As I write, I hear the sound of our old dog snoring. It's a gentle, quiet snore, not disturbing whatsoever, but tonight it stands out more than ever because I know Rosco is dying. We're all dying, yes. And with old age, most likely we get closer to leaving our body. Rosco is old for a dog. The lumps on his sides, which weren't found to be cancerous on his last vet visit, seem to have grown in recent weeks. He is moving much slower than he did last month. Something has shifted. Not only am I certain he knows there is big change in the air with our family venturing to Sweden for a year beginning sometime this summer, but I am certain that he also hears me and "knows" what I'm saying when I talk with him, whether I speak out loud or not. I tell him we are going, though he already knows that. I tell him that I see he is in pain, and that if he feels ready to die, we are willing to hold him as he passes. I tell him that if he isn't ready to die quite yet, he can live with my dad and get lots of petting and treats. But Rosco knows all that. He feels it. Dogs are energetically very in tune -- in ways the majority of adult humans cannot relate to. I tell him I am listening. I ask him to show me signs. I've held a dog as she died before, and Lusa was my soulmate. I'm willing, honored and ready to do it again. It's up to him. If he's ready to go after being brought from an abusive home to the animal shelter as a 1-year-old puppy, and then being adopted by my husband and spending 14 good years in his care -- then I accept that. Having seen how miserable end-of-life can be when close relatives aren't ready to let go, and someone is in pain and wants to go themselves... I want to be loving, and let go. But how does he want to die? I don't mean medically. I mean, if we really were to show love for him... if we really were to care deeply about how he spends his last days... if we considered it important to support our loyal, affectionate, protective, playful friend by assisting him to leave his body in a state of mind that is truly peaceful... What would that look like? How can we help him to pass, feeling loved? What does dignity look like in dying? Do we take him to the beach one day, let him run in the waves and then bring him home where a vet comes by with an end-of-life injection? And we hold his body close, petting his fur gently as his heart stops beating, telling him, "You're a good boy Rosco..." just as I've done dozens of times during his seizures? Do we feed him raw meat and take a family walk the hour before? Do we all sit and pet him, tell him we love him together, or should it be just his dad? What we do not want to do is let him suffer in pain for any longer than he needs to. It's just so hard to tell sometimes with dogs, stoic as they can be with revealing their pain. We want to let him go when he is ready. Really, for us that feels like love. Half of me writes this article to process this sad reality, myself. By stating in writing that we want to support Rosco to pass when he's ready, maybe that means we'll get a clearer message somehow. The other half writes because I'm not afraid to talk about death, and to wonder how I'd prefer to die and to ask... How do you want to die? Have you thought about it? Perhaps you know how you don't want to die: in horrible pain, or in terrible fear, or all tied up with tubes in a hospital bed.
Most of us have no control over how we die; we're not going to take our own lives prematurely. But we do get to dream. To be in conversation with the great mystery of the future, and all that is unfolding. To lend light to the wanting, to give name to the joy. When you take your last breaths, do you want:
I'd like to live another 50 years or so, and watch our daughter grow up and blow my mind with her brilliance, courage, playfulness, passion and grace. I'd like another Queensland Heeler puppy to care for its entire life. I want to live to see my husband living his art and joy for work. I want to live at least as long as my parents, so I can care for them with my whole heart, as a duty of honor. At least as long as it takes for our daughter to choose to have children, or not, so that I can play with my grandchildren... And when I leave this body, I want:
That's what dignity in dying looks like for me. That's what dignity in dying might look like for Rosco. What does dignity in dying look like for you?
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I don't want a photo of a gun on my blog. Or anywhere my eyes can see. The image of a gun has me shaking my head in sadness. It makes me angry that we've let ourselves be so sick as a human species. And once the anger is felt for a few moments, great grief enters. It burns my heart to think of what's possible with humans -- how we can learn to communicate through conflict, to heal old wounds -- and yet how often we resort to defensiveness and violence.
As a kid in Catholic school, I decided religion wasn't my thing. But God is. Because God is Love. And Love is definitely my thing. Love is what makes life worth living. It's the most powerful force in the universe. Love is universal, spanning above and beneath all religions, swallowing them whole, together. Love is beyond religion.
Words can get messy. No single word is adequate to express things as powerful as Love or God... yet we do our best, since we are creatures of relationship. And communication is the hardest part of relationship. And a lot of how we communicate is with words.
After the recent shooting in Orlando, Florida, I wished I had a magic wand to ban guns from the planet. Nowhere do they belong. I feel this in my heart of hearts. Humans are capable of learning to communicate with wisdom and maturity; guns should not be necessary. If we want to hunt and eat non-human animals, there are other ways.
Love doesn't kill. Guns don't kill without someone pulling the trigger, either. But dang, can't we do better, people? If nothing more, this is a plea to each of us. EACH OF US. To humble ourselves, to open our hearts and exhale our defensiveness, so we can become more effective communicators. We are all learning to be better communicators. Let's stop pretending we're not. Every time we choose to slow down and be curious in the presence of conflict -- instead of being defensive -- we open up a space for Love to come in and speak through us. It's absolutely not easy, and it is a significant part of the required work of being human. If not in this life, it'll surface in the next. I don't want to argue about this. I don't want to be right. I just want to share my heartfelt words on my blog. They're not meant to judge anybody. Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing there is a field I'll meet you there - Rumi On Michael Jackson's Thriller album, producer Quincy Jones talks about how the music gives you chills. He calls it "the chill factor" and says this is nothing less than divinity. And it's precisely how I feel about exquisitely fine milk foam on a cappuccino or latte. The texture, the sensual wholeness, the smooth taste. There is nothing quite like spectacular milk foam. This is why, as I stood watching one of my favorite baristas make my favorite drink recently, I literally stood there and cried. Slow, graceful, pausing tears. The kind that drip devotedly, in love with what the heart's eyes are seeing. Why the hell was I crying about an espresso drink? It is quite simple: Tears are a sign of an open heart. An open heart is willing to give and receive love. And Love is beautiful. To elaborate... - Happiness and love are close relatives. There is great happiness found in simple joys. One living breathing moment to the next, all we've got is a taste of our latte, a fold of the laundry, a flush of the toilet. If we can't find happiness in the small things, where will we find it? - Telling the truth is far more powerful than we acknowledge. The drink I like, with the kind of foam I like, is very, very uncommon. "Can I have a deep-wet-foam latte...? Every time I approach a cafe counter, I contemplate whether to ask for it or not -- and if so, how. Do I just order a coffee, or do I try to convey what I really want, and see what shows up? How annoyable does the barista appear? (And boy, this varies.) This process has allowed me an opportunity to clarify what I want, refine my language in asking for it, and surrender to what shows up, knowing it usually won't be exactly as I hope. Telling the truth takes courage. Owning our desire takes courage. - It also takes courage to be true to your dreams -- and shizz, I really love this drink -- especially when it's not popular. The more we live authentically, the stronger those muscles get. Still, sometimes it seems a lot easier to just. Order. Coffee. Just go with the cultural flow. Stop dreaming, stop your fantasy world imagination, go with what is. There's power in that too sometimes, yet authenticity sure can fire up the heart. |
AuthorJessica Rios, Founder of Leaning into Light, was born with a divine pen in her pelvis. Her heart writes for her; Love is her 'religion'. A lifelong letter writer and a thought leader in Love, her blog is devoted to her greatest passion: illuminating the beauty of the human spirit so we all move closer to remembering that Love is Who We Are. Categories
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