Soul and Spirit; Love and Dying

I just finished reading Theresa Caputo's book: There's More to Life Than This: Healing Messages, Remarkable Stories, and Insight About the Other Side from the Long Island Medium. What can I say?

The poofy-haired, loud-mouthed little medium from Long Island is onto something. But I knew that already because I experienced my own share of connections to 'the other side' during my near-fatal illness as described in my memoir DYING TO LIVE: Running backwards through cancer, Lupus, and chronic illness.

Like Theresa as a young girl, I didn't believe any of it when these things started to happen and I fought vehemently with those who tried to change my mind. Typically, I would say after one of my out-of-body experiences or visitations: "That didn't happen!" And more often than not, my earth-bound guides, including my pastor, would say: "Why not?"

Why not, indeed? But I am not a medium. I have had spiritual experiences that make sense when people like Theresa Caputo explain them.

As of last Friday, I've now lost three of those people who helped put perspective on these things to me and they were all fathers - my own father in 2002, my surrogate father (my brother who was 14 years older than me) last August, and my very first pastor who welcomed me to a church in 1989 when religion was absolutely foreign to me. I was raised with no clear-cut religion so I knew nothing about it, but I did seek to learn when I was pregnant with my first child. The Reverend George B. Higgins was big, boisterous and loud - kind of like an older, male version of Theresa Caputo - and there was no doubt he was connected to Him directly because George said so and he meant it!

My first educational lesson with George started with me being direct, as usual. "Just who are the Father, Son and Holy Ghost anyway," I asked him. He laughed and then became quite serious while he explained that they are all one, really, and that a person's energy is spirit and soul and love. I had many more lessons with George and, while I can't say I rose to the level of 'Church Lady' in my beliefs or actions, I certainly gained a healthy respect for that which can not be explained logically; that which just is. The lessons I learned from my long-gone father and newly-lost brother were similarly profound.

I had my own triumvirate of sorts in the past seven days: A DYING TO LIVE book signing event, a memorial dedication of the Stephen L. Crohn Art Gallery, and George's funeral (held April 28th, my father's birthday).

The book event was a proud moment but also very emotional as the group of 10 or so attendees and I discussed spirituality and dying and doctor's visits and individual experience related to critical or chronic illness. The Art Gallery dedication was highly gratifying and deeply disturbing as I knew this was a monument to my brother who was not physically coming back - ever. Finally, the funeral of the very first pastor I ever really knew was heartbreaking. Although he lived a long life, the sadness in the filled-to-capacity sanctuary was palpable as we all knew he was a one-and-only; there would never be another like him.

I am spent.

I recently read one of those inspirational quotes posted on Facebook that usually annoy me when I'm feeling really down. But this one, by Brazilian author Paulo Coelho, caught my eye.

“Never give up. When your heart becomes tired, just walk with your legs - but move on.”

I'm trying Daddy, Steve and George and when I feel your energy around me, it helps a lot. 

Blessings and Messing with My Mind

The only one who can mess with me is me. This long winter of grief and re-connection to myself, me and I has yielded one answer: I don't know everything and I never will. 

The range of emotions I've allowed myself to feel have included:

• Fear (of what will become of me with worsening health issues)
• Anxiety (a blanket that wrapped itself around my shoulders)
• Sadness (overwhelming at times while I mourn my brother)
• Guilt (that I am not all that I should have been or can be)
• Anger (at my brother, at God, at myself for not being more able)
• Hopelessness (thinking like my brother; that all is lost)
• Confusion (thinking that all of the above is just a jumble in my mind)
• Envy (of those who don't seem to have the traumas that have been thrust upon me)

And as spring finally arrives, there is:

• Hope (that the veil is lifting and I am beginning to accomplish goals both big and small again)
• Joy (my sons are remarkable and make me so proud)
• Relief (that I've made it through the worst of it)
• Gratitude (I am warm, I am fed, I am housed, I am loved)
• Forgiveness (for myself and my brother)

The winter of my discontent is finally over. 

So, for me, while It's back to basics and getting my priorities in order (yet again!), it's also a time to kick myself in the ass and take risks. Two big work projects loom before me, a book signing event this Thursday and the dedication of the Stephen L. Crohn Art Gallery at Saugerties Public Library on Sunday.

A dear friend sent me this poem, Although I am familiar with the Wordsworth lines I read it twice aloud to let them truly sink in:

Splendour in the Grass

 What though the radiance

 which was once so bright

 Be now for ever taken from my sight,

 Though nothing can bring back the hour

 Of splendour in the grass,

 of glory in the flower,

 We will grieve not, rather find

 Strength in what remains behind;

 In the primal sympathy

 Which having been must ever be;

 In the soothing thoughts that spring

 Out of human suffering;

 In the faith that looks through death,

 In years that bring the philosophic mind.

~ William Wordsworth ~

I will "find strength in what remains behind." I hope you can, too.

"To laugh often..."

From a refrigerator magnet my brother gave me many years ago:

"To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. 

This is to have succeeded!" 

Ralph Waldo Emerson

My brother, Steve, did all of these things. He succeeded in life. It's whether or not we succeed in death that makes me ponder.

In the late 1990's, I battled two, concurrent fatal illnesses and survived. From about 2005 on, my brother fought through loss, loneliness, and deep internal pain and chose to die. The paradox is frightening. I remain confused. 

But if I look at his life, I know he set a wonderful example for many. 

Did he "laugh often?" He did loudly and with abandon to the delight of his friends and family and, in particular, his young nieces and nephews over a span of 23 years (13 of them, aged 4 to 23). The "affection of children" was guaranteed once he started talking like Donald Duck or handed out silly nicknames like they were candy or rolled around the floor playing just like a kid. 

"Win the respect of intelligent people"? Of course. He was a MENSA member and there was no one he couldn't engage in elevated, useful conversation or debate, including me. I guess I, too, like to think I'm intelligent although I've never been tested for genius. Up until just a few weeks before his death, we battled at online Scrabble, sometimes starting and finishing a game in one day. He won every time. Every single time. 

Did he "earn the appreciation of honest critics?" Over and over again Steve put his heart on display via his art, his writing and editing, his advocacy for the lesbian, bisexual, gay, and transgender (LBGT) community, and his volunteerism via the Saugerties Public Library, the Burrill B. Crohn Research Foundation and many local art events, festivals and fairs. His participation both actively and vocally during the Civil Rights era earned him respect and life-long compatriots. The comments flowing in about his present and past efforts are glowing and numerous. 

Ah, "the betrayal of false friends." I know of an occasion or two where he got hurt by those he thought were true. I'm sure there were many more. I know I hurt him more than once but I was never a false friend; just a typically-flawed sibling. 

God did he "appreciate beauty." His eyes were beautiful lenses as he would always remark about color and palette and the wondrous and breathtaking glory of the natural world. He would see things others did not see. He would point them out for us to enjoy. And he "found the best in others." More than one colleague has said he lit up the room when he walked in and made everyone feel good with his razor sharp wit and emanating love. 

Yes, he "left the world a bit better." A whole lot better in my opinion. He helped research scientists find a viable cure for HIV! He volunteered his blood. He went back to the researchers over and over again. He made this incredible difference for all of mankind all while growing glorious "garden patches."

I literally "breathed easier" because he lived. He sat by my side after an emergency tracheotomy and I wasn't so scared anymore. My big brother was there. He protected me and I breathed, albeit with the aid of a machine for weeks, but I breathed because he held my hand. He was there. 

So I guess what I'm saying is success can be marked by simple good deeds or by remarkable achievements. My brother did both. May I be worthy enough to carry the torch. 

Great-nephew Peter with Uncle Steve