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Moments are simply the brief passings of time as we move through our lives. Most are here and gone, but a scattered few hold our attention. While all of living is sacred, there are those scattered brief moments that particularly speak to our hearts, enrich our lives or reveal unexpected beauty. Scattered moments. Sacred moments.
Since I last wrote in this space, critical parts of my life have changed. My beloved spouse died. He was a life partner, a loving and beautiful man who brought joy to many through his music and his kindness. Now I navigate what life will be without him. At the same time I find myself unemployed as my work contract ends. Two major losses. Endings and openings.
While it’s hard to see, I trust the sacred embedded in these moments. If Paul must die, let it be surrounded in the beauty of love and gentled by care. I slept by his side every night until the end, held his hand as his final gentle breath slipped into the universe. All he ever asked for in his last moments of consciousness was his beloved child. And Finn was there. We did nothing but be together in those last days, as our friends came and went, saying their good-byes.
Many people have commented on the bad timing of the end of the work I was doing. But I assure them with all sincerity that it is all good. It feels like God is giving me this moment to really feel the emptiness so that I can find the most life-giving way to fill it. What is it that I am truly called to be doing in this world? How can my particular gifts be used to heal brokenness, uplift beauty, bring forth justice? How do I offer myself?
It was a long winter. Snow fell like we have not seen for 20 years in this generally temperate place. After which we had months of grey days and rain. But today spring is definitely here. Clear blue sky. Buttercups and dandelions brighten the green. I can see moths fluttering through the grass. A neighbour has hung laundry out to dry. Laughter from the school yard floats through my open window.
It is not yet clear to me what I will be doing going forward. Yet I know that as sure as spring comes, life will unfold in unexpected and, I believe, beautiful ways. As Julian of Norwich reminds us, “all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” Not that there will never be more sorrow, never be pain or disappointment. But that the scattered, sacred moments will reveal themselves. And strung together they will uplift and cradle my one precious life.
Thanks be to God.
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“On the home stretch.”
Paul wrote this to the doctor. “On the home stretch.” These words have a particularly poignancy when written by your dying spouse.
I wonder what he imagines “home” to be.
I’ve been thinking about the vanishing point in art. A road or path, stream maybe, that goes off into the distance will eventually seem to vanish. We know that it’s just perspective, that if we were to walk the path or the bank of that stream, that point would keep moving because the road goes ever on and on. We, stopped where we are, just can’t see it anymore. I imagine death being that point. The path, and Paul, will go on but we will be stopped here in this earthly place unable to see beyond the place of vanishing. But others will be there waiting. Paul’s mom and grandparents, his good friend Greg Johnson.
We all know how this is going to end but it’s hard to fathom. And it will be harder when we go home without him. Already, before we even came to hospice, I missed saying good-bye. It was a ritual for Paul. Whenever I went out, even if I had already gone to wherever he was in the house and kissed him good-bye, he’d come to the door, kiss me again and stand there while I waited for the elevator. Whether I was going to work for the day or to yoga class for an hour, he said good-bye at the door.
Paul had a ritual with Finn too. After Finn left, Paul would stand at the window and wait the few minutes it would take Finn to make it down the elevator or stairs and out the front door. As Finn hit the drive Paul would wave from the window and Finn would turn and wave back. They did this long past even high school, until Paul was in too much pain to move from the couch.
Paul was not just like that with us. As the assistant manager of our high rise for many years, Paul paid attention. He knew everyone by name, suite number and often what car they drove. He helped people out. I used to tell him that he was like the pastor to the people of Vista Royale. We have neighbours from many different places and he made it a point of learning how to greet people in their own language of origin.
Late in October I went to a retreat at IslandWood, a beautiful centre on Bainbridge Island near Seattle. It was a special time of discernment and retreat with the Center for Courage and Renewal. One morning as we were talking about mentors I had this realization that Paul has been one of my greatest mentors. I learned so much from him. He taught me to not take things so seriously. He taught me patience, although I may not have been a good student of that. He taught me perseverance.
Most of all he taught me love. Every day when I left the house and he walked me to the door to kiss me good-bye, I knew I was loved. Just that. Everything else, all of the ways that he took care of us - laundry and meals and dishes and knowing what we needed and finding things we lost - reinforced what I knew when he stood at the door. He taught me how to be a loving presence by standing at the door as the elevator came.
We can only watch as Paul will take the final steps to the vanishing point. We cannot go past the door to this world yet. But we’ve kissed good-bye and will wait with him while the elevator comes.
Previous Paul posts
Hard
Snow Angel
December Grey
Care taking and care giving
Sow's ear purse
Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
Paul wrote this to the doctor. “On the home stretch.” These words have a particularly poignancy when written by your dying spouse.
I wonder what he imagines “home” to be.
I’ve been thinking about the vanishing point in art. A road or path, stream maybe, that goes off into the distance will eventually seem to vanish. We know that it’s just perspective, that if we were to walk the path or the bank of that stream, that point would keep moving because the road goes ever on and on. We, stopped where we are, just can’t see it anymore. I imagine death being that point. The path, and Paul, will go on but we will be stopped here in this earthly place unable to see beyond the place of vanishing. But others will be there waiting. Paul’s mom and grandparents, his good friend Greg Johnson.
We all know how this is going to end but it’s hard to fathom. And it will be harder when we go home without him. Already, before we even came to hospice, I missed saying good-bye. It was a ritual for Paul. Whenever I went out, even if I had already gone to wherever he was in the house and kissed him good-bye, he’d come to the door, kiss me again and stand there while I waited for the elevator. Whether I was going to work for the day or to yoga class for an hour, he said good-bye at the door.
Paul had a ritual with Finn too. After Finn left, Paul would stand at the window and wait the few minutes it would take Finn to make it down the elevator or stairs and out the front door. As Finn hit the drive Paul would wave from the window and Finn would turn and wave back. They did this long past even high school, until Paul was in too much pain to move from the couch.
Paul was not just like that with us. As the assistant manager of our high rise for many years, Paul paid attention. He knew everyone by name, suite number and often what car they drove. He helped people out. I used to tell him that he was like the pastor to the people of Vista Royale. We have neighbours from many different places and he made it a point of learning how to greet people in their own language of origin.
Late in October I went to a retreat at IslandWood, a beautiful centre on Bainbridge Island near Seattle. It was a special time of discernment and retreat with the Center for Courage and Renewal. One morning as we were talking about mentors I had this realization that Paul has been one of my greatest mentors. I learned so much from him. He taught me to not take things so seriously. He taught me patience, although I may not have been a good student of that. He taught me perseverance.
Most of all he taught me love. Every day when I left the house and he walked me to the door to kiss me good-bye, I knew I was loved. Just that. Everything else, all of the ways that he took care of us - laundry and meals and dishes and knowing what we needed and finding things we lost - reinforced what I knew when he stood at the door. He taught me how to be a loving presence by standing at the door as the elevator came.
We can only watch as Paul will take the final steps to the vanishing point. We cannot go past the door to this world yet. But we’ve kissed good-bye and will wait with him while the elevator comes.
Previous Paul posts
Hard
Snow Angel
December Grey
Care taking and care giving
Sow's ear purse
Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
- Published on
January 7, 2017
The English language is so imprecise it’s a wonder we can communicate. I’m thinking of the word hard, how it means so many different things. It can mean really firm like the opposite of soft. It can mean with force, as in to push hard. It can mean difficult. But even then there are nuances.
People comment that what we are going through with Paul must be so hard. I think they mean it’s yucky and you wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it’s not hard in the way that some things are hard. It’s not like, say, climbing a sheer rock cliff or trying to find a cure for some scorge-y new virus, something that you could actually fail at. This is what it is and you just live through it. Is it heartbreaking? Yes. Is it wearying? Yes. Are there moments when you don’t know what to do in the face of your beloved's real physical pain? Yes. But ultimately we are not called to solve this, just to be together with it.
Someone commented that this must challenge my faith, but I can honestly say it does not. If anything I have felt accompanied. Just when what we have needed the most was love and prayers, we have received notes, good wishes, prayers and healing energy from hundreds of people. Every day someone reaches out to let us know they are thinking of us. We are fed by many, both literally and spiritually. If God is about love and grace and full tummys then God is abundant.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t had moments of “why us?” For years I worked in outreach ministry where I met many people who lived rough, who had abused their bodies with drugs and alcohol and bad eating. Heck addiction runs rampant in my family and I have relatives who are homeless addicts. Have I wondered why one of them didn’t get sick? Yes. But only in curiosity. I know that the answer to why me is “why not you?”
January 11
Paul and I have had a fairy tale marriage. And by fairy tale I mean the real kind, not the Disney versions. I mean the kind that have hardship and obstacles, moments of clarity and truth, wonder and disappointment. And an ogre. This is the kind that doesn’t necessarily come with a happy ending.
But there is a glimmer of beauty in the beast of this. It is the community that has rallied around to support Paul. It is the dozens of written accolades that we have received and many, many, many more thoughts, prayers, good wishes and lovely memories we have been sent.
Anne Lamott wrote about a her friend Carol who threw her own memorial party before she died. It was a community gathering where people ate and danced and passed around her friend’s brand new grandbaby. That’s not going to happen for us. Instead Paul’s music friends are staging a tribute show. Local bands will be playing his songs and covers of music that he loved. It will be a big party which he will, unfortunately, miss. Paul is past the stage of being at a rock show and it’s unclear at this point whether he will even be with us in earthly form by the time it rolls around.
January 13
Of course it’s Friday the 13th. Of course it is.
I am exhausted and breaking apart. Part of me can hardly believe that this thing is even happening, that it will happen. And part of me thinks let’s just get it over with. Both awful. Both real.
I got a note from someone, absolutely lovely and well meaning, in which he says that he kind of understands what I’m going through because a favorite uncle with whom he was close had been in hospice before dying. And I think how is that the same as losing a spouse? Even as I understand.
And I want to scream and rail because my auntie, the one with whom I was most close died in the middle of this shit-hole Twilight Zone of a situation and I missed it. I missed the chance to be with her as she shifted. And I missed gathering with the family to mourn. And while up until now I have been totally fine with knowing that, suddenly I am angry.
WTF
This evening Paul wrote me a note. Since he hasn’t been able to talk much, which has been almost since he first went to palliative care in October, writing has been a big piece of communicating. The note said, “did my loss of glassesss ruin ruin my ring and therefore my my glasses?”
It took him a long time to write this and I could see the shape of the question as it emerged. As soon as he got to the part about lost glassesss I knew that I had to decide how I would respond. I didn’t want to say “That makes no sense.” or “What are you talking about?” which would only serve to point out to him that something was amiss in his question. So I answered with straightforward honesty. “I don’t know, Honey” I said. “I don’t know the answer to your question.”
Previous Paul posts
Snow Angel
December Grey
Care taking and care giving
Sow's ear purse
Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
- Published on
The last time I remember having a sustained cold snap like this was 20 years ago. That was the year Finn was born. In the days leading up to his birth, Paul and I watched cars maneuvering up and down the hill outside our condo, commenting on their progress in the ice and snow. “Oooh. That SUV is not going to make the turn. It’s going too fast. . . .and into the stop sign.”
Paul had a gig the night Finn was born. I had stayed home and, in a fit of pregnant nesting, was making chocolate truffles. My water broke as Paul crawled into bed in the early hours of December 20th. It was two weeks earlier than the doctor had pegged as due date.
As advised I called the perinatal unit to let them know. The nurse on the line told me to come in and get checked out then go home until birth time. I told her I was not going to drive across town in 3 feet of snow and then drive home again only to drive back later. I would come when I was ready. She was not happy about it but what could she do? As it turned out, my labour kicked in at three minute intervals from the start so we left right away any ways.
Twenty years. I can still remember watching Paul sitting at the night darkened window with infant Finn in his arms, our little snow angel. Lit only by the coloured Christmas lights, they bounced gently on a large exercise ball, watching the snowy world outside. So precious.
Paul started teaching Finn music even before he was born, singing and playing guitar to my growing belly. And it carried on when he was born. I have a vivid image of tiny infant Finn lying on his back listening to Paul play guitar. As Paul played Fernando Sors’ Variation on a theme of Mozart’s the Magic Flute, Finn would rock gently side to side cooing to the music. Then Paul would switch to rock music and Finn would laugh, his little arms and legs dancing wildly in the air. It was both funny and a joy to watch.
Paul had a gig the night Finn was born. I had stayed home and, in a fit of pregnant nesting, was making chocolate truffles. My water broke as Paul crawled into bed in the early hours of December 20th. It was two weeks earlier than the doctor had pegged as due date.
As advised I called the perinatal unit to let them know. The nurse on the line told me to come in and get checked out then go home until birth time. I told her I was not going to drive across town in 3 feet of snow and then drive home again only to drive back later. I would come when I was ready. She was not happy about it but what could she do? As it turned out, my labour kicked in at three minute intervals from the start so we left right away any ways.
Twenty years. I can still remember watching Paul sitting at the night darkened window with infant Finn in his arms, our little snow angel. Lit only by the coloured Christmas lights, they bounced gently on a large exercise ball, watching the snowy world outside. So precious.
Paul started teaching Finn music even before he was born, singing and playing guitar to my growing belly. And it carried on when he was born. I have a vivid image of tiny infant Finn lying on his back listening to Paul play guitar. As Paul played Fernando Sors’ Variation on a theme of Mozart’s the Magic Flute, Finn would rock gently side to side cooing to the music. Then Paul would switch to rock music and Finn would laugh, his little arms and legs dancing wildly in the air. It was both funny and a joy to watch.
Now they sit together on Paul’s hospital bed watching their beloved Habs games. Finn, who used to fit into Paul’s forearm, is nearly twice Paul’s size now. Finn has grown a lot in 20 years and Paul has shrunk in the past several months, pretty literally now just skin and bone. The other day when I came into Paul’s room, he was napping on the bed and Finn napping on the little pull out hide-a-bed chair beside him. It reminded me of one of my favorite early pictures of them sleeping together in the big bed.
There are so many pictures of the two of them. They were always together. Paul was the at-home parent and took Finn with him everywhere. He would settle Finn into the snuggly and off they’d go, Paul talking and singing to Finn the whole time. Later we joked that Paul had taught Finn to speak too well. Finn talked a lot once he got going.
When Finn was little, he and his dad spent hours sitting in the park across the street from the little fire hall near our place. They’d sit with their juice boxes and snacks, watching the firefighters wash the trucks and check equipment. They tore that hall down when Finn was about seven. Paul wandered over there and told one of the demolition workers about this favorite pastime. He wondered if there was a brick or something that he could take for Finn. The worker told him to wait a minute and walked back through the rubble. When he returned he handed Paul the station’s fire bell. We still have it.
Christmas was quiet for us this year. Paul came home for a few hours. Finn had bought his dad a simple model fire truck for Christmas, something they could build together in an afternoon. As they sat at the dining table with all of the pieces spread out, Finn read the instructions, something his dad would have done for him when he was little, and they pieced it together. Paul is quite shaky now from pain medication and it was lovely and tender watching Finn help his dad cut apart the pieces and snap them together.
There are so many pictures of the two of them. They were always together. Paul was the at-home parent and took Finn with him everywhere. He would settle Finn into the snuggly and off they’d go, Paul talking and singing to Finn the whole time. Later we joked that Paul had taught Finn to speak too well. Finn talked a lot once he got going.
When Finn was little, he and his dad spent hours sitting in the park across the street from the little fire hall near our place. They’d sit with their juice boxes and snacks, watching the firefighters wash the trucks and check equipment. They tore that hall down when Finn was about seven. Paul wandered over there and told one of the demolition workers about this favorite pastime. He wondered if there was a brick or something that he could take for Finn. The worker told him to wait a minute and walked back through the rubble. When he returned he handed Paul the station’s fire bell. We still have it.
Christmas was quiet for us this year. Paul came home for a few hours. Finn had bought his dad a simple model fire truck for Christmas, something they could build together in an afternoon. As they sat at the dining table with all of the pieces spread out, Finn read the instructions, something his dad would have done for him when he was little, and they pieced it together. Paul is quite shaky now from pain medication and it was lovely and tender watching Finn help his dad cut apart the pieces and snap them together.
Paul has never been chatty and now he can hardly speak. Much of his communications is done through writing. But the boys don’t seem to need to say too much to each other. Sometimes Finn just sits and holds Paul’s hand and it seems to be enough. Twenty years feels like a long time. But it’s not really enough time for a boy to know his father. This is too soon. Finn is just coming to the time when adulthood starts to shift how we relate to and understand our parents. As much as I will miss Paul, I cry more when I think of Finn’s loss. Even so I know that Finn will be ok, ultimately. We both will.
Shortly after Paul came to this hospice, Finn video messaged us from home. He filmed as he walked from our condo down the stairwell and out to the side yard where the snow was deep and pristine. He lay on the ground and, as we watched, made a snow angel.
Shortly after Paul came to this hospice, Finn video messaged us from home. He filmed as he walked from our condo down the stairwell and out to the side yard where the snow was deep and pristine. He lay on the ground and, as we watched, made a snow angel.
Previous Paul posts
December Grey
Care taking and care giving
Sow's ear purse
Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
- Published on
Paul's room in hospice.
There's a certain kind of day on the west coast where the rain seems to hang in the air and everything from the sky to the scenery is grey. Looking toward the river you can't discern water from sky on these days. That's the kind of day it was the day after Paul's 58th birthday. That day we got the call to say he was moving to hospice.
Bitter sweet for sure this birthday. We brought him home from palliative care for a couple of hours. That's what he wanted and Finn wanted, for him to come home on his birthday. It was the hardest day.
These days my spiritual practice routine is in shambles. I can't remember the last time I've sat in meditation. For the past 2 weeks I haven't even been to yoga. However every night as I lie in bed I look back on the day with an eye to gratitude. For example that day my friend Pamela spent a few of her precious hours off from work driving me through the rain to meet with my father-in-law and a lawyer. It must be brutal, as a parent, to realise that your child will predecease you. And to have to think about what you have to do now that your child, who was to have been responsible for your care when you could no longer be, wouldn't be there to do it. It was one of Paul's anxieties that this would not be taken care of for his father. So to the lawyer.
Pamela listened to my joy and grief as she drove and I choked back a quick lunch. I don't so much have an appetite as know I have to eat. It was a blessing not to have to drive on top of everything else.
The birthday wasn't without joy. Just having Paul home was a blessing. In anticipation Finn had tidied the house. He and I are the two messy ones who deferred to Paul to make sure garbage was taken out, laundry and dishes washed. Finn has been stepping up in this. Another gratitude. He joked with his dad that he should have left him some laundry and dishes. Something to do when he was home. Finn had also hung the birthday banner where it will likely stay until his own birthday later in the month, as it usually does.
A few weeks ago I asked Paul if there was something special that he wanted to do, for his birthday or otherwise. At first he shook his head then made a face and picked up his clip board. He wrote "Go out for pizza and a nice glass of wine. Come home and cuddle with my family. Make love to my wife." Heartbreak. He can hardly open his mouth, can't swallow and is being fed through a gastro tube. Heavy duty narcotics took away sex months ago. Coming home and cuddling with the family was all he could do. At home he sat in his favourite coffee spot by the window and I made him a fresh hot cup to hold in his hands and smell. He skyped briefly with a friend about some music they had recorded together but never released. Skype so Paul could type his half of the conversation in real time since he can't speak. And then we sat as a family on the couch and watched Finn's favourite ridiculous tv show. Although Paul's ability to concentrate is low, he sat between us so we could be together.
After this he played a bit of guitar. While it was beautiful to hear him play it was poignant too to hear him comment about his lack of hand strength. We had a second family hug when Finn walked around the corner erupting in grief and we stood together with he and I sobbing while Paul comforted us. And then it was time to head back to the hospital.
The next morning, Friday, December 2, he texted to say that he was being moved to hospice.
We first talked about hospice because it made sense. It is a careful and constant balance to keep his pain managed. He is receiving sustenance and meds through the gastro tube. But later I said to Finn, "Part of me feels like having dad go to hospice is like giving up."
Finn: "Yup."
"But I also feel like it's the best place for him, for his safety and comfort."
Finn: "Yup."
Monday a snow storm raged and the world turned white. Paul got word that he would be moving to a different hospice, the one we had preferred in the first place. The snow actually delayed that for a day, but now he is here. Now Paul has his own room. He has his guitar and amp and we've hung a family photo as well as a painting that a friend did of him. Here we can be together and let the nurses take care of his many medications. We've been working with our friend Corinne and others on a box set which will include music, photos and other memorabilia. It gives us something to focus on. Our goal is to have it done in time for the tribute show January 27th.
This is precious time. We spend more time together just hanging out than we have in years. It has become it's own kind of spiritual practice. This is the kind of thing I also name in my gratitudes along with friends who come and take me out for dinner, my parents who pick up laundry and drop off food and the Christmas elves who decorated his room. I am also grateful for sunshine and a reprieve from the rain.
This is a time of moments. Grey moment, white moments, sweet moments and sad moments. Life.
Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
- Published on
In October, right after Thanksgiving, Paul was diagnosed with untreatable malignant tumours.
I wrote this several weeks ago. Much has happened since then.
It may sound awful but there are moments when the foremost thought I have is "how will the laundry get done?" It's true. My sweetie is critically ill and I'm worried about the laundry. Because Paul has always done the laundry. I kid you not, I don't even know how to run the machines. If I was going out of town, Paul would assess what I would need and just make sure those things were clean by the time I had to pack. The joke in our house always was "if you don't want mom to find it, put it in the laundry room."
Pretty much since we have been together (over 30 years) and certainly since Finn was born (he's 19 now), Paul has been the one who took care of everything. He made sure that Finn had lunches, got to music lessons and had his homework packed. He has done all of the banking, paid the bills and made sure we didn't bounce any cheques. He locked the front door at night and put the leftover food in the fridge. He has been the family care taker for more than twenty years.
I've suddenly become a care giver to Paul. This is a different role, and now the other tasks languish. The other day I woke up just as I was drifting off to sleep and realized that no one would have put away the leftovers from supper. I got up and had to make space in the fridge to shove the pot in.
Paul first had surgery at the end of April. I realize that incrementally the house has just gotten more and more dirty and disorganized. I still went to work and still did the things I do. And while he kept up with a lot of the tasks, the tidying and cleaning, not our forte to begin with, really started to slide.
As I think about what Paul needs right now, an organized, clean and tidy house is right up there. I've started to try to get to all of the clutter that I've put off for years. I am an accumulator as well as a procrastinator so many things have gathered in the corners. Today I spent the day clearing the kitchen. And I do mean clearing, not cleaning. There was too much stuff on the counters to really clean them.
I started this thinking about the difference between care taking and care giving. Not in clinical terms, just what it meant to me. Paul took care of us. He made sure that things were in place so we could go about our days. He was our care taker in the best possible way. I'm still learning how to do this. Even as I write this sitting with my morning coffee, I'm not sure if I remembered to check that the front door was locked last night.
As a minister by vocation, what I do know about is being a care giver, someone who offers compassion, love and kindness, who accompanies others on their spiritual journeys. I'm trying to do this for my family from the mess of our house within the mess of this crappy situation. And many people are supporting us in this. What a blessing. Later today friends are coming over to help us clean the house. Another friend has been fielding phone calls from Paul's friends and fans in the music industry. We are all ministering to each other.
Paul has been our care taker but he also was our care giver. He got things done without fuss or fanfare. And now I am trying to do the same for him, to think of him first. This is hard for me because I've always been fairly independent. But I realize it was an independence bolstered by his very practical acts of love. And I realize that is what it is. Living love tangibly. We have never been wordy about this but I've never doubted his love. It has been a gift. And I'm learning daily. Soon I'm going to even figure out the washing machine.
Please mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started, you can find it here:
https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
I wrote this several weeks ago. Much has happened since then.
It may sound awful but there are moments when the foremost thought I have is "how will the laundry get done?" It's true. My sweetie is critically ill and I'm worried about the laundry. Because Paul has always done the laundry. I kid you not, I don't even know how to run the machines. If I was going out of town, Paul would assess what I would need and just make sure those things were clean by the time I had to pack. The joke in our house always was "if you don't want mom to find it, put it in the laundry room."
Pretty much since we have been together (over 30 years) and certainly since Finn was born (he's 19 now), Paul has been the one who took care of everything. He made sure that Finn had lunches, got to music lessons and had his homework packed. He has done all of the banking, paid the bills and made sure we didn't bounce any cheques. He locked the front door at night and put the leftover food in the fridge. He has been the family care taker for more than twenty years.
I've suddenly become a care giver to Paul. This is a different role, and now the other tasks languish. The other day I woke up just as I was drifting off to sleep and realized that no one would have put away the leftovers from supper. I got up and had to make space in the fridge to shove the pot in.
Paul first had surgery at the end of April. I realize that incrementally the house has just gotten more and more dirty and disorganized. I still went to work and still did the things I do. And while he kept up with a lot of the tasks, the tidying and cleaning, not our forte to begin with, really started to slide.
As I think about what Paul needs right now, an organized, clean and tidy house is right up there. I've started to try to get to all of the clutter that I've put off for years. I am an accumulator as well as a procrastinator so many things have gathered in the corners. Today I spent the day clearing the kitchen. And I do mean clearing, not cleaning. There was too much stuff on the counters to really clean them.
I started this thinking about the difference between care taking and care giving. Not in clinical terms, just what it meant to me. Paul took care of us. He made sure that things were in place so we could go about our days. He was our care taker in the best possible way. I'm still learning how to do this. Even as I write this sitting with my morning coffee, I'm not sure if I remembered to check that the front door was locked last night.
As a minister by vocation, what I do know about is being a care giver, someone who offers compassion, love and kindness, who accompanies others on their spiritual journeys. I'm trying to do this for my family from the mess of our house within the mess of this crappy situation. And many people are supporting us in this. What a blessing. Later today friends are coming over to help us clean the house. Another friend has been fielding phone calls from Paul's friends and fans in the music industry. We are all ministering to each other.
Paul has been our care taker but he also was our care giver. He got things done without fuss or fanfare. And now I am trying to do the same for him, to think of him first. This is hard for me because I've always been fairly independent. But I realize it was an independence bolstered by his very practical acts of love. And I realize that is what it is. Living love tangibly. We have never been wordy about this but I've never doubted his love. It has been a gift. And I'm learning daily. Soon I'm going to even figure out the washing machine.
Please mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started, you can find it here:
https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
- Published on
That sickness that pervades Creation has invaded my beloved, Paul. We call it cancer when it's in our bodies. The allopathic doctors have told him that there is nothing they can do for him other than, hopefully, ease the pain. Not the emotional pain, just the physical. It's hard to wrap my head around this.
Oddly, one of those old aphorisms popped into my head the other day. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. I think I was thinking of those many stories about the gift in illness. I have to say that right now illness doesn't feel like gift.
None-the-less the saying stayed with me. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. And I was thinking that the problem is that it's a silk purse. I mean, why would you even think that a sow's ear would make silk? You could, however, make a pretty funky leather purse out of a sow's ear, which I would prefer anyways and it would be more practical.
Not that any kind of purse fixes the shitty situation but it does give me an image to work with. In my sow's ear purse I'm putting all of the love, kindness and compassion that people have shown. When Paul posted the news on his facebook fan page, he received an outpouring of love, expressions of grief, good thoughts and musical accolades. They fill my purse to bursting.
Luckily my purse seems to be a bit magic. It keeps expanding to fit more. Hugs, prayers and healing energy have been pouring in from my friends, ministry and energy healing colleagues across the country and beyond. A silk purse would not have been rugged enough to hold all of this pulsing energy. Definitely needed the extra strength.
There is no silver lining in this purse. The whole thing is just shitty.
And yet we are blessed by Love. Thanks be to God.
Oddly, one of those old aphorisms popped into my head the other day. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. I think I was thinking of those many stories about the gift in illness. I have to say that right now illness doesn't feel like gift.
None-the-less the saying stayed with me. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. And I was thinking that the problem is that it's a silk purse. I mean, why would you even think that a sow's ear would make silk? You could, however, make a pretty funky leather purse out of a sow's ear, which I would prefer anyways and it would be more practical.
Not that any kind of purse fixes the shitty situation but it does give me an image to work with. In my sow's ear purse I'm putting all of the love, kindness and compassion that people have shown. When Paul posted the news on his facebook fan page, he received an outpouring of love, expressions of grief, good thoughts and musical accolades. They fill my purse to bursting.
Luckily my purse seems to be a bit magic. It keeps expanding to fit more. Hugs, prayers and healing energy have been pouring in from my friends, ministry and energy healing colleagues across the country and beyond. A silk purse would not have been rugged enough to hold all of this pulsing energy. Definitely needed the extra strength.
There is no silver lining in this purse. The whole thing is just shitty.
And yet we are blessed by Love. Thanks be to God.
- Published on
In the wake of the mass shooting in Orlando, more young black men killed by police, suicide bombers in Baghdad and Nigeria and the fear and hate escalating rhetoric of the presidential race in the United States and Brexit supporters in Great Britain, I hear and see many comments like "Thank God we live in Canada" and "I'm so grateful to live in Canada."
We need to stop being grateful. I don't mean that like it sounds because of course gratitude is a good thing. Meister Eckhart noted that if the only prayer we ever said was thank you, that would be enough. And I too am grateful for the relative peace and the other benefits we are afforded in Canada. When I needed a new hip joint, I was grateful for our health care system. I know that if we had had to pay out of pocket for that it would have had a huge negative financial impact on my family. Not to mention the employment insurance benefits that allowed me to be off work for two months.
But in the wake of the violence and terror that we see in the world, being grateful to live in Canada is not enough.
It's easy for us to be self congratulatory when our prime minister is photographed walking with clear and open joyfulness at the Toronto pride parade. But our own Black Lives Matter debacle underscores that we have a lot of work to do. White people have clearly failed to understand both the way that BLM has been a catalyst for more acceptance of the LBGTQ2S community in Canada and the way BLM continues to be marginalized and the reality of the lives of people who live intersecting isms.
“Thank God we live in Canada” is a bit like saying "there but for the grace of God go I" when we see a homeless addict. As if you are somehow one of God's chosen and that poor sod has been intentionally dissed.
Simply praying gratitude misses our culpability. “Thank God we're in Canada” shutters us in. It risks becoming a wall like the one that is gleefully held up as an election promise in the United States.
Instead I am saying thank God for black lives and for Black Lives Matter. I hold gratitude for those people who teach me about my privilege and challenge me to use it for the good of all. I am asking for forgiveness for the ways in which I have, unintentionally though it may be, supported the systems of racism and discrimination from which I have benefited and others have suffered. And I send love. Gratitude which walls me in does not help other people. Sending energy of Love I believe does.
And may all of that spur me on to be a better ally, a better friend and to be more actively engaged in challenging our unjust systems. Especially when that very challenge has the potential to infringe on my comfort. May it be so.
We need to stop being grateful. I don't mean that like it sounds because of course gratitude is a good thing. Meister Eckhart noted that if the only prayer we ever said was thank you, that would be enough. And I too am grateful for the relative peace and the other benefits we are afforded in Canada. When I needed a new hip joint, I was grateful for our health care system. I know that if we had had to pay out of pocket for that it would have had a huge negative financial impact on my family. Not to mention the employment insurance benefits that allowed me to be off work for two months.
But in the wake of the violence and terror that we see in the world, being grateful to live in Canada is not enough.
It's easy for us to be self congratulatory when our prime minister is photographed walking with clear and open joyfulness at the Toronto pride parade. But our own Black Lives Matter debacle underscores that we have a lot of work to do. White people have clearly failed to understand both the way that BLM has been a catalyst for more acceptance of the LBGTQ2S community in Canada and the way BLM continues to be marginalized and the reality of the lives of people who live intersecting isms.
“Thank God we live in Canada” is a bit like saying "there but for the grace of God go I" when we see a homeless addict. As if you are somehow one of God's chosen and that poor sod has been intentionally dissed.
Simply praying gratitude misses our culpability. “Thank God we're in Canada” shutters us in. It risks becoming a wall like the one that is gleefully held up as an election promise in the United States.
Instead I am saying thank God for black lives and for Black Lives Matter. I hold gratitude for those people who teach me about my privilege and challenge me to use it for the good of all. I am asking for forgiveness for the ways in which I have, unintentionally though it may be, supported the systems of racism and discrimination from which I have benefited and others have suffered. And I send love. Gratitude which walls me in does not help other people. Sending energy of Love I believe does.
And may all of that spur me on to be a better ally, a better friend and to be more actively engaged in challenging our unjust systems. Especially when that very challenge has the potential to infringe on my comfort. May it be so.
- Published on
Morning thoughts
Sometimes
when you walk through the woods
in the early morning
it helps to stop
sit
and listen
to bird song and forest breath
in order to see beauty like
the skeletal lace
of fallen leaves
softly quilting the path
Sometimes
when you walk through the woods
in the early morning
it helps to stop
sit
and listen
to bird song and forest breath
in order to see beauty like
the skeletal lace
of fallen leaves
softly quilting the path
- Published on
Lately I catch myself not breathing. Or breathing so softly, so tentatively, it is as if I am apologizing for being alive. Don't mind me, I'll try not to take up too much air.
I wonder why this is.
As a child I remember noticing how taking a deep breath sent tingles throughout my whole body. A deep inhale, the kind that fills belly and chest, would make the tips of my toes come alive and the roots of my hair shafts pulse. It was enlivening. Sometimes I lay in bed just breathing and feeling the energy of it send sparks throughout my body.
Breath is the bridge which connects life to consciousness, which unites your body to your thoughts.
~Thich Nhat Hanh
We kids had a game we played in the car. It was to hold our breath while crossing bridges and overpasses. I guess the notion was that if the bridge collapsed and we fell in the water we'd already have air held in our lungs. Of course we didn't think of the reality that we'd probably lose the air before we hit the water. We lived in North Surrey, Birdland, right by the original Port Mann Bridge which spanned the Fraser River. It was really long. Holding your breath the entire way was a challenge.
We were clearly never really in danger. Unlike having the wind knocked out of you or a panicked moment in water seeking the surface with lungs bursting, the air was right there when we needed it. Still, that first lungful was like a quenching. As we would come around the bend on the Coquitlam side of the bridge, WHOOSH! Out went the held breath and in came the new. We were very dramatic about it, making sure everyone knew of our great endurance.
For breath is life, and if you breathe well you will live long on earth.
~Sanskrit Proverb
When the Great Energy of Love first created the world, humans were formed out of the soil of the earth. Creator animated the humans with breath, the first deep lungful that brought life. Ruach. The Breath of God.
Breath still keeps us alive. Sometimes in meditation, as I begin to settle, I use a prayer mantra that a friend taught me. "Inhaling, I breathe in God. Exhaling, God breathes in me. Inhaling, I breathe in God. Exhaling, God breathes in me." It connects me to that first moment of life, the moment of all possibility.
Breath is the foundation of meditation, yoga and energy healing, all of which I practice. Deepening and connecting to the breath deepens our connection to both body and Divine. Our internal Divine Spark, like an external flame, requires oxygen to burn brightly. Breathing fuels our fire. Breath grounds us. Breathing is a powerful spiritual practice all on it's own. And I know this. So what is stopping my breath?
"Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?"
~ Mary Oliver, Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?
I still love the feeling of the big breath that tingles my toes and hair. That is, when I am mindful to be with my breath. In those moments when I catch myself not breathing, I wonder if at some level I am denying God. And by God I mean Infinite Love, the Breath of Life, the Spark of the Divine that lives in and around me.
God's breath asks a lot of me. To live fully, with joy and with great love. Even when I'd rather just go unnoticed, just sit over here breathing quietly, pretending that the rest of the world doesn't pertain to me. Not withstanding that immediately after being animated, the first humans were put in charge of tending the garden and naming the animals.
Deep breath calls me to deep and bold life.
There is one way of breathing that is shameful and constricted. Then there's another way: a breath of love that takes you all the way to infinity.
~Rumi
I was in the midst of writing this reflection when we began hearing news of the heart-wrenching shootings at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida. Fifty lives gone and that many again injured. Fear, violence, pain, sadness. Breath silenced. It's overwhelming. Events like this make me want to curl up in a ball, become as tiny as possible and breathe so softly that no one can hear me. But I know in my deepest self that this is a moment when we are called to stand up and scream. In these moments we are called to use our breath to let our anguish echo through the world. And when we have let that out, it is to take another deep breath and go out into that world to give our selves in love and service. Breathe deep and feel that tingling spur us to action.
I was called into ministry to offer healing in the midst of brokenness and to do that in a way that will, hopefully, reverberate outwards. As Christians, that deep breathing must include using our voices and our actions to demonstrate that God is Love and that our embrace includes all of God's people.
To breathe is to be called to the world. And really, this expectation from ruach, from the Breath of Life is worth it if, in return, I get to take that breath and feel myself alive, thanks be to God. Then I am called to use my breath and my life in service to the world.
Keep breathing, it's the most important part
we kick and then we glide. we kick and then we glide
it's all in the rhythm, it's all in the rhythm,
it's all in the rhythm of the heart
~Swimming chant
I wonder why this is.
As a child I remember noticing how taking a deep breath sent tingles throughout my whole body. A deep inhale, the kind that fills belly and chest, would make the tips of my toes come alive and the roots of my hair shafts pulse. It was enlivening. Sometimes I lay in bed just breathing and feeling the energy of it send sparks throughout my body.
Breath is the bridge which connects life to consciousness, which unites your body to your thoughts.
~Thich Nhat Hanh
We kids had a game we played in the car. It was to hold our breath while crossing bridges and overpasses. I guess the notion was that if the bridge collapsed and we fell in the water we'd already have air held in our lungs. Of course we didn't think of the reality that we'd probably lose the air before we hit the water. We lived in North Surrey, Birdland, right by the original Port Mann Bridge which spanned the Fraser River. It was really long. Holding your breath the entire way was a challenge.
We were clearly never really in danger. Unlike having the wind knocked out of you or a panicked moment in water seeking the surface with lungs bursting, the air was right there when we needed it. Still, that first lungful was like a quenching. As we would come around the bend on the Coquitlam side of the bridge, WHOOSH! Out went the held breath and in came the new. We were very dramatic about it, making sure everyone knew of our great endurance.
For breath is life, and if you breathe well you will live long on earth.
~Sanskrit Proverb
When the Great Energy of Love first created the world, humans were formed out of the soil of the earth. Creator animated the humans with breath, the first deep lungful that brought life. Ruach. The Breath of God.
Breath still keeps us alive. Sometimes in meditation, as I begin to settle, I use a prayer mantra that a friend taught me. "Inhaling, I breathe in God. Exhaling, God breathes in me. Inhaling, I breathe in God. Exhaling, God breathes in me." It connects me to that first moment of life, the moment of all possibility.
Breath is the foundation of meditation, yoga and energy healing, all of which I practice. Deepening and connecting to the breath deepens our connection to both body and Divine. Our internal Divine Spark, like an external flame, requires oxygen to burn brightly. Breathing fuels our fire. Breath grounds us. Breathing is a powerful spiritual practice all on it's own. And I know this. So what is stopping my breath?
"Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?"
~ Mary Oliver, Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?
I still love the feeling of the big breath that tingles my toes and hair. That is, when I am mindful to be with my breath. In those moments when I catch myself not breathing, I wonder if at some level I am denying God. And by God I mean Infinite Love, the Breath of Life, the Spark of the Divine that lives in and around me.
God's breath asks a lot of me. To live fully, with joy and with great love. Even when I'd rather just go unnoticed, just sit over here breathing quietly, pretending that the rest of the world doesn't pertain to me. Not withstanding that immediately after being animated, the first humans were put in charge of tending the garden and naming the animals.
Deep breath calls me to deep and bold life.
There is one way of breathing that is shameful and constricted. Then there's another way: a breath of love that takes you all the way to infinity.
~Rumi
I was in the midst of writing this reflection when we began hearing news of the heart-wrenching shootings at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida. Fifty lives gone and that many again injured. Fear, violence, pain, sadness. Breath silenced. It's overwhelming. Events like this make me want to curl up in a ball, become as tiny as possible and breathe so softly that no one can hear me. But I know in my deepest self that this is a moment when we are called to stand up and scream. In these moments we are called to use our breath to let our anguish echo through the world. And when we have let that out, it is to take another deep breath and go out into that world to give our selves in love and service. Breathe deep and feel that tingling spur us to action.
I was called into ministry to offer healing in the midst of brokenness and to do that in a way that will, hopefully, reverberate outwards. As Christians, that deep breathing must include using our voices and our actions to demonstrate that God is Love and that our embrace includes all of God's people.
To breathe is to be called to the world. And really, this expectation from ruach, from the Breath of Life is worth it if, in return, I get to take that breath and feel myself alive, thanks be to God. Then I am called to use my breath and my life in service to the world.
Keep breathing, it's the most important part
we kick and then we glide. we kick and then we glide
it's all in the rhythm, it's all in the rhythm,
it's all in the rhythm of the heart
~Swimming chant
