The separation of death is not as absolute as it might seem
A huge flock of gulls rose up from down the hill, mesmerising as they wheeled and soared through the storm. I live a little inland and it's rare to see that many gulls up here. Supercharged by the gale, they shot over my roof and out of sight. Their speed! Their mastery in those powerful air currents! It was an exhilarating sight. I wanted to thank them for brightening my morning, for being in my world. I am no expert in biodiversity. But I know in my bones that I can only exist within the great web of life, of which I am the tiniest part.
All the same, much of the time I regard myself as separate; set apart from other beings. Don't I have my own thoughts; make my own plans and decisions? Don't I have my own memories; my own unique history? Most of the time, the idea that I am separate is pretty much like the wallpaper. I'm so used to it, I don't even notice. But I notice the difference when, for a few minutes, this feeling of separation is absent. Like those minutes of uplift watching the gulls. It was as if I myself was riding the storm with consummate skill. And when I recall other moments of loveliness in my life, they all have this quality of connection. That sense of separation having evaporated in the moment.
It was a privilege to be with my 99-year-old Mum when she died in October. When people ask if I miss her, the honest answer is 'not really'. That is partly because her advancing dementia had already taken away so much of the vibrant, independent woman she was. I'd been missing her for years. Since she died, it's been easier to sense who she was throughout her life as a whole. It's clear that she was so much more than was evident in that final stage. The phase when extreme old age swept away so much of her capacity: to walk; to speak; to remember.
But more than that, I don't really feel separated from her. At the time of her passing I felt a deep connection with her; my mother. But I also related to her simply as another human being facing this ultimate rite of passage, as we all must. Now she has gone. Yet in so many ways, she is not gone. She is, in a very real sense, part of me. My very existence was possible because she gave birth to me; nurtured me. I learned so much from her. Sometimes I'll say something and realise "that is exactly what she would say." Tone of voice and all. Her life-experience and her attitudes are embedded in who I am. (I am fortunate that her influence was mostly positive - I know that is not always the case.) And the influences of her family and the times and culture she lived through formed her too. As they do for us all. We are, every one of us, more blended with others than we can begin to comprehend.
I have also been noticing the continued influence of a friend who died earlier this year. We were not close friends, but worked together during the last couple of years of his life. Yet my contact with him has, in some way, changed me. His positivity in the face of terminal cancer blew me away. In spite of failing health and looming mortality, he was so interested in other people. At his memorial, one person after another recalled how they felt he 'got' them. We heard about a shop assistant at his local supermarket who he had regular chats with. She valued him to the extent that she bought him Christmas gifts. How many of us make such warm connections, or even notice someone like that? I also loved his straightforward, 'what you see is what you get' quality. He was unafraid to have a difficult conversation when the need arose. This made me uncomfortable, highlighting how often I hold back for fear of rocking the boat. But being uncomfortable is not always a bad thing. He has inspired me to take a few risks that I could easily have shied away from.
Of course, it is not only people who have died that influence my life. I'm mentioning here people who have passed away to draw out the ways they have not gone away. They live on in the people they have influenced. The separation of death is not as absolute as it might seem.
We humans are a social species. Positive connections with others are essential for our mental and physical health. There is a 'noughties' romcom called 'Love Actually'. It is one of Richard Curtis's cheesier offerings. Yet, I defy anyone not to be moved by the opening shots in the Arrivals Hall at Heathrow Airport. We witness lovers, families and friends as they are reunited with their loved ones. Their smiles and hugs radiate natural, pure joy. These moments light up our lives.
But what makes them possible? They arise from coming together in the first place, whether with other people in our lives or the mere sight of a glorious flock of birds. But there is also a reflective, ‘inner’ side to these experiences of connection. We do not need to physically be with others to feel it. I lead practices of mindfulness and compassion on Zoom in which we extend wishes for one another to be safe, happy and well. The sense of connectedness is palpable. It is perhaps the most satisfying and nourishing experience I know. A wordless feeling of belonging.
This deep relatedness is natural and universal. The words kindness and kin come from the same root. Warmth and care arise from a sense of kinship. These qualities come more naturally with those we have a particular bond with; our ‘tribe’. But we all have moments when we sense a wider connection with life. This is not only about other people. We may feel a sense of oneness through being in nature. My delight in the gulls was a glimpse of this. It can even be a quality of connection within oneself. Opening to our own inner life, we start to recognise that the joy and pain we experience are shared by all. This opens the door to empathy and compassion. And mystics through all ages and traditions have spoken of blissful spiritual union. It seems that happiness happens in those moments when we lose the idea of me.
This quality of connection is natural. But it can easily be drowned out by the noise and busyness of everyday life. I am not sure it can occur without a quality of spaciousness of mind. That morning, when I enjoyed the spectacle of the gulls, I had made a decision to sit quietly by my window and watch the sunrise. Had I been busy with other things I would have missed it altogether. Or I might have briefly looked up to notice the birds, yet missed the majesty of their presence.
Our most loved poetry emerges from the quiet, spacious reflection that many of us don’t feel we have time for. It draws us into the quality of kinship with life. Here, Mary Oliver evokes our deepest sense of belonging to the world:
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
-over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Image created by Chris Garland
Comentários