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Ancient cedar tree, Ho Rain forest, Olympic National Forest, Photo by Karen Lundblad |
Lately I've been thinking
about circles. Not the kind made with lines on a piece of paper, but the kind that
connects one thing to another, and another, and around, until you are back to where
you started. I found so many of these circles than in the Ho Rainforest on the Olympic
Peninsula in Washington state. When I looked all the trees seemed to be connected
to one another; new ones growing out of old ones. Roots entangled into a nest of
new growth. Life seemed to flow around and around through generations of trees without
beginning and ending.
As I look back on those
days with the rainforest I'm filled with memories of continual life and that causes
me to ask, "Where does life begin, or end?", "Where did I come from?",
"Where will I go when I finish this life?" If the answer to those questions
is found in the forest, then I feel that I will not entirely leave, but rather serve
to support the new life that grows out of my living today. I can't begin to explain
this. It is more a feeling of comfort than anything else. But the "knowing"
of this idea leaves me feeling fuller, giving me more purpose to this life.
Thoughts such of these
have led me to be with those who are terminally ill. When I sit and talk with someone
who is dying I must ask myself, "Aren't we all terminal?" Of course! Some
of us go through death's door sooner than others. But we will all go through that
door sooner or later. Like the trees our roots will wither and rest from growth.
When we die, will not our dying open a place where the new growth can take hold?
This is not a morbid
thought. I have experienced the contrary as I have been with those who are actively
facing their death. As they open within themselves, heal the relationships with family
and friends, say "good bye" and "I love you," they seem to find
a Largeness in life. It is a divine grace that connects each one to the other like
the generations of entangled trees. This is a "good death;" an experience
beyond daily time, and beyond usual encounters.
It seems like a simple
outline of tasks. So simple is it that we often overlook the importance of completing
each one of them before death arrives. Dying is intense work. It requires us to actively
face, complete, and let go of our living tasks. When managing pain and fear press
us at this time, we can be comforted if we have practiced (or at least thought about
these tasks) before the actual time that death is approaching. I often ask others
if they have thought about who they want with them during their time of dying. Most
people have given this little thought. And when that question is answered, I continue
to press the next question – "Have you talked with that person/s about your
wishes?" We might have completed our wills and advanced directives, but have
we actually talked with our loved ones about our wishes?
Winter is a time when
we are given the opportunity to reflect on the dying part of nature's cycle. Perhaps
as we look back on the adventures of the summer and spring we might actively place
ourselves in that great cycle and begin to ask the questions that will prepare us
for our time to journey through death's door. And let us feel the comfort of "knowing"
that we are a part of greater circles of life; the comfort from knowing there is
no beginning or ending, only a continual flow of life. Life, death, life, again and
again. We are a part of that great cycle!
Also see Olympic Peninsula National Forest Photo Essay by Karen Lundblad.
