Not My Monkeys, Not My Circus

Our area is buzzing with the news of a death, a not-unexpected death but a dreaded passing, nonetheless. These are the vibrations I write about in an essay in Field Notes, how some deaths are felt by many people, our collective disbelief and sorrow reverberating beyond the immediate contours of family and friends.

The first vibrations are the hurried footsteps to the phone: "Did you hear?"

The vibrations will continue to expand and amplify as people head to their kitchens to cook, head to the store for sympathy cards, head to the church to celebrate a life upended too early, ended too soon. 

This woman and her family are well-known in our area; the news touches a lot of people. Many of us are familiar with her treatment for cancer simply because we know her husband well enough to ask, "How is she doing?"

She was diagnosed six years ago and died the other day. She was 52. 

A few months ago, while skating, I set myself on a new path: To stop worrying about the future, and to enjoy each day. 

Are you surprised to learn I wasn't already doing that? We think we are taking each day as it comes, enjoying what we are doing and where we are living but really, worrying takes up a lot more real estate in our minds and hearts than we realize. 

Since Dwayne's stroke last August, my worries about the future increased -- a different set of vibrations, ones that left me feeling off-balance and shaky, like I was standing on a fault line and didn't know when the ground would shake and topple me. 

As I twirled around the frozen pond, surrounded by the field that inspires and sustains me, I realized I was not living with appreciation. I was not living like I am fortunate and blessed and deeply aware that we really don't know what's going to happen -- as Dwayne's stroke reminded us.

I remembered a lesson I learned in December 2017, when I let go of a situation that was sucking me dry, when I intentionally said, "No more." When I plugged those holes that were allowing my creative energy to drain out, a novel -- a  new and different and completely unexpected writing project -- dropped into my mind. 

That was an exciting experience, and it came with a powerful message; it was time for me to finally learn that lesson. 

Recently, I found myself falling into that trap again, found myself in danger of developing a leak.
"Did you learn the lesson?" I asked myself and I knew I wanted the answer to be Yes. So since then, every time I hear my mind go wandering towards the bad part of town, I yank it back. 

"Stay away," I admonish. "Don't think about it."

Instead, think about this: When I read this woman's obituary yesterday, I realized she was diagnosed at the age of 46; she died at an age only three years older than I am now. 

When I was 46 years old, I published my first book.

So her death, and her final years, are part of the lesson: Don't waste your life on situations and people you can't control and don't trust. Don't waste your creative energy on imagining scenarios and conversations that aren't part of a book. Don't spend another moment worrying about who might call or show up tomorrow while you are standing out on the front deck at 6:30 in the morning listening to the first bird of the day sing the sun up. 

Last Sunday at church, the subject of that day's "Language of Lent" series was obstacles, and I talked about the practice of non-attachment, one of the Eight Limbs of Yoga. 

"Aparigraha" is one of the four niyamas, or ways of right living. It’s the idea that we create our own unhappiness, our own suffering through attachments. 

When you think of it, most of those things we consider “obstacles” are really our attachments. Take anger for example: What greater attachment to anger is there than holding a grudge? 

When you hold on to anger or bitterness or fear, you hold yourself back, you hold everything about your life -- your creative energy, your heart, your emotions -- hostage to one emotion, one situation, one way of living. 

And it's a choice. We can choose to hang on and dwell, or we can choose to let go and live our one and only life. 

Live, love, and let go.

Life is too short, too unpredictable, too precious to allow yourself to attach to anything but the joy of snowflakes and bird song, ice cakes on the open river and the maple tree outside your window starting its slow bloom into spring -- and the absolute brilliance of your good fortunate to be alive and well.