The Elegance of Simplicity, The Beauty in Space

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a nomad. It started when I was five and ran away from home to spend the night under an avocado tree several blocks away. Thrilled to be there, I was also deathly afraid of what might be waiting in the darkness just beyond my leafy sanctuary.
In the years that followed, I was compelled to travel further and further, until there were thousands of miles between me and the town I’d grown up in. I crossed oceans and continents, spending intervals in Europe, South and Central America. I slept in a hammock, on boats, in a Roman wine cellar and in an 11the century castle
When I first started off I carried a few suitcases. They became trunks that disappeared in the holds of cargo ships and the backs of trucks alongside small mountains of boxes. There were the utensils I couldn’t live without; pots and pans, clothes, linens and paintings. Photos and small bits and pieces were the footprints of my past. Always always there was a collection of books that kept growing.
Eventually, I’ve divested myself of two husbands, a long-term live in lover, and my daughter followed nature’s course and moved to Manhattan. Another few years passed, and suddenly I began to relinquish my possessions, despite the occasional tug or ache that appeared when I handed over something that had served me well. The orange Le Creuset pot that cooked a perfect stewed chicken, and weighed 6 pounds! Having more than one blanket, the heavy royal blue wool was given to a woman I met. It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re freezing, and as a single mother of three she needs to nourish her dreams. Although I haven’t given them all up and never will, a great many of my beloved books have slowly been repurposed, finding their way to libraries and into the hands of people who I felt would enjoy them.
And as things continued to disappear, I began to recognize the elegance of simplicity. The beauty of space. In the forest, it’s the clearing. In the desert, the sky. On the beach, it’s the horizon. In Chinese calligraphy, empty space is named ‘designing the white’ and it enhances the blackness of the letters. In Japanese gardens, the empty space provides balance. It defines the elements that surround it, just as the elements that surround it define the space.
Like the yoga master who teaches that the empty space following the breaths inward and outward is where great movement occurs, modern physics tells us that there is no empty space. What appears to be emptiness is filled with particles, atoms and invisible energy.
Bringing emptiness into various aspects of my life, gave me the freedom and serenity that I’d unknowingly longed for. No more need to carve out chunks of time to polish the furniture and the silver!
My friend R, a devout Buddhist and a healer of children from war zones, once said, I don’t think I’ll reach enlightenment this lifetime, nor am I completely sure I even want to. We both laughed. Be that as it may, I’ve come to believe that the last stage of a woman’s life journey is when she focuses on cultivating her soul, something that’s done moment by moment. Enjoying the peaks and lighting fires in the darkness, life becomes an act of devotion, a joyous commitment to all living beings. Embracing divine madness, moments of insight and the intoxification of Divine Love, the older woman finds grace by surrendering to simplicity.
The journey becomes easier.

The End and the Beginning

Each time I write I die a little. Putting words on a page isn’t simple, even when they’re flowing at an exhilarating pace. What’s emerges comes from places deep inside me. And as I venture there, I find myself afraid, anxious and eager. As if I were once again a teenager about to go on a first date.

It may seem odd to be writing about dying during the Holiday Season. But this time of year is full of emotional traps and this year that’s particularly true for me. It's the year's end and I’m feeling very vulnerable.

As a writer, I travel through landscapes full of memories and thoughts; some painful and bitter, some bursting with laughter and warmth. This year, I’ve taken it upon myself to search more deeply for what these moments mean. I’m searching for what lies in their depths. I’m looking for the lessons, the small cues I may have missed that could empower me. The lessons that might help me to be finally free of the things that I’ve brought forward from my past.

A few days ago, while meditating, I saw my mother. For the first time she was smaller than me. She was actually shorter by several inches, but her dark bitterness cast a large shadow that haunted me for years. In my meditation, I found myself walking at my mother's side. We were holding hands, but she was the child and I was the adult. In vignettes I saw the perils, the fears and loss that were part of her childhood; the polio, the flooding in the oilfields of Texas. The young girl without a mother.

You see, my mother murdered her own mother. Not as a conscious act, but under the direction of a physician over the telephone. My grandmother died in my mother’s arms and although were other things later on in life that made her the angry woman she became, I believe that event was the most dire of all.

Coming out of the meditation wasn’t a hallelujah moment. It was merely a quiet letting go, a feeling of relief. The child that was part of a cycle of pain and anger died. The things my mother did to me were hateful, but it's time to let them go.

Thich Nat Hahn says that when someone dies we must live more fully for them. And as my mother's genes, and my grandmother's cells are all a part of me, I can live more fully for all three of us.

I confess that my decision to consciously practice dying has had me praying to the Gods to hold my hand – no one should have to die alone. And I’m grateful to feel their presence nearby. It may be that I will die physically in my sleep, or instantly in an accident. But practicing dying everyday is something I highly recommend.

As I ventured further into this process, I decided to call once again my dear friend and spiritual counselor, Abdi Assadi . Here’s what he said - "In my experience of being around dying people, most of us leave in the middle of something. Very few of us leave when our egos are ready. It’s good practice to see what feelings come up when we do have to leave things unfinished."

Abdi’s meditation: In your mind, release all that you hold dear, all activities, pains and loves that surround you in that moment. Pay attention to the emotions that come up. Your reluctance to let go - both the good and the bad. And practice letting them go. If you're reading a book, stop. If you're watching a movie, stop. Walk away. Let it go.

With that in mind, I, Sam, am an adult. I’m unfinished. I’m angry. I’m compassionate. I'm loving. I’m my mother's daughter. I'm my daughter’s mother. I’m every mother. I’m foolish. I’m wise. I want to finish this post. I’m a writer. I’m dying...