Yesterday I attended the funeral for a man named Pete, who suffered from a brain tumor for over two years. He was 59 years old when he died. Many of us at the funeral shook our heads at the brevity of his life – we paused to focus on his age, especially because many of us are older than 59 and we consider our lives not over. And in fact, demand, in our illusions, that we must have more time. We still have dreams and goals and hopes and plans. The years have altered the nature of our dreams and plans in ways that reflect the flavor and essence of the stage of life we are in, yet still dreams all the same. As we sat together on metal folding chairs after the funeral, sipping wine and consuming anything-but-typical funeral food of wild mushroom dishes, fresh grown vegetables and home made fermented vegetables, we talked about our lives and the dreams we now have, and the splendid focus we are able to allow our selves to enjoy. Those of us gathered at the long church tables, decorated with diagonally arranged flowered table cloths and incredible wild flower arrangements left over from a wedding just a few days ago, agreed that the big push to develop new programs or sell a big idea had faded in favor of reflection, teaching, napping and living authentically. Each face radiated a calm recognition of their true selves. And acceptance.
At the funeral Pete’s sons spoke about the essence their father had left behind. They talked about the rich lessons they had learned from their father. One son said my dad always taught him to love everyone he met. You don’t have to like them but you must love them, he quoted. He continued on, saying my dad taught me to respect everyone you meet – and especially to respect women. A friend of Pete’s said that his deceased friend wanted him to deliver the message to us all that he loved us, and that he tried his best. With those words I felt the tears flow over the lip of my eyelids and spill onto my lap. Ceiling fans barely hummed overhead. The sticky hot air did nothing to muffle the sniffles scattered in the rows of church pews leading to the open door.
I thought about how we all try our best. His last day’s message pierced my heart. On my deathbed, will I still hope that others know, despite my many flaws and missteps, that I did my best? Does my attempt to love deep and wide, to be the best of my ability, shine through my everyday dusty and dented self?
Deepok Chopra teaches that our true selves reside in The Spirit and reflect Love, Quiet, Calm, Kindness, Safety, Peace and that all of this is just waiting to manifest. We spend a lot of time striving to simply just be these things. Parker Palmer reminds us in his new book On the Brink of Everything, that aging is a privilege and death is inevitable. But he also reminds us that the sunset gets more and more beautiful and colorful until the moment it gets dark. Mary Oliver speaks to the everyday living of our true beautiful selves in her poem, Mindful,
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world —
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant —
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
I left the funeral feast in the company of a dear friend. We were quiet part of the way home, but as we approached my driveway, she reflected on the shortness of our lives now, and the importance of telling our truth. I heard in my midst a barely audible essential whisper of truth. A brush of a feather on bare skin. It is time to tell the truth, the whole truth. The beautiful truth. We are all just trying our best. It is my hope that we can all see that in every person we meet along the path. It is my hope we don’t wait until their funeral to thank them for working so hard to do their best. Thank you Pete, for teaching me beyond your death, about life.
Janet Elizabeth Hartwick Sterk
August 8, 2018
Linnea Dietrich
Interesting that you wrote this today as I was telling my bread customers I am going into semi-semi-semi retirement. My bread may “pop up” here and there but I have no further commitments after this Saturday. I was telling my tale to a good customer who is also looking to make a change, a big change. Sell their farm, sell their alpacas and move south. He said his life isn’t that hard, it is just there is hay to grow, he must feed the animals, and you know…all that stuff. He said to me, “I just don’t want anymore complications, no complications.” I told him that I knew exactly what he meant. Me too. No more complications, no pressure, no meeting deadlines. Customers asked what I was going to do. I said nothing. No really, what are you going to do? I said, no really, nothing. Then someone pointed out to me that it is impossible to do nothing. You have to do something. I said that was merely a technicality. So…I agree with your group conversation. As you know, I am an entrepreneur and I seem to attract other big idea people. I keep saying, no more big ideas…at least for now…got enough happening that needs to be attended to without creating more. Love you Janet. Love your musings.
HealingJourneys
Thank you Linnea, yes, the beat goes on… there is something in the air. And personally, I can’t wait to see and be part of your next big idea. You are clearing the path for it. Out with the old, in with the new…. Love you and your amazing spirit Linnea!
Nancy Raeburn
Your healing journey today helped me
to forgive myself for those times when I’ve misspoken or failed to acknowledge the beauty in others’ spirits (which are always beautiful, always doing the best they can. Thank you, Janet.
HealingJourneys
Thank you Nancy, I continue to see the oneness of us all. Everywhere. You have such a lovely spirit, such a beautiful heart.
Rick Monteith
Janet, you need to find a publisher. Every piece of your work is exceptional.
HealingJourneys
Thank you once again Rick! I am so encouraged by you! I know I need to get going on that and yet am intimidated by the process.. I think this is the year.
Cheryl Kocian
Thank you, Janet, for your reflections of Pete, his life, and our lives. It comes at a perfect time for me. As always. I had a principal once who said the same thing as Pete; remember that most people work to do their best every day. I’ve been reading lots of Mary Oliver’s work lately, but had not come upon the poem you shared. I love it. And you!
HealingJourneys
Thank you Cheryl! I am always humbled by how someone’s story is all of our’s story. Thank you for commenting and for noticing our oneness. I love Mary Oliver… she has been inspiring me along the way…
Love, Janet