New Identity

September 20, 2018

I must be working on a new identity now. Today I found myself renewing both my driver’s license and my passport, and certainly these are metaphors of identity. I got new photos, pictures that I hate, or at least don’t like very much. Washed out is how they look to me. Washed out and old. But that’s how I’m feeling today, so why shouldn’t my photos match my mood?

Even so, a new identity is being formed in the outer world, and I pay attention. I notice how negatively I’m viewing my pictures, how the words “washed out” arise on this grey stormy day, caught in another downpour in this unusually rainy September. But when I notice these feelings, I vow to see things differently.

Several times in the past week I’ve had to fill out forms for various agencies, doctors, and dentists. And I notice that I am now a Widow, a “W” on these forms, an upside down “M.” I realize that I feel a bit upside down, no longer married, no longer belonging to anyone in particular. It’s a weird thought really. Am I always and forever a widow now?

I’m actually not feeling so widowed these days. I’m feeling single. But that doesn’t matter to the government, to the doctors, to the institutions. Now I am a widow. Do I ever get to be single again, an “S”? Or am I destined to be a “W” for the rest of this life? An upside-down M, a reminder of the Hanged Man card in the tarot deck – the one who is  hanged upside down, suspended and waiting, but waiting with serenity and a slight smile on his face.

But waiting for what? Waiting for life to take a turn, I guess. Waiting for life to sweep me up again and blow its winds of change through my being. And when it happens, then I know that I’m the merest bit of flotsam in the Universe being swept, being held, being loved. Yet there is no sweeping without my willingness to give it space. And certainly, life can sweep in and overwhelm any plans that I have made, but today it feels like I have to participate in some more directed manner, in a way that allows a deeper truth to emerge.

I’m fairly certain that I’m not feeling like getting married again, not feeling like being an “M.” I’m seeing that for me, marriage is for raising children, for creating a family unit, or at least that’s how it seems right now. And even if I fall in love again, I’m not sure that I’d get married. I’m single, and I’m learning to accept my singleness. But there’s something here about also accepting my status as a widow. Something about completely accepting that this is how I’m seen by the world at large, and trying to find peace with it. And not only finding peace with widowhood, but finding peace with aging, with the inevitable changes, with letting go into this new reality.

Today, one of my clients tells me she’s asking the most basic identity question of all. She is asking: Who am I? I try to help her go more deeply into herself, but her answers are fairly commonplace – I’m a wife, a mother, an artist – words like that. I find myself wanting to answer the question as she does, to answer with relatively banal adjectives, to somehow identify myself in some easy and particular way. I know I can fall back on my profession, my business, my children, but that’s not who I am or who anyone is. It’s really such a profound question for any of us.

For when I get down to it, there is a “me” that inhabits this body-mind, a “me” who has built an identity around all kinds of adjectives. But it is just ego talking, and though there is a kind of truth in these egoic efforts, it’s cold comfort on the long nights alone.

Ultimately, there’s no real place to stand with any of these adjectives, but I didn’t truly face into this when I was married to Michael. I had the confidence of being married to a husband who loved me, a man who claimed me and who I claimed in return. And though it was terrifying and horrible, I ferried him through the awful dying and death he created for himself, through the passage that we co-created. And for a few years, this was my identity. Yet now, at last, I find myself truly alone. Alone and vulnerable and for the first time, forging an identity as an aging widow. I find myself cringing at these words, this cliché, so they must be true – an aging widow. What an awe-full thing to accept!

Of course I am more than an aging widow. I am full of spirit and light and hard-won wisdom and I’m generally healthy in body and mind. But these attributes do not change the necessity to accept the full spectrum of experience and truth, to explore all the aspects of identity that now present themselves.

I thought I understood the concept of the emptiness of identity for many years, but I didn’t really embrace it. For to embrace it fully means to embrace the utter emptiness that lies under the personality, under the body, under the mind. And this can feel stark and frightening. It can feel like nothing.

So, who is this “me” that lies under all the rest of it? Surely, there is something in the “I” who is writing these words. But even this is built on ego. Even as truthfully and carefully as I can answer this question, it still requires egoic energy to write these words, to articulate this truth. And when the ego is running things, we don’t ever really know the truth.

Anyone who has studied spirituality with any depth eventually comes to the question of identity. And it is always answered by recognizing the essence of the self, and ultimately, the inherent emptiness of the self. For when we get down to the real deal, to the bottom of the bottom, there’s nothing here but energy swirling in the vast unknown, and under this, there is the transparent and dazzling darkness of the void.

Fundamentally, it isn’t even “energy.” For it is all just Oneness. And the only thing that is holding this whole unutterably strange mystery together, the only thing that creates these forms in which we find ourselves, is love. Once again, whenever I really question who I am, it always comes down to love.

But these are easy words and not the true experience. I know that love is at the bottom of everything, but the experience of this ultimate love is fleeting and delicate and I can’t “make” it happen. Just as with any spiritual experience, it happens beyond us, it happens outside of personality, outside of words, and outside of any attempts to control it or understand it.

So now I pray. I pray wholeheartedly that I will once again be taken to the sacred place, that I will be swept up by God, or the Divine, or whatever you want to call this immeasurable ocean of experience. I pray that I will once again know the Identity beyond identity, the Wondrous Being. And when I do, then true acceptance will flood through me and heal me, and dear God, it will heal us all.

 

Laying Out the Body

It is April 25^th, 3:20am, and suddenly I am wide awake. I have been sound asleep for the first time in days, but something is waking me up out of my sleeping pill stupor. I still have the sound-deafening headphones on to block out the barking dog across the way. And yet,  I have heard Michael calling me and I am wide awake. I find myself running out to the living room where Michael’s hospital bed is located.

He’s struggling for breath and he cannot talk. I can see that he couldn’t have called me, but he did “call” me at another level, and I am here. There’s a deep rattling in his chest and it is terrifying. He’s gasping for air. I run to the other room to get the oxygen machine that we haven’t needed until now. Luckily it’s all hooked up and all I have to do is fit the tubing into his nose and turn it on.

But there’s no relief. The rattling and gasping and struggling for breath continues. I think he is dying but I can’t stop to think too hard. I begin to do emergency energy work to make it easier for his spirit to leave his body. I’m opening his crown chakra, his throat, and his heart. But I go back to the crown again because that is where my hands are pulled. His spirit needs to fly out of his crown.

Now I’m crying and my tears are falling on his bald head. “I love you so much, I love you so much,” I say over and over. I know this is it. I know he is going now. He gasps out, ” …love…you…,”  his eyes roll up to the top of his head and now only the whites are visible. There is one last shudder and his eyes slowly roll down again. He is gone.

I am completely stunned and I cry hard for a moment, but then I sit on the couch. A sudden stillness comes over me and I am drawn into deep meditation. Eventually I call Hospice and they send a nurse over to declare that Michael is dead.

Michael wanted his body to be left undisturbed for 24 hours after death and of course I honor his wishes. I touch his forehead and already it’s getting colder. It doesn’t feel like living flesh.

I sit quietly until my brother and his wife awaken to go home to Colorado. They offer to stay but I tell them it’s fine for them to leave. I need to be alone. Finally, I call my friends Bob and Merrilee to come sit with me. It’s been five or six hours since his death now, and I realize I’m in shock. My friends arrive, and some time goes by. They tell me I’ve spoken with my sons, and with Michael’s son, that I’ve told them that Michael is dead. They tell me I’ve taken lots of homeopathic flower essences and that I don’t need any more of them right now. I don’t remember any of this! I’ve never felt like this before. I realize that I am in shock.

Then I call Kathy to come over. When Kathy arrives she immediately takes charge. She asks Bob and Merrilee to get some food for me and then comes and sits next to me on the couch. I don’t feel like eating but I’m told to eat anyway, to drink water. After a time of sitting she says, “We have to do something with his body.”

“OK,” I say, “but what?”

“I don’t know … but something.”

She sits awhile longer. Bob and Merrilee return after getting me more food.  Once I’m fed, I’m finally exhausted and I think I can sleep for awhile. They see that I’m taken care of and they leave.

Soon Kathy also leaves to “get supplies.” I lie down, so tired that I literally feel numb all over. But I cannot sleep and I do not sleep. I lie in bed trying to meditate, trying to remember talking to the kids, trying to realize that Michael’s dead body is lying in our living room. Nothing feels quite real.

Michael’s been dead for almost 12 hours when I hear the door open and Kathy is back, her arms loaded with “supplies.”. There’s a beautiful red silk sari from India and two bolts of silky material from the fabric store, one olive green, one a light cream color. She’s also brought a special soap. She says, “We are going to bathe him and wrap him.”

I really can’t think very well but I say “ok” and Kathy begins to fill a tub with water. “What are we doing?” I ask.

“We’re bathing him first. Do you have any essential oils?”

Of course we have many essential oils but I immediately know that he should be bathed in frankincense. It’s one of his favorite scents, maybe his only favorite scent, and I go to get it from the shelf in the treatment room we have in our basement.

We start the process by stripping off the pajamas he is wearing.  Now Michael’s body lies naked and vulnerable on the hospital bed. It’s him, but it’s not him, and I don’t feel embarrassed that Kathy is seeing his body like this.

“OK,” Kathy says, “First we have to plug his anus up so that it doesn’t leak out while we bathe him.” I watch as she deftly and efficiently stuffs cotton into his butt. There’s nothing remotely wrong with this which amazes me a bit. I mean, another woman is putting a plug of cotton in my husband’s anus. But nothing seems out of line now, nothing seems too odd.

We get some warm water and the special soap that Kathy has brought with her. I add the frankincense to the water and we begin to wipe him down very gently with washcloths and lovely scented water. Since he is lying on his back,  we begin with the front of his body. It’s stiff and cold, and I mean really cold, and I find it odd that it’s already so dead feeling. But then I realize that this is exactly how it should be.

Kathy begins to wash his genitals. His testicles have been enlarged for almost 2 years now, and his penis has gradually shrunken into itself until it almost disappears. As we move the testicles aside I see that his skin has been breaking down in the area between his testicles and his legs and it makes me sad. I didn’t know about this, I didn’t help him with this, and then I realize that he probably didn’t know about it either. We gently wipe away the dead skin and I see the raw skin beneath it.

Now it’s time to roll him over but first the water must be emptied. It’s dirty and we need clean water. Kathy has read that the water shouldn’t go down the drain but should be emptied onto the ground. She goes outside to our front garden and dumps the water not realizing that the bar of lavender soap is also being dumped on the lawn. She comes back in and we watch as a crow finds the bar of soap, pecks at it a bit, then picks it up and flies away with his new prize. I’m wondering what this metaphor signifies but I don’t take the time to examine it now.

Now Kathy gets some fresh warm water and we turn Michael’s body onto its side. As we do, there is a gush of black liquid that pours out of his mouth and nose. It is really black! And it has chunks of black material in it and it is horrfiying. Part of my mind is wondering what on earth it is, while the other part is trying not to freak out over the awfulness of it all. The larger part of me realizes that death is not pretty, that this is part of bathing the dead, part of bathing Michael’s body, and thankfully, I am able to continue to do this strange and sacred work of laying out the body.

We are both taken aback, of course, but Kathy, being a midwife of longstanding, just gathers up the sheet, the mattress pad, and the pillow out from under him, and I take them out to the garbage. When I return, she has plugged up his nose and mouth with more cotton. It’s kind of odd looking, but completely necessary. I can already see more of the black liquid collecting on the edges of the cotton in his nose.

As we turn him, I notice a bed sore on his shoulder that I hadn’t seen before. And again, I realize that I don’t think Michael knew about this sore either. There were just too many things going wrong with his body – a sore on his shoulder was almost nothing.

We efficiently wipe down his back and his feet and dry him off. Or dry his body off. It’s a weird juxtaposition. It’s Michael’s body, but it certainly isn’t Michael. It’s a little hard to remember this. Once his body is cleaned we begin to work the red silk sari under him so that it covers the entire bed and hangs down on the sides.

“What now?” I say. We take a little break which is good. This is pretty intense work we are doing  and I realize we are midwifing death. “Deathing,” I think to myself, “We are engaged in deathing.”

Then we’re back at it. Kathy clearly has a vision, and so now it’s time to get the cream-colored silk under and around him. It’s hard work moving a dead body that has been beset by rigor mortis. It had been lying at a weird and uncomfortable looking angle and though Michael certainly can’t feel this discomfort, we feel it, and we move him to a more natural position. We manage and soon there is a full body wrap of this lovely creamy material around him. Already, I can see where we’re headed and it’s beautiful.

Now it’s time for the olive green silky cloth and we wrap it under him, around his shoulders, and begin to make a robe-like thing of it. Kathy carefully folds the fabric as if it is some special garment, for that is exactly what it is. We both notice that Michael’s head looks uncomfortable since the pillow got taken away. I find an old pillow and wrap it in the same green material and slip it under his head. He looks much better now. Regal, even. Comfortable and regal.

Kathy takes the cotton out of his mouth and nose and gently washes off the remaining black liquid. Now I realize it’s time to build an altar! Michael and I have built many altars over the years to mark important moments, and God knows, this is one of the most important.

We need to represent the four directions. In Western mystical tradition, East is for Air, South is for Fire, West is for Water, and North is for Earth. We go outside to find some representatives for the elements. The Coffee Bean tree gives us some unusual brownish red rattling pods to use, and I grab a black stone and a piece of rose quartz for love. Along with a green candle, we’ve got our earth element.

Fire is easy. I’ve got a red ceramic bowl made by Michael’s granddaughter and I put a heart-shaped red candle holder in it. It’s perfect for this. For Air I have feathers, beautiful feathers that Michael and I have collected on many of our hikes in various locations. I grab the eagle feather and the owl feather. I fill a shimmering blue glass vase with water and daffodils for the Water element, and I get more candles. This altar needs to shine!

I begin lighting the candles for the sacred circle, always going clockwise, starting in the East with the color yellow, the dawning sunlight, the archangel, Raphael. South is red for fire and Spirit and Archangel Michael, West is blue for water and emotions and Archangel Gabriel, and North is green for earth and Archangel Uriel. I light a white lotus candle in the center.

Now it becomes clear that it’s time to say a few words, words of prayer and peaceful passage, words of gratitude. I am crying wholeheartedly as I do this. I am so grateful to have had this person in my life, this beautiful man, this Michael. Such a blessing. I already miss him so much. I cry and pray.

Kathy is doing her own thing with prayers and it’s clear we both feel the holiness of this moment. We both recognize that we are in the midst of the Sacred, and now is a time for kneeling at the feet of God in whatever way we can.

We take some pictures. We’ve been at this for hours now and I want to remember this forever. I know we have done something important and something magical. We have taken some kind of raw intuitive guidance from the deepest mystery. I feel hushed and stilled by the beauty of this moment. I am filled with awe at the supreme honor of laying out this body for its final end.

Now at last we blow out the candles and we sit quietly for awhile. Kathy asks me if I want her to spend the night and I say no. I really want to be alone. Once she leaves I sit beside Michael’s body and meditate once again. There is peace and a profound sense of goodness here, and I sink into it as deeply as I can. I feel surrounded by love.

Finally, I rise and kiss Michael’s cold forehead goodnight before going to sleep. “Goodnight, Honey,” I say just as I have said so many times in these past 35 years. Suddenly I realize this is the last night that I will touch him and I cry again and then go to bed.

The Cremation Society will come at 9am the next morning to take his body away but I know that the real work has already been done. Michael’s body has been cleansed and wrapped and laid out, his spirit has been honored as deeply as humanly possible, and the Great Powers have been called upon on his behalf. All is well now. All is truly well.

In Memoriam

May 13, 2018

How does one remember a love so long and true? How can I speak of my love without falling apart, without being down on my knees, without knowing that any words I could ever speak would be inadequate and pale beside the reality?

As far as I know, there have been three miracles around Michael’s death. The first miracle is that I haven’t had a single migraine headache since the day he died, and I’ve had severe migraines for 25 years. In what is certainly the most difficult time of my life, I haven’t had headaches. I believe that Michael took the underlying pattern of my headaches with him when he left. It was his parting gift to me.

Michael was a deeply spiritual man. In fact, our first real conversation outside of work-related things was about our shared excitement over the Seth books and the underlying reality they revealed. We agreed that we both knew that Seth was revealing the Truth. We knew we were being taught the meaning of life and of death. And we knew that few others shared our passion for this spiritual work. I had already loved his earthy quick dry wit, but now something else emerged. I realized I had found a like-minded soul.

From that moment on, each of us looked for reasons to spend time together – to laugh, to speculate, to talk, to agree on how to value the immense beauty of the Mystery that contains us. From that moment on, it was love.

When Michael died, we’d been together for almost 35 years, and we’d known that we were soul mates. When we met, both of us were coming out of relationships that had scarred us, and we were wary. Well, actually, I was wary. Michael already knew we were supposed to be together. In fact, he said that he’d known it on the day we met more than a year before this. All I had known was that this man was interesting, smart, and really funny. And I wanted more.

Through fits and starts we found our way to each other and were married. It was weird for me. I’d always ridden on passion, and though there was a kind of passion, this was a quiet and calm steadiness that continually surprised me. This was a passion that I didn’t understand. This was Michael.

We raised three good boys into three good men together. We hear so many stories of children so damaged by divorce that their lives are shattered. And though there was surely damage, all three of these boys grew into good men, and to a large extent, I believe that this is because of Michael, because of the kind of man he was, the kind of model he was.

Michael was so amazing that without a word from me, he knew how to be with my children. He knew how to play with them, how to make fun out of He Man figures and legos, how to soothe a frightened child, how to calm an angry one. He was a miracle right from the start.

And saying that, it took me awhile to realize what a real miracle he was – for we could talk about anything that arose between us. Granted, it was always me bringing things up, but when I did, he’d go there with me – through all the highs and lows, he never wavered. His patience with my moods, my quicksilver gyrations, my endless questioning became the balm for my soul. I, in turn, became the language of his heart.

He was also brilliant. His knowledge of esoterica and his ability to integrate genuinely difficult information into workable and practical experience was more developed than anyone else’s I’ve ever met.

It was his brilliance and his inspiration that initiated Eastwind School into being. It was mine that engendered Eastwind Healing Center. Neither of us could have done it alone. It was the alchemy of our marriage, the balance of spirit and heart, the magic of true love, that allowed the first integrative medicine center in Iowa to be born. It was here that we learned the language of teaching in the highest sense that allowed so many to be touched by our work together.

Michael was the most spiritually devoted man I’ve ever known. He literally spent his entire adult life studying and practicing various systems of self development. He started with TM at age 19, then went to Seth, then to the Kabbalah, then to The Tree of Life, then to Western magical traditions. Along the way he also studied Tibetan Buddhism, Reiki, energy healing, Chinese medicine, and various other esoteric healing methods. He was literally the most learnèd man I’ve ever known in the integration of strange magic. His whole adult life was spent in the quest for enlightenment.

In December of 2015 we were initiated into the meditational practice of Light and Sound. Four months later, on April 12, 2016 he realized his essential nature, became enlightened, and was forever changed. I do not say this lightly. This was the real thing and it was evident in the deepening calm and presence around him, a presence that pervaded even the most extreme physical difficulties.

At that time, though we didn’t have the diagnosis, he was already suffering from the disease that killed him. Once he was diagnosed and quit working as a psychologist and a healer, he struggled to find some purpose that would fulfill him. He never really found one. In many ways I think that his enlightenment was his purpose, and it is what allowed him to die. He’d done what he set out to do, and really, there wasn’t anything more that he needed from this life.

We called a psychic who we’d relied on through the years for wisdom and guidance. She told him that he would die within two years unless he learned to receive. She kept saying that: “You must learn to receive, you must learn to receive.” She said he had been a healer in many lifetimes, and that in all of those lifetimes he had given more than he’d received, and in that process, he’d created an imbalance that required adjustment. She said that the final learning of this lifetime was to open his heart to receive love from others, not just from me, but from all the many who were willing to give it in ways both small and large.

While he was in the hospital this last month, I did a tarot card reading on the course of his illness. There were 7 major arcana in this reading which is a very strong indicator that one is now in the hands of Fate with little to no ability to control the outcome. In this reading, the outcome card was The Star — the card of transcendence. When I looked at the reading, I knew he was dying soon. I also knew that when the Tower’s lightning bolt struck, Michael was held in the lap of the Great Mother (the Empress). It was clear that he would move into a state of trust and peace (the Fool) that would lead to The Star.

Five days before he died, Michael said that he realized that all the things that involved dying were easily falling into place, while the things that involved living, were not. I don’t think he believed he would be dead within five days, but he did see that death was coming. He had heard his body’s spirit telling him it couldn’t go on much longer, and he accepted it’s message.

He began to cry more easily than he ever had, and this was a man who almost never cried. He cried when people brought food to our door, he cried when friends dropped in for a short visit, he cried over the kindness of the Hospice team, he cried when his son helped him brush his teeth, he cried after meditating because he was so full of love that he was ecstatic and grateful.

I believe that in the end he did learn to receive. He was bedridden and absolutely reliant on others for his care, and his dear spirit became even gentler, even more loving. He started calling me “my love.” “My love, would you be able to get me another drink?” “Thank you, my love.” He’d never done that before and I knew that in his absolute reliance on others for help, he was experiencing a depth of receiving he hadn’t previously realized.

On April 25^th, he woke me up at 3:30 am. This was the second miracle. I had put on sound-deafening headphones because of a barking dog in our neighborhood. I’d also taken a sleeping pill out of sheer exhaustion and a profound need for sleep. Though there was no physical way that he could have aroused me, I “heard” him calling me and I awakened.

I rushed into the living room to find him gasping for breath and demonstrating what I now know is a “death rattle” – his body so full of fluid that he could barely breathe or speak. He was physically in great distress. I hooked him up to oxygen but it didn’t help. Then I started to do energy work around his crown and 3^rdeye and heart, particularly his crown, opening it so that his spirit could fly out easily. At this point tears were flowing down my face and falling on his bald head. I kept saying, “I love you so much, I love you so much.” With his last gasp he said, “…love…you.” His eyes rolled up to the top of his head, there was one last shudder, his eyes rolled down, and he was gone. Our last words were words of nothing but love.

When he died I felt a brief, deep shock, and then, suddenly, I was very, very calm. A peace came over me and I meditated and sat with his body by myself until Hospice came and then my brother and his wife awakened.

My brother’s wife came into the living room where Michael’s body was laid and said she had a headache. She said it was a weird headache in that she was seeing stars. I said it sounded like it could be the aura that precedes a migraine. I asked her if she wanted some medication but she said it didn’t really hurt.

And here is the third miracle: On their way back to Colorado, my sister-in-law told my brother that she’d realized that the only time she saw stars was when she was looking at Michael’s body. Clearly, he was sending us all a message.

The peace of Michael’s death has remained in our home. I am in deep grief, but there is a level of stillness that wasn’t here before. I know he went to the Stars.  Finally, he has found his way back home.

 

 

He is Gone

This is the picture of Michael that I took on the day of his enlightenment: April 12, 2016.

On April 25, 2018 at 3:41am Michael passed from this life to the next. I will be writing about it once I am able. He awakened me at around 3:20am and I found him struggling to breathe. I got oxygen started but it didn’t help and there was a horrible deep “death rattle” in his chest. I kept saying “I love you so much, I love you so much” while trying to ease his discomfort with energy work. His last words were “I love you.” Then his eyes rolled up into his head, rolled back down, and he died. I am in grief beyond words.

Here is the obituary that he wrote for himself in February.

Dr. Michael J. Santangelo, 68, died on April 25, 2018 at home in Iowa City from complications of amyloidosis. Michael was born on April 20, 1950, oldest child of Michael F. Santangelo and Anna Norma (Zorio) Santangelo.

He grew up in Philadelphia and in its suburb of Levittown, PA. After finishing twelve years of parochial school, he attended Virginia Tech, earning a bachelors degree in Mathematics, as well as a masters and doctorate degrees in psychology. While in graduate school, his son Adrian was born.

After graduation, Michael worked as a clinical psychologist in mental health centers in Muscatine and Cedar Rapids, IA. During this time, he served as director of clinical services and headed a partial hospitalization program for the chronically mentally ill. After leaving community mental health, he worked as an associate in three private practices, was a consultant with the Iowa Department of Human Services, and co-directed behavioral research in hemophilia and AIDS at The University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics. At about this time, his long-term disenchantment with the traditional practice of psychology led him to pursue training in Asian massage, traditional Chinese medicine, naturopathy, and energy medicine.

In 1987, Michael married Candida Maurer, the love of his life, and became step-father to her two sons, Colin and Darby. Together, Michael and Candida founded what is now Eastwind Healing Center in 1994, and Eastwind School of Holistic Healing in 1997, a massage school they directed and taught in for ten years. The focus of their healing practice has been the integration of psychology and alternative healthcare, which made the Center the first of its kind in Iowa.

Michael’s interests were always esoteric and eclectic. From an early age, he was interested in spirituality and metaphysics. For many years and until his death, he was a member of Builders of the Adytum (BOTA) and the Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis (AMORC), two prominent organizations that follow the teachings of the Western mystery tradition, especially Qabalah and Tarot. He also served on the editorial board of the Rose+Croix Journal, the academic publication of AMORC.

Michael studied and practiced meditation since his adolescence, and this background informed his more than forty years in the professional practice of healthcare. His approach to working with others was very eclectic, and he used his varied background to assist people with many different problems, from emotional and mental, to physical and spiritual. He also taught extensively at all levels, from community education to undergraduate and graduate courses in psychology. Later in his life, his teaching focused primarily on spiritual matters. His lectures were always amply spiced with his irreverent sense of humor. He also wrote, publishing books on personal growth and astrology, yahtzee, and writing a spiritual blog.

Outside of his professional interests, Michael enjoyed reading, research, hiking, electronic gadgets, and recumbent bicycles. He walked a portion of the Camino de Santiago at the age of 64. His favorite hobby, however, was fountain pens. He loved his pens, inks, and paper, and was always ready to seek out “converts” to the art of handwriting. He thoroughly enjoyed producing hand-written letters sealed with custom wax seals, and transcribing famous speeches and spiritual texts using his writing instruments.

Michael is survived by Candida Maurer, his beloved wife of almost 31 years; his son Adrian (Pamela) and his grandchildren Heather and Gavin; his mother; his sister Lisa-Marie; his brother Steven; and by his step-sons Colin (Angela Sarff) Kealey and Darby (Megan Galizia) Kealey. He was preceded in death by his father.

There will be a Ritual Celebration of Life at Hotel Vetro ballroom on May 12th at 3pm.

In lieu of flowers, please make contributions to Iowa City Hospice in his name.

Per me, nihil possum facere.
(Of myself, I can do nothing)

——————————————————————————————————————–

Michael Speaks

April 18, 2018

Dear All,

I thought it would be a good time to hear from the dying one, the other person wandering through this grief stricken landscape. My words won’t be so eloquent or as emotionally honed as Candida’s, for these are where her strengths lie. However, I will present as best as I can.

I remember the moment of panic that Candida described. It was the moment when my physical vehicle, my body Deva, recognized that it had an endpoint, and that was a certainty. At that moment, I was retching violently, and unable to breathe. Those sensations, coupled with the primordial realization of finality, propelled me physically to a place I had never been before. It did galvanize me, however, to action on the physical plane. I was sure to have my DNR order entered into my chart, and also I understood that it was time for what may be final visits from loved ones.

Returning to my center, I felt a great sense of love and compassion for the body. This old friend, who had taken me through almost 68 years of life, was reaching its end. I wept long and hard for it that day. What then followed was the visualization that Candida described so well.

I am left with a new clarity, peace, and abiding love. For my body, for my life, those I love, and for Life itself. I feel ready for whatever comes next, and for whatever duration that entails. I am grateful for all these gifts, and for all those who have supported and witnessed. I am truly blessed. There is infinitely more to say, feel, and process, but all that can be done in Silence.

 

————-

Per me, nihil possum facere.

(Of myself, I can do nothing)

The Dim Fog of Grief

April 17, 2018

My son Darby just left after five days of being here, five days of grieving, five days of relief. For the first time I am able to grieve with someone who knows Michael in the very odd particularity and intimacy of family life, someone who has loved him almost as long as I have.

As Darby leaves, I am suddenly so deeply exhausted that I can barely stand or walk. I do what needs to be done but I’m in a fog. As Darby says, “the dim fog of grief.” I eat, I walk, I do yoga, I hold the dog, I try to sleep, and mostly I visit Michael in the wretched hospital. But all of it is done within a grey cloud of awareness. Only grief and love burst through the cloud and bring heaving sobs of sorrow and joy and pain. For Michael is dying.

He may not die now, or even soon, but he is certainly dying. And now he knows this every bit as much as I have known it these many months.

As soon as Darby walks into Michael’s hospital room for the first time, he starts to cry. It is hard to see him like this but that’s how it is for someone who hasn’t seen him in awhile. Michael says, “I’m fine!” And simultaneously, Darby and I both say, “No, you’re not!” Oh how denial just slips back in so easily.

But it is stark and obvious. Michael’s body has been ravaged by this disease and he looks so ill. There’s no hiding from any of it now. He is dying.

At dinner that night with Darby, he starts talking about Michael. “He was such a good husband to you,” says Darby. “Yes, he was,” I say. Suddenly I notice, “We’re talking about him in the past tense!” It startles both of us but we also know the truth.

A week ago, Michael panicked. He was feeling particularly sick, particularly weak and exhausted, with seemingly endless diarrhea. He panics and truly realizes that he is dying. Then I panic too. When I get home, Darby calls, and I transfer my panic to him and he decides to visit. Then at Michael’s request, I call his son Adrian as well, and Adrian also decides to visit. In our panic, I find that we are calling in the troops.

That night as I meditate, a miracle occurs. I see heaven, or some muted version of heaven that appears inside of me, and suddenly I am filled with peace. I speak with Michael about our panic and about the miracle that occurred. And, miraculously, at the same time, he reports that he had a similar vision. We talk about the place that he is going to, about how beautiful it is, about how he has longed for it his whole life. Now, both of us are calm, allowing things to be as they are.

Yesterday Michael plays songs that he wants played at his Celebration of Life and Darby and Michael and I sit in his hospital room and cry together. One refrain comes through over and over, “I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.”

And it’s true. That’s what happens when the body begins its inevitable disintegration. There’s no earthly home for the soul anymore.

At times this is just horrible and exquisite torture. My feelings are so strong these days – so full of love for those who are helping us, so full of love for Michael who is clearly dying, and so full of love for what life is teaching me.

I see my husband’s body struggling for life, I see how decimated it is, how weak and painful and exhausted it is. He is so weak now. He can make it to the bathroom for more diarrhea but he has to hold onto something to do it. He gets back to bed and he is breathless, and his heart is beating hard and fast. He can only talk a little bit before he’s too tired to keep going. Sometimes when I see how his body is falling apart I find myself struggling to maintain my sense of compassion. A dying body can be an ugly and terrifying thing. I can see that he could rally through this particular crisis but he truly looks the worst I’ve ever seen him.

Then, almost simultaneously, I feel infinite compassion and tenderness for this dear old body that has changed so much, this body that is disintegrating. And for the life that is disintegrating within it.

And under everything, there is such a deep sense of sorrow and love. I have never cried so much or so deeply in my life and I am in agony. I’m also exhausted and I can feel myself burning out. I meditate, do yoga, see a good friend, and I rally again. But then I wonder how Michael can rally in the dim fog of his hospital room.

Having Darby here has made everything more real. The family is gathering to say goodbye. I feel the very real love that is coming toward me, toward Michael, toward us. And still, it’s not enough. This sorrow feels endless.

But again, once I cry, I can go more deeply into myself and finally, I feel a sense of the underlying rightness of it all. Now the dim fog clears at last. But it takes gut-level sobbing for me to get to this level of understanding. In order to truly know the hidden wisdom, the real tears must be cried.

At these times I realize that Michael’s disintegration is exactly what is needed for his metamorphosis to take place. For that’s what death is all about. It’s the last transformation. I can feel the patterns that are shifting and transforming, and I know that it is right to have this intensity of feeling now, that this level of transformation demands tears and dying and death in order for it to happen — for him and for me. This is it! This is where the meaning of a life, and of our life together, can be seen and felt and honored. And this is where it is all ending.

Then I actually know, at least for a time, that Michael’s death has an absolute goodness around it. He’s done what he set out to do, and to be, in this life. And we’ve done what we set out to do, and to be, as a couple. Those roles are crumbling away. And though I will miss him forever, I can feel that we’re almost done.

There is no escape from this. And really, there shouldn’t be! We should have to stare death in the face, we should know its horrifying look, its ominous smell, its moaning sound as well as we can. Our whole life has been leading to this moment! Whether it’s the death of a much-loved one, or one’s own death. We need to look!

These are the defining moments of a life and it’s tremendously sad, but only death can bring us to this level of clarity, this depth of wisdom, this agony of love. It’s the last and biggest transformation possible.

The wheel is turning. It is a huge wheel, and it is always turning. We blink in and out of this life never really knowing what we’ve come for or what we’ve accomplished. And only at the end can we be blessed with seeing it and maybe, if we’re lucky, we arrive at last to an understanding of the grace that has guided us all along.

Life Purpose

November 21, 2017

The new numbers just came back. The numbers that indicate if Michael’s new drug, the “last” drug, is working. And at least so far, it isn’t. The numbers remain stubbornly outside of the normal range and are almost exactly what they were on the previous drug which also wasn’t working.

Of course the word from the medical community is to give it time. The hope is that there is a cumulative effect and Michael has been told to stay on this new drug for a year. Regardless, both of our minds can’t help buzzing with this news, can’t help projecting ahead into the unknown, can’t help wondering what our next step is if there’s no improvement in the several months ahead.

“Maybe I’ve completed my purpose,” Michael says this to me as we sit on the couch facing each other to talk about the future once again. “I mean, maybe my soul purpose is done.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but I don’t know.”

He says this without self-pity. It’s just a statement of fact. The things he used to do, and the things he is doing now, are drying up. They’re not quite flowing. Naturally we both take this as a sign. For one reason or another, the flow of reality is not lining up with Michael’s efforts. This is unusual for him and it catches our attention.

He says, “It seems to me it’s a message. Things aren’t working for me.”

I can tell he really is seeing this clearly. It’s not about feeling sorry for himself. He’s simply noticing the flow of events, noticing where the flow is blocked and he’s not taking it personally.

“So what do you think that means?” I ask.

“It may mean my soul purpose is completed. It may mean I’m supposed to die.”

So now the entire question of one’s soul purpose presents itself at a deeper level and it opens up a huge area of inquiry. How do we even know what our life purpose is? And if it is completed, which in itself seems almost impossible to know, does that mean it is time to die? Can it ever truly be finished? Aren’t some of the greater purposes infinite in nature? Aren’t they always somewhat of a mystery?

Michael had a clear soul purpose before this illness: he was a healer and a teacher and he has done these things. But those purposes have been taken away and it’s likely they won’t return. And everyone who retires is more or less facing this same question – what is my purpose if I’m not doing what I’ve always done? How do I share myself in a way that supports my sense of purpose, in a way that furthers the greater good? And those who are ill may face an especially difficult question: What is my purpose if I’m no longer even able to do what I would like to do?

Add to this the interesting fact that Michael’s spiritual awakening occurred just a few months prior to his diagnosis, and the question becomes even more complicated. Was his life purpose simply to wake up? And then what? Die?

I believe our life purpose is something that can be discovered but it’s far more mysterious than our careers, or our partners, or our hobbies. Some people are born knowing what their purpose is in life. But most of us aren’t that fortunate and we have to stumble around while trying to figure it out, and sometimes we never do.

In my stumbling I’m learning that we don’t move through life, life moves through us. And in that movement we encounter exactly what life wants from us whether we know it or not. Life has its own agenda! And we may, or may not, ever know what it is. In fact, it’s possible that we don’t have to accomplish any particular thing in order for our purpose to be lived. It’s not about what we do, it’s about who we are.

So who is Michael now? He is a man who is facing death with as much dignity and acceptance as he can gather. He takes in the latest medical numbers with relative calm and with a sense of surrender to the greater Mystery.

Who am I? I am the woman watching the man facing death and trying to deal with the many impossible feelings that arise as I do so, trying to face all of it with humility, love, and raw truth. Elucidating this process seems to be my purpose right now.

One thing I’ve discovered for sure is that it doesn’t matter how many mental gyrations I go through – it still hurts. Each new layer of illness is another loss, another adjustment, another tragedy, and it does no good to deny this. There is a huge amount of suffering in watching this drama unfold and there is no way around it. And, ultimately, thank god for it!

Through these events I am being given the immense gift of time. For time is letting me work through this process and is allowing me to feel more than I’ve felt in years. Time is giving my mind the space to thrive on thoughts and words that I never knew were in me. Time is allowing tremendous spiritual richness in the encounter with death and dying. And finally, even though I am deeply sad, in some profound way, time is making me grateful for sorrow.

For all of it is true! All the feelings, all the thoughts, all the ambivalence, and all the events. The revelation, over and over, is that this is the truth of life and death. This is the way it is. And even this level of suffering and loss is worth it. I’m learning that as harsh as it is, the experience of life and death is worth the suffering, for within it we have the opportunity to find our best and highest selves.

If life purpose is actually about who we are rather than what we do, it seems to me that all we can really do is take the next step, the one that is right in front of us, and take it with as much integrity, and presence, and grace as we can muster. Each step leads to another, and with each step we learn to trust the process of simply Being more and more deeply. And even though sometimes a step plunges us into chaos, chaos can become our greatest teacher.

We can learn to do this dance of life with all of its missteps, gracelessness, and errors. We can learn to trust that if we fully do the dance, with every part of our being, in the end we will be led to know why we’ve come here. For ultimately, this feels like it is life’s purpose — to live  as fully and deeply as we dare.

Growing Up

“When we tell the truth, we create goodness.” – Jordan Peterson

Lately I’m realizing that Michael’s illness has pushed both of us in ways we would never have otherwise been pushed. Both of us are in some way, finally growing up, finally being the adults we were always meant to be.

In the past week we are both taking care of ourselves pretty well. Michael’s blood sugar coming under control has really helped the situation. He’d been feeling really low, physically exhausted, and his mental attitude had started to decline. He was talking more about dying, and I was thinking about him dying more often.

Once we found out that his chemo drugs had made him diabetic, things started to improve. He’s taking blood sugar medication and watching his diet and he’s feeling much better. Regardless, it was certainly a lesson in how things could be, how the decline into death might take place. Since he is better I can write about it again. At the time, I truly didn’t have the words.

Now that life is more stable, it’s made me think again about Ken Wilber’s recipe for true adulthood. He exhorts us to do four things: Grow Up, Clean Up, Wake Up, and Show Up. It’s a terrific shorthand for a way to think about one’s own level of maturity.

Growing Up is about becoming someone who takes responsibility, who can be counted on, who tells the truth, and who honors their word. It’s simple to write these words, but this is a huge leap in consciousness! It requires the discipline of pointing one’s self toward the good, over and over again. It requires telling the truth as best we can. When we lie to ourselves or others, it makes us weak. And I mean that literally — it makes us fall out of alignment and it weakens our spirits.

To Wake Up is the act of realizing the true nature of one’s essential being. These easy words belie the mountain of thoughts and efforts that lead to this state, but both Michael and I have awakened to some extent. I can feel my own need to continue to grow and stabilize my level of awareness, and Michael is doing the same. Regardless, we are on the path of awakening and we know it.

Showing Up is simple really – it’s the recognition of what is needed by the world and taking the action to do whatever one can to fulfill it. What is needed is usually whatever is right in front of us. It is what is showing up in the present moment that needs our clear attention, and then doing what the world is asking of us in that moment. This can be simple or complicated but it is always about taking an action that leads toward the greater good.

But Cleaning Up – oh my – it’s a long and arduous process of encountering the Shadow parts of ourselves. It is also infinite because the dark unprocessed parts of ourselves are always opening beneath us, beneath our consciousness, always becoming. They show themselves in the dreams, the trances, the unformed chaos beneath our psyches. The great psychologist Carl Jung believed that these shadow parts are the literal key to our vitality and life force, and they are usually deeply hidden from us.

The Shadow is made up of all the parts of us we don’t want to see – the anger, the resentments, the judgments, the fears – all of this never goes away!  And though the Shadow also holds immense creative powers, these are hidden in the depths of our psyches until we have the courage to face into the darkness we are blocking. We can’t escape our Shadows! We can’t “make” them go away. And the more we try, the larger they become.

For what heals the Shadow, what “cleans” it, isn’t an effort to make it go away. Rather it is the willing acceptance and integration of our darkest impulses, our humanness, and our flaws. In other words, we work toward the loving acceptance of who we are in all of our tragedy, our selfishness, our vulnerability, and our fear.

I find that each of us, in our own way is working on these four dimensions of true adulthood. But it’s the Shadow, always the Shadow, the keeps me up at night.

Lately I’ve been seeing our cultural Shadow in the stories of caregiving that I hear around me and I’ve been noticing that the line between the martyr and the saint is a huge ongoing question for me.

Often we are rewarded in this society for giving ourselves up for others. And though this is the partial essence of loving thy neighbor as thyself, it can also turn into a terrible and twisted version of martyrdom. For the saint is walking a path that sacrifices the self in the name of a higher calling while the martyr may be walking the exact same path but at the cost of their own life force and their very soul.

I’ve been hearing about people who have completely put their lives on hold for their sick partner for years and years at a time. These people are held up as examples of how to be a good caregiver in spite of the fact that their own sacred life has been stymied and reduced. I hear these stories and I find my shadowy anger rising within me. “My life is important too!” it shouts at me.

I’ve also heard the stories of those who leave their ailing partner because they can’t deal with the suffering, and these stories are held up as morality lessons, a lesson in how not to be. My Shadow insinuates itself here with visions of escape and fantasies of life alone which immediately leads to feelings of guilt and shame.

Occasionally there are stories of caregivers who have somehow managed to find the middle path – to care for their loved one and to care for themselves but these stories aren’t as common or as vivid. It is the extremes of the caregiving stories that we hear most often. This is the hardest wrestling match, this middle path. It is the one that demands my firm commitment to goodness toward myself and toward Michael, even when this goodness may lead in opposite directions.

Regardless, these stories raise many questions: Have I been kind enough to my husband? Have I been kind enough to myself? Do I need to speak more truth to him? Speak less? Do more? Surely not. Surely? Could I be more loving toward him? Toward myself?

These are not easy questions and there’s no single right answer. In any relationship, whether in sickness or in health, these questions arise — questions of how much to give to another and how much to give to one’s self. Questions of loyalty and care, and just as much, questions of obligation and responsibility.

I’m in a mighty wrestling match with these questions right now, and though I continue to be grown up, continue to show up, and continue to try to find the highest good, the Shadow arises taking me into my most difficult questions about myself and my motives. I’m finding that obligation, loyalty, and self-love often define a very narrow line to walk — the proverbial razor’s edge.

In an effort to quell the Shadow, I tell Michael that I’m trying something new. Today I say that I will assume he is fine unless he tells me differently. He is relieved when I say this. “Well, great!” he says. “It’s about time.” He has witnessed my worry and what he must see as over-protection and he’s glad that I’m giving him more space.

Then I add, “I mean that at every level – physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. I expect that you will tell me if something is wrong. Otherwise I will assume that everything is ok.” Again he agrees and he seems to understand.

Somehow I feel a new sense of freedom in this! I won’t be mentally chasing Michael to find out how he is. I won’t be constantly wondering and worrying over his situation, or at least I hope I won’t. He will simply tell me. And if this is true, it will be a different way for us to relate to this illness of his – two independent adults, awake and caring companions, openly sharing their very different journeys with honesty and love.

Death’s Lessons

September 21, 2017

We got Michael’s new numbers three days ago and they aren’t looking good. They’re about the same as last month’s numbers which are still far outside of the normal range. In effect it looks as if the current treatment regimen isn’t doing what it is supposed to do. This is a blow I literally feel in my gut and my heart – things just aren’t getting better.

Our cheerful new Indian doctor tells us he wants Michael on the same protocol for another year. I can’t stop myself and I say, “Another year?!!” He immediately backs off to another 6 months – and I mentally thank god that he’s amenable to negotiation. But even another 6 months of this treatment that isn’t working seems absurd to me and I begin to say so, “What’s the point of continuing to pursue a treatment that appears to have plateaued?” He hears this and he shakes his head and he says, “You are right! It does not make sense.”

Then Michael says the magic words. He says, “We are healthcare professionals and we understand the protocols you are operating under.” Our doctor immediately relaxes and smiles. We are healthcare professionals. We understand. Suddenly the whole scenario becomes one human being talking with other human beings. It is such a relief! He tells us, “You can ask me anything and I will tell you the truth.” So now we really get down to business.

The doctor wants Michael to stay on the current protocol for another month. If there are still no substantial changes then he will change one of the medications for another one that is in the same class of drugs for two months. If that doesn’t make a difference, we go to the last real option – a drug that has been very effective for amyloidosis treatment. Of course I am wondering why we didn’t go to this drug long ago but the doctor tells us it’s really the option that they like to “save for last.”

The other reality is that insurance won’t pay for this drug unless Michael has “failed” the other protocols. It’s ridiculous. Our bill is already way over $800,000. I mean, how much money could have gotten “saved” by following this plan? Thankfully, Medicare has paid the bulk of this or there literally would be no way that we could continue with any kind of treatment.

We leave the doctor to go for the chemotherapy appointment feeling that we’ve made some kind of progress, though I’m not really sure what it is. Still, both of us are feeling a bit lighter. Once we’re in the chemo suite Michael says, “You know, in spite of everything, I’m still feeling positive.”

I look at him, not wanting to cry, and I say, “At this point, I’m just struggling to stay neutral,” and I turn away before he can see how much emotion is behind this statement. I really don’t want to rain on his parade, such as it is, but I have to tell the truth.

Then he says, “I’m actually pretty happy, you know. I’m doing OK,” and I believe him. I remember a conversation with one of my sons who said he thinks it’s easier for the one who is dying than it is for those who are left behind. At the time I agreed with him, and in many instances, I still do. No matter when it happens, Michael is on his way to a good death in which he is loved and cared for and spiritually awake.

I’ve been noticing lately that there are two Michaels obviously in play now – the mortal and the immortal, one facing toward life, the other facing toward death. It’s quite interesting because they can both show up within a few moments of each other, even within the same sentence sometimes. The immortal Michael is absolutely ready for death. He knows it’s coming, he’s not afraid, and in some way, he welcomes it. He knows that to be conscious without a body is one of the most beautiful of gifts.

The mortal Michael staunchly, stoically, and fiercely clings to life. He says he still loves life, he’s feeling optimistic about his prognosis, and he’s not really suffering except physically. Now sentences begin with, “ I’m really tired and it’s feeling hard to go on today, but I’m also really fine.” And both of these things are true.

As we sit for the long wait for the chemotherapy to be delivered, we talk about the new numbers. Michael’s kidney function is normal. This is good news because it means that for whatever reason, the amyloids are not being deposited in his kidneys and probably he won’t need dialysis. I say that I’m guessing it’s his heart that is taking the brunt of the deposits and he agrees. But he says that even that is good because it would mean a quick death – a heart attack.

My gut gets queasy, and a feeling of dizziness overtakes me. I excuse myself to go for a walk. A heart attack is “good.” I understand what he’s saying but what sort of a situation are we in that makes a heart attack good? I’m trying to take this in and I go outside to the small garden that is beyond the chemo area. I need a place to sit, a quiet place, and of course these places are very hard to come by at this huge hospital. I walk the length of the tall black fence that lines the garden only to find that there is a strong lock on the gate that leads to benches and plantings and some semblance of peace. Oh well. I continue walking until I find a tree in this barren place, one of the few, that I can sit under to feel the ground again.

I sit on the earth more deeply now and meditate in order to still the torrent of emotions within. “Here is the truth,” I hear myself say, “My husband is seriously ill and so far, not really getting better. Sink into the earth. Accept this hard truth. Just feel it, allow it in fully. Let it be.” It’s amazing to me how often this is the lesson in life, in any situation in life – just learning to accept reality exactly as it is.

Of course this is much easier said than done. I can point to other losses in my life – my father’s death at an early age, my divorce, my children leaving home, a few good friends who have gone in other directions – all of this has hurt. And now it feels like all of these losses have been leading to this one. This is the deep grief of life, the loss of loved ones, the loss of our own life, the deepest sorrows. And all of us must face it in some way or another.

As I am sitting I realize with stark intensity that when Michael dies, it is likely that I will never be loved so well again. There will never again be someone who has cared for me for 34 years. There will never again be someone who knows me in this particular and intricate depth. And this is true with any death of a long-held and deeply loved one.

But there is also a raw intensity of beauty in all of this. There is the potent and insistent knowing that life is ephemeral, passes quickly, and is gone. Death reminds us that connection to others is the One True Thing. And the truly appalling thing is that we all know this! We’ve all lost someone and we know the aching emptiness of that loss and yet, somehow, we forget. Over and over, we forget death’s lesson.

As I continue to sit I hear a voice from my innermost being, “Open wide to all of it,” it says. “Let your heart be broken so deeply that it will never close again. This is the greatest gift of death. Receive it now, receive it with your entire being. Allow yourself to be broken open all the way, and always, always be guided by love.”

A Testament To Michael

September 9, 2017

Today I speak of Michael and his journey through illness.

Michael is going through hell. But you wouldn’t know it unless all you do is look at him. Certainly his body has changed immensely, but that is part of serious illness. It is his Spirit that remains remarkably pure.

Michael is going through hell. But each new wrinkle in this almost impossible process is met with equanimity and calm. Certainly, there are physical reactions to his plight. These are inevitable. But they rise and they fall away. He notes them, he mentions them, and then he leaps to the spiritual understanding that allows him to meet these gross indignities with both genuine acceptance and real presence.

Michael is going through hell. But his courage is intact. This is a trick worth noting! To be told that your “numbers” aren’t looking as good as they should, to take that information in fully and without resistance, and to accept that this is the reality, is a huge act of spiritual faith. It is a faith he has practiced his entire adult life and now it is here to be used in the biggest way possible.

And even though Michael is going through hell, he remains mostly steadfast in his belief in his eventual recovery. Of course there are times of doubt, times of trial, times of despair. It would be some kind of bizarre denial if there were not. But in spite of this, he remains focused on a good outcome. He’s looking forward to one day being off of chemotherapy and able to use whatever alternative therapies are available to him. In other words, he has hope.

From time to time he apologizes to me for having brought this sickness into our lives. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry I brought this to us.” I say, “I’m sorry too. It’s been hard.” And then we go through the spiritual song and dance we’ve developed around his illness — each of us expressing that we know we are both players in this drama, that we’ve both chosen to be here to learn the lessons, that most of the time we’re learning something so deep we can’t even begin to name it.

Michael’s path to this level of understanding has come through Wisdom. He has studied esoteric traditions his whole life. He knows more about the arcane spiritual mysteries of almost every culture than anyone else I’ve met. And when he studies, he studies deeply.

He knows The Tree of Life, the Tarot, Builders of the Adytum, Rosicrucianism, Shiatsu, Chinese Medicine, Catholicism, the Bible, Reiki, Chakras, Remote Viewing, Astral Travel, Buddhism, Numerology, Astrology, Hidden Archeology, and much more. He can integrate information from a vast array of sources and bring it together in a way that is utterly unusual and genuinely deepening. And he believes in magic.

Michael used to be a master healer combining psychology and alternative medicine in a manner both unique and effective. He was also a highly unusual therapist with more than a little iconoclasm and irony thrown into the mix. At one point in his career he wrote psychological evaluations using numerology along with an array of other tests. They were seen as being “the most accurate personality assessments” that others had ever read. He has been known to tell clients that they “need to cut that shit out,” and amazingly, they have listened! People have literally come to see him from hundreds of miles away, have come to be healed, and have gone away satisfied.

Now this part of him is no longer operating, no longer relevant. Suddenly, and with warnings that went unheeded until they couldn’t be ignored, his Higher Self has chosen a different path.

So how does Michael now spend his days? Sometimes he writes, wanting to transmit spiritual understanding to others. Sometimes he practices his penmanship by copying numerous pages of historical documents using one of his precious ink pens and treasured Japanese inks. Sometimes he catches up on our financial books, a task I’ve managed to joyfully avoid. Sometimes he plays various games on his iPad. Sometimes he’s on Facebook and news channels and is more knowledgeable about what’s happening in the world than most. Sometimes he plays computer scrabble and then routinely beats me and our friend at scrabble on the weekends. Sometimes he bakes gluten-free bread, whirls an oddly-concocted smoothie, and makes apple crisp from our many backyard apples. Sometimes he appreciates the brief moment when the whole kitchen is clean. Sometimes he sits outside in a comfortable chair just watching the world go by.

Once a week, when he’s still high on steroids the day after chemo, he does chores. He goes to the store and the recycling center, gets gas, goes for a longer walk, and graces me with the immense gift of time alone in my own home. This kind of time has been rare! It’s only in the last month that I’ve truly stopped going to his chemotherapy appointments though I still go when we meet with the nurse or the doctor. The rest of the time now, he goes alone, and he actually seems to enjoy this solitude.

Michael meditates often. I suspect he goes to places most of us have never been. His knowledge of The Tree has allowed him a way into the Highest High and the Dazzling Dark. He has pierced the veil and met angels and guides and other archetypal energies on many occasions. He has been immersed in various qualities of light and sound and has been shaken to his core. He has been purified and blessed and he knows it. And finally, he has attained a permanent realization of his essence.

Occasionally, he wonders about what his life is coming to and what his task is now that he’s ill. There’s no definitive answer, of course, but it’s a question that each of us must ask if we are to find the hidden meanings behind the opaque face of physical reality.

Michael is going through hell but he seems to ask these life questions with great courage and grace. Certainly he complains from time to time but mostly he is kind and gentle and quiet.

Michael is going through hell. And still, he loves me as best he can and I return the gift. I have such deep respect for how he is meeting this time, these circumstances, this place in his life.

Michael is going through hell but it is no longer hell that he walks through. It has transformed him and he has transformed it. It is the challenge of meeting life on its own terms with absolute knowledge that it all ends in death. For all of us. And there is no fear.

Now Michael and I are such great friends and we sit together, not in hell, but in a new kind of peace. It is a peace built on living without answers, of not having a clue, of not knowing much of anything, and still somehow accepting and trusting it all.