Much of our experience is now in the spiritual, emotional realm. The tasks of personal hygiene, eating and sleeping have settled into a routine that varies only slightly from day to day. There are still trips to town and the associated visit to the Thai restaurant and Belindebas but we seldom go to County Park or Roche Harbor as the weather has turned dark and the days have drawn short.   

Still each day has a pearl somewhere hidden in these tasks where we connect, in love and in light, while sharing this adventure. Mother will give me a warm hug or thank me for giving her so much spiritual support as she returns, confused from her travels to the other side. She will smile warmly and talk at length of her gratitude for the time we have together in this wonderful Shambhala. She works through, mostly in silence, her comprehension of what is happening. Most of the time I am enriched by the experience and feel blessed by it, but sometimes I am also challenged. Yesterday was one of those times.   

"I asked god to let me die many times now and he has not, so it must not be my time." These were the only words that mother spoke that in any way served to explain her behavior today. And these came just as we were ready to go to bed. Earlier we were watching a video about the Christmas in Leavenworth. Like the naive fool that I am I thought it might be nice for her to reminisce about the time we found our way to this Shambhala which she loves so much. All of a sudden she wanted to get up. She muttered something about not being able to sit around like an invalid all the time and insisted I help her walk to the kitchen to get a cup. I had an inkling as to what she was up to but followed her lead. She could hardly stand by the time we got to the cupboard and my biggest fear was that she would collapse on me for she is too heavy for me to lift. We might end up sleeping on the kitchen floor, I thought to myself.   

When I reached the cup down to her (in case anyone is curious its the dark blue one with the chip out of the rim) she struggled to get her pants out of the way and squeeze it between her legs. She mostly missed her target but was able to get some in the cup. However by this time she was shaking and she started to realize that there was no way she could carry the cup back to the couch where she sat. The cup found a resting place on the corner of the counter with strict instructions that we pick it up on the way to bed. We made it back to the couch, but just barely when the phone rang and it was Laura, My Love, wanting to share her news of the afternoon.   

It was while I gave her her foot treatment, when she told me that I haven't smiled at her all evening, that I realized what had happened to me. When mother had suddenly deviated from her path towards a peaceful transition to a stubborn and irrational determination to "get better" (while eating bear-claws and shunning any form of healthy choices) I found myself not nearly as accepting all of a sudden. I still flew by her wingtip but with clenched teeth and screaming protests in my head. It showed because the usual love that flowed from me was replaced by a scowl that was firmly planted on my face. Is my acceptance that conditional? Is my chase plane that lousy at maneuvering through the sudden turns and flips?   It is not mother's episode that has me pondering. She simply exercised the "hope" phase that Kuebler-Ross describes so well in her book "On Death and Dying" and all I have to do is respect mother and not challenge her as she works her way through it. Indeed it is my response, inside, that has me concerned. Am I learning unconditional love and acceptance in the process or am I simply spending my reserve of acceptance of irrational behavior on this assignment? That is a fundamental question the answer to which will have profound implications on my personal well being and my ability to interact with my fellow humans.   

Morning After Epilog

After I wrote the above, all it took was one look at Oma sitting on the side of her bed last night, in her ravaged body, no teeth, staring blankly into space, wondering what is happening to her, to straighten me out and re-ignite the compassion in my heart. Intelligent life is not identified by its anatomy but by its actions. There is plenty of evidence among the human species that we are not of equal intelligence. Like a bee nibbling on its wings or a bird plucking its own feathers, many of our species choose to destroy our brain, the key to our survival. Whether through smoking, alcohol, caffeine, diet, lifestyle or television, we practice irrational self mutilation all the time. A higher life form might look at us with sadness and pity but not, I think with impatience and anger. Therefore I must at all time remember this truth: Intelligent life is not identified by its anatomy but by its actions.   

This morning after sleeping for four hours since her last medication, mother refused her next dose. I wonder where that will take us.   

Curious... but still... 
On a beam of light... 
Thomas