you what you needed to deal with the crisis. I hope that time on pilgrimage also helps sustain you in the early period of grieving.
You know Janet, I’m just realizing that this IS early grieving. And that it links in with another young family member, Jenny, who died two years ago the same week. Thank you for the reminder and for your warm wishes that sound as though they come from experience.
Feeling the love you carry forever
for your dear Jill and the part of her
you hold always inside.
love and comfort,
Jennifer
“the part of her you hold inside…” That is it, isn’t it? It’s a tricky thing to grieve and yet not let it overtake you. That is what has happened to me this past week. I just hope to keep going and take that part I hold inside…with me.
Susie I cannot fathom your loss, but take solace in knowing that you helped your sister by fulfilling her wishes…she is with you forever in your heart and I hope that knowledge will help you find peace and solace my friend.
Love and hugs, Donna
Hi Donna–I didn’t recognize your new site name at first. I look forward to visiting. Thank you for these thoughts. Jill and I lost our mom when we were teens, Jilly got lost in a way during those days. She was both funny and tremendously sad all wrapped up in one package. Lots of folks can be like that I think.
Susie-
I’m so sorry to hear about your sister. I can’t believe that I never
met her.As I think I told you my sister passed away –now 12 years ago and I have
not/will not get over it or believe it. 6 months later I dreamed of a phone call from her
and she said, ” don’t worry..everything is all right”.
Goodness the O’ Donahue poem speaks to me in a big way . Its message is all I think about these days…looking for that very courage to change things. At the moment I am seriously thinking of a Sept hiking trip to Switzerland…would like to hear more of your French experience.
Just finished doing “1776”- a great musical…and will be doing an outdoor performance of “The Tempest” on Shelter Island (Sag Harbor)- Shakespeare and outdoors–what a combination!
John
John, I don’t recall you talking much about your sister, but I remember hoping hoping hoping that my sister would make it to the house last Christmas, so you and Jill could meet. She had heard so much about you. Next time we get together, please tell me more. I want a phone call like the one you received. About the retreat in Provence, I’ll write about it next post. Also, I’ll send you a link to the gal that runs these things. Can you transport me to Sag Harbor to see you in Shakespeare outdoors?!? My favorite theatrical combination.
Susie….this is a wonderful piece you’ve written and I know your energy has been drained these past weeks. And the photo of you is BEAUTIFUL!!!
What a kind note from you Theresa–and unexpected–thank you very much.
I know how much you miss her. Write write write. Write the way we should dance – as if no one is looking or reading. Just pour it all out and write just for you and Jill.
Ah Tammy, that is just what I will do. And I thank you so much for understanding that. It makes it all the more special that you came and visited, you know? Thank you Tammy.
You both look beautiful in the photo where the smile comes from within. I am so terribly sorry for your family’s loss. I am thinking of my sister and how much of my life’s history repository she is. To lose her would be losing a piece of me. She is lucky that you knew her wishes and had the courage to carry them out. I would hope to be that brave and loving if faced with that. I am sending a hug as you have a difficult path to travel… Michelle
What you said about a sister being the repository of knowledge for your life history really touched me. I grieve that loss, especially since we lost our mom together. But I have my wonderful Dad who is in terrific health–we’ve been talking almost each day about so many many things. Going through some of the stages of grief on the phone. I sure feel strongly after this experience that we all must do a Health Care Power of Attorney. I have one, but even then, an advocate to stand strong for you is priceless. Basically, what I learned is that once treatment starts in the ICU, once life support starts, it is practically impossible to stop. Best to have your wishes crystal clear before that happens. Tough to think about, but essential.
I can not imagine the loss you are feeling right now. In addition, your mind must be reeling from all the decisions you’ve had to make. I pray peace washes over you in the next few days, and that you get some fortifying rest. My condolences to you and your entire family.
Oh Holley, you have a way of saying things so beautifully. Reeling. Yes, just that. I’d love more of that rest though…I’m feeling numb and awaiting the peace. Thank you for writing me, it means so very much.
He speaks better than me, but my heart is closer to yours, I hope you do not mind me posting this poem by John O’Donohue
For Grief
When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you gets fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence.
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.
Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.
There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.
Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.
It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.
Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And, when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.
Marisol, cara amica, you have a way to find the right words. Especially mirroring those of John O’Donahue. I’m not familiar with this piece on grief and I’ll want to absorb it and read it many times. The end is something I wish I knew: to be able to enter the hearth in your soul where your loved one has awaited your return all the time.” How I wish I could know that for sure. Somehow I have the sense that I must just know it and not intellectualize it. I did my own private ceremony for Jill this weekend, my own honoring of her. It eased my mind and my heart. Thank you dear friend.
Susie,
I am glad you did your private ceremony for Jill, it did not seem you had a chance to come to a closure with her as she was unconscious when you got to see her, I would think this could be really hard. I imagine your special ritual for her in your beautiful garden, an ongoing symbol of all life seasons including the unexpected! Jill is your angel now and will listen to you as long as you need her. I would trust this. Much love to you carissima.
When I first read your post, I had to “put it away” on my computer screen for a while. Today I found it again after having to reboot when everything froze. Such a huge loss, so many decisions and actions, so much grieving yet to come about this loss and of course all the others before it being brought back to the surface. The piece that Marisol posted by John O’Donohue and his poem that you posted say so much. I’m not familiar with him but he certainly speaks to the reality of living. I’m glad you had your Provence trip to perhaps charge you up for the challenges to come. I’m so sorry for your loss.
I had a feeling that many people had to put it away–it took me everything I had to put the words down on paper, so that makes sense. But you did take the time to read it and write in and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. John O’ Donahue is an amazing poet. I believe he died just last year. He has books out that will really touch you. One favorite one of mine is “Anam Cara: A book of Celtic Wisdom”. Anam Cara means Soul Friend in the ancient language. You are right about the Provence trip, it helped me immensely in ways I never could have predicted. Funny how life works that way. Thank you Barbara. I appreciate you.
in that book Anam Cara is this – I give you a nothingness to fill.
Which speaks to me as I collect lovely little boxes. Empty. But filled with potential and promise!
Oh I am so sorry. You and your sister are beautiful together in the photograph– what a difficult and huge loss. Hugs to you Susie. xo L
Thank you Linnie. I really value you and your words. Although we’ve never had the opportunity to meet yet, you are just the kind of writer I hope to become–one who weaves the warp and weft of humor and bittersweetness in marvelous ways. Thank you for coming by~ Susie
Our Rasta garden helper Pani (Sanskrit for hand, which pleases me)told us his wife ‘passed from this flesh’. That made me thoughtful. My mother and father and great-nephew still are. They are in my heart which misses them, and in my mind where the memories are.
Today I have been collecting an ‘instant garden’ of tough succulent cuttings for him to green his little house in the township.
My sympathies on the loss of your sister.
People who live closest to the earth have deep ways of relating to leaving the body. They are just part of it aren’t they? They must feel less sad or lost. I recognize that in your garden helper’s wisdom. If we really knew that we were just passing from this flesh, think how it would change everything about the way we live. I know some people who live that way utterly and I wish that for myself. Diana, I appreciate the way you have differentiated mind and heart. Thank you very much for your comment.
Dear Susie,
I apologize for being so late is sending you my thoughts and love. I am just now catching up on your past few blogs. I am so sorry to hear about Jill’s passing. Oh sweet Jilly! I have a vivid memory of her (the little sis) patiently trailing behind us as we strolled around Catalina one summer, decades ago. Also, I can still see her smiling face as she watched the DOL rehearse at your Saugus home; she always thought we were terrific (even when we were not)!
Losing a little sister is something to which I can certainly relate. It has been over two years since Denise left us; the empty place in my heart still aches. However, cherished memories get us through sad times and we talk about her often. I always think to myself, “At least I had a sister! Many women never get to enjoy the experience of growing up with a sis!”
I will keep you close in my thoughts dear friend. Take care…
Lots of love,
Genene
Dear Genene, Thank you so much for your words. Do you know what caused tears to flow? When you wrote “Oh sweet Jilly!” It all came rushing forward, the loss I feel. But you are right, many women have never had a sister, so that is a beautiful thing to remember and celebrate. Funny I don’t remember Jilly watching us play music with the DOL, but I guess she must have been around often when I wasn’t paying attention to “the little sister.” And Catalina! We were there together? Did we stay at Cliffie and Dorothy Stone’s beach house? I do remember Denise, but just a little. I remember her from school and from visiting your home maybe two times. I didn’t know you lost your Denise too. You have had a lot of loss Genene and yet you remain so resilient; I could learn from you. I accept with so much appreciation the love you send. Thank you. thank you. And even more now, I feel a kinship between us–we have both lost a little sister.
Hello, lovely. It’s been a while since I checked your blog. I’m so sorry about your sister. I’m sending you light and love. I think of you often, and I miss your face (and Patrick’s too).