Mary Oliver: When Death Comes

Photo by Molly

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

― Mary Oliver

Anne Lamott: I Don’t Want to See a High School Football Coach Praying at the 50-Yard Line

I LOVE Anne Lamot!! This is so beautiful, humble and wise, compassionate and needed, heartfelt and love-filled. Thank you, Anne Lamott! ― Molly

Illustration by Danielle Del Plato; photographs by David Lee/Shutterstock, Chris Clor/Getty Images and Ben Pigao/iStock/Getty Images

I Don’t Want to See a High School Football Coach 

Praying at the 50-Yard Line

By Anne Lamott

 

Many of us who believe in a reality beyond the visible realms, who believe in a soul that survives death, and who are hoping for seats in heaven near the dessert table, also recoil from the image of a high school football coach praying at the 50-yard line.

 

It offends me to see sanctimonious public prayer in any circumstance — but a coach holding his players hostage while an audience watches his piety makes my skin crawl.

 

We are fighting furiously for women’s rights and the planet, and we mean business. We believers march, rally and agitate, putting feet to our prayers. And in our private lives, we pray.

 

Isn’t praying a bit Teletubbies as we face off with the urgent darkness?

 

Nah.

 

Prayer means talking to God, or to the great universal spirit, a.k.a. Gus, or to Not Me. Prayer connects us umbilically to a spirit both outside and within us, who hears and answers. Is it like the comedian Flip Wilson saying, “I’m gonna pray now; anyone want anything?”

 

Kind of.

 

I do not understand much about string theory, but I do know we are vibrations, all the time. Between the tiny strings is space in which change can happen. The strings are infinitesimal; the space between nearly limitless. Prayer says to that space, I am tiny, helpless, needy, worried, but there’s nothing I can do except send my love into that which is so much bigger than me.

 

How do people like me who believe entirely in science and reason also believe that prayer can heal and restore? Well, I’ve seen it happen a thousand times in my own inconsequential life. God seems like a total showoff to me, if perhaps unnecessarily cryptic.

 

When I pray for all the places where we see Christ crucified — Ukraine, India, the refugee camps — I see in my heart and in the newspaper that goodness draws near, through UNICEF, Doctors Without Borders, volunteers, through motley old us.

 

I wake up praying. I say a prayer some sober people told me to pray 36 years ago, because when all else fails, follow instructions. It helps me to not fixate on who I am, but on whose. I am God’s adorable, aging, self-centered, spaced-out beloved. One man in early sobriety told me that he had come into recovery as a hotshot but that other sober men helped him work his way up to servant. I pray to be a good servant because I’ve learned that this is the path of happiness. I pray for my family and all my sick friends that they have days of grace and healing, and I end my prayers, “Make me ever mindful of the needs of the poor.”

 

Then I put on my glasses, let the dog out to pee and start my day. I will have horrible thoughts about others, typically the Christian right or the Supreme Court, or someone who has seriously crossed me, whose hair I pray falls out or whose book fails. I say to God, as I do every Sunday in confession: “Look — I think we can both see what we have on our hands here. Help me not be such a pill.”

 

It is miserable to be a hater. I pray to be more like Jesus with his crazy compassion and reckless love. Some days go better than others. I pray to remember that God loves Marjorie Taylor Greene exactly the same as God loves my grandson, because God loves, period. God does not have an app for Not Love. God sees beyond each person’s awfulness to each person’s needs. God loves them, as is. God is better at this than I am.

 

I lift up one of my grown Sunday school kids who is in the I.C.U. with anorexia. I beseech God to intervene, and she does, through finding my girl a great nurse later that day. (Nurses are God’s answer 35 percent of the time). My prayer says to whoever might be listening, “I care about her and have no idea what to do, but to hold her in my heart and turn her over to something that might do better than me.” And I hear what to do next — make her one of my world-famous care packages — overpriced socks, a journal, and needless to say, communion elements tailored to her: almonds and sugar-free gum. It’s love inside wrapping paper.

 

Especially when I travel, I talk to so many people who are absolutely undone by all the miseries of the world, and I can’t do anything for them but listen, commiserate and offer to pray. I can’t turn politics around, or war, or the climate, but in listening, by opening my heart to someone in trouble, I create with them more love, less of a grippy clench in our little corner of the universe.

 

When I get onstage for a talk or an interview, I pray to say words that will help the people in the audience who feel most defeated. When I got to interview Hillary Clinton in Seattle a few years ago, we prayed this prayer huddled in a corner backstage — to bring hope to the hopeless.

 

Do I honestly think these kinds of prayers were heard, and helpful?

 

Definitely.

 

On good days, I feel (slightly) more neutral toward Ginni Thomas and the high school coach praying after games. I pray the great prayer of “Thanks” all day, for my glorious messy family, husband and life; for my faith, my sobriety; for nature; for all that is still here and still works after so much has been taken from us.

 

When I am at my most rattled or in victimized self-righteousness, I go for walks, another way to put my feet to prayer. I pray for help, and in some dimension outside of my mind or language, I relax. I can breathe again. I say, “Thank you.” I say, “Thank you for the same flowers and trees and ferns and cactuses I pass every day.” I say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

A walk is a great prayer. To make eye contact and smile is a kind of prayer, and it changes you. Fields and woods are the kingdom. You don’t say, “Oh, there’s a dark-eyed junco flitting around that same old pine tree; whatever,” or: “Look at those purple wildflowers. I’ve seen those a dozen times.” You are silent. There may be no one around you and the forest will speak to you in the way it will speak to an animal. And that changes you.

 

At bedtime I pray again for my sick friends, and the refugees. I beg for sleep. I give thanks for the blessings of the day. I rest into the vision of the pearly moon outside my window that looks like a porthole to a bigger reality, sigh and close my tired eyes.

 

I have the theological understanding of a bright 8-year-old, but Jesus says we need to approach life like children, not like cranky know-it-alls, crazily busy, clutching our to-do lists. One of my daily prayers is, “Slow me down, Girlfriend.” The prayer changes me. It breaks the toxic trance. God says to Moses the first time they meet, “Take off your shoes.” Be on the earth. Breathe with me a moment.

 

Please go here for the original article: https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/08/opinion/prayer-supreme-court-football.html 

 A joy to hear and meet Anne in 2019!

Jon Stewart on PACT Act: ""I'm used to the hypocrisy… I am not used to the cruelty."

Well, this one makes me cry! Tears of outrage, fury, grief. Thank you, Jon Stewart! He absolutely nails it. And, yes!, all those republicans care about is the war machine, not the troops. Cowards! Heartless, greed-filled, sociopathic cowards! I also need to add that all who are in positions of power who are in bed with the military industrial complex ― and certainly from both major political parties ― are also as wounded and dark and complicit with the evil of war and all its consequences as anyone who feeds systems of death rather than life. And as my husband says about Jon Stewart's strong voice of truth, “Want to get even more pissed, this will do it.” ― Molly

Jon Stewart at event for the PACT Act: "I'm used to the hypocrisy…I'm used to the lies...I'm used to the cowardice...I'm used to all of it, but I am not used to the cruelty." 

Full video here: https://www.c-span.org/video/?522056-1/speaker-pelosi-senators-gillibrand-tester-jon-stewart-news-conference-pact-act 

A Message of Thanks, Wisdom and Gratitude, and Love From My Husband

Tears. I am beyond grateful that my husband is home from the hospital. It has been such a harrowing week! I also wept as I first read this message from Ron and felt into the depths of truth of what he speaks to here. It is truly a lifelong journey for Ron and myself ― and I believe for most of us, if we are so blessed ― to evolve and deepen in our capacity to be vulnerable and to trust, to experience connection and worthiness and belonging, and to know in our deepest being that we do not need to earn love. It is also my experience that Brené Brown’s book Daring Greatly is indeed such a profound gift that continues to touch so many so deeply, including myself and my beloved. Deepest gratitude for our countless incredible blessings. May these gifts that life offers ― and which often emerge out of challenging times ― grow for us all. 🙏💜 Molly

 From Ron to Everyone

For Their Support

Thank you more than I can say to everyone who wished me prayers, and expressed concern and caring during the past weeks misadventure. It must have worked, since I’m home and, curiously, as far as the underlying myositis weakness, I feel stronger than when I went in.

 

As far as the blood clots in the lungs, I don't think there will be any long term damage, but just more drugs to take for the next 6 months or so to keep those pesky clots at bay.

 

The time in the ICU took me thru the classic Keebler elves stages of terror (you just breeze by denial in an ambulance), acceptance of the reality of the moment, and that the hospital espresso machine is down, the calm that comes with knowing you will be all right, and finally, boredom.

 

There were moments I felt useful, - working on a landscape design for the ambulance EMT on the way to Portland, one with the nurse as I was being gurneyed to the ER, and with another nurse in my room. She will send me some photos of her yard later.

 

Because of Molly’ play by play journaling, this was one well documented week. And because of that, the sheer number of folks reaching out was overwhelming. We remain humbled and grateful. And since I was reading Brené Brown while there, I have to touch on my awareness of feelings of “unworthiness”, that arose. A lifelong condition. Gratefully, I could, and did just crack open ‘Daring Greatly’, to be reminded that one does not need to earn love.

 

Thank you everyone. 

 

For Family and Friends: A New Update on Ron

With Ron, July 17th

These past few days have been a roller coaster. And I can't find the words to adequately express my gratitude that Ron's sister has been visiting us from her home outside Denver since July 12th. Because Roxane was the one who woke me up...

I vaguely remember Ron getting out of bed last Tuesday morning, the 19th. Then I was back fast asleep. Until Roxane tapped urgently on me saying, "Molly, get up! Ron has to go to the hospital! You need to call 911!!

 

I leaped out of bed and found Ron slumped over in one of our dining room chairs. He was sweating profusely and having difficulty breathing. Ron had gotten up and just began to make coffee when he was hit hard, suddenly having difficulty standing, moving, talking. He managed to make it to one of our dining room chairs. And that's when Roxane noticed Ron as she was walking outside by our patio door and that her brother was motioning to her to come in.

It wasn't long after my call to 911 that the ambulance and fire truck arrived and our home was filled with EMTs. And it wasn't long after that that Ron was carried out to the ambulance and on his was to the ER at Salmon Creek Legacy Hospital 15 minutes from our home in Vancouver.

In summing up a very long, very scary and traumatic story, early tests revealed that Ron had significant blood clots in both of his lungs. It was determined that blood thinners alone would not be sufficient in addressing the danger these clots posed and the stress on Ron's heart that they were causing. Although there were risks with the recommended procedure ― "catheter-directed thrombolysis" ― we knew that the risks of not agreeing to this procedure were far worse.

Salmon Creek Legacy in Vancouver did not do this procedure. That meant waiting for an opening at Emanuel Legacy in Portland, which we were told would happen within 24-48 hours. Meanwhile, Ron was closely monitored while more tests were taken.We finally got word Wednesday afternoon that Ron could be transferred to Emanuel. The procedure occurred that day at 5:00.

And it was successful. What a relief!!

The procedure itself is mind-blowing. It involved putting a tube into a vein in Ron's neck that would then go into both of Ron's lungs and drip something that the doctor said acted like drano on the clots. This tube remained in Ron's neck and lungs for 12 hours while the drip, drip, drip continued and was then removed yesterday morning. It has also been made clear that this is not simply a fix-it all at once affair. Rather, the dissolving of the clots will be continuing to occur over a period of time. And meanwhile, the blood thinners that Ron will be on for the next six months or so will also prevent any further growth of blood clots and any new clots from forming.

 

This is a much, much longer story that I have greatly abbreviated. And there remain so many questions that are as of yet unanswered. Especially WHY did these blood clots form to begin with? Is it somehow related to his treatment for the necrotizing myositis? We don't know. Ron is scheduled to see his rheumatologist Monday, an appointment that we hope he will be able to keep if he's soon released.

And now, finally, there is more good news. I'm happy to now share that as of this afternoon, Ron is off oxygen, he is able to walk without a walker, and tonight he was to be freed from his last IV. Ron is so incredibly grateful to be able to make it to the bathroom, to shower, to be disconnected from numerous tubes and wires, to feel more human again, and to be alive! As are we all! This has been really scary.

Ron has also continued to remain in the ICU at Emanuel since Wednesday. A regular room had been requested, but a bed hasn't become open due to the hospital being at capacity. But now that Ron has been able to be off oxygen and is making notable progress today, we are hopeful that he will be released tomorrow or Sunday.

There are many who have been holding Ron in their hearts and prayers and sending so much love to Ron and me. We are eternally grateful. Truly grateful.

I'm moved to end by sharing my husband's words that he has just posted tonight. Ron writes:

"It’s an interesting time to be reading Brené Brown's book ‘Daring Greatly’ while in an ICU. Among other things, it’s about learning to be vulnerable. It’s also about the the debilitating individual and collective effects of shame, within our very shame based culture. So, regarding shame, and its cousin embarrassment, there is nothing like getting over shame or embarrassment around body and body functions than having a constant parade of folks poking, and prodding you at all hours, while you do whatever you need to do, to just say “fuck it”. And what better practice of vulnerability could you ask for than to be helpless and dependent on others for your very life and well being, to be putting your trust in others with skills you can’t imagine. The work will be to carry whatever insights learned here into the larger world outside that still largely prizes the illusions of separation, and the myth of rugged individualism as strength."

 

And Ron adds:

"Gratitude. Being unconnected to tubes, needles and wires, and taking a hot shower while pulling off no longer needed electrodes and chest hair. Not too common in the ICU according to nurse Ashley. All that tells me I’m ready to blow this joint and give the bed to someone who needs it." 

This from my wise and vulnerable, healing and hopeful, brave and beautiful husband who I love with all my heart and soul. Always so many reminders to cherish each and every moment and, as Brené Brown says, to live wholeheartedly. And to love, love, love. Love is always the greatest medicine.

 With deep gratitude and many blessings,

💗  

Molly 

 

* * * * * 

 

Update:

Ron was released from the hospital on the afternoon 

of July 30th and is now happily and gratefully 

home with his family. 💗🙏💗

 

Photo by Molly