I am very interested in the heroines journey. Even though every person’s path is unique, there are often similarities, landmarks, if you will, that give us glimpses of where we might be on our path. I don’t know why this matters to me but it does.
Creation seems to understand the cycles of life better than we do. She marks the coming of autumn with brilliance of color. She marks the coming of spring with pink and white blossoms and bursts of greens. Creation, too, seems more skilled at moving in rhythms than we are. Perhaps partly because she’s had far more practice. I, on the other hand, always seem to find myself stunned when the winter freeze begins, when my barrenness is exposed, and the pallor of death is upon me.
Here we are, on this very day, in the dead of winter, and if I’m honest, I recognize that something in me is dying. It doesn’t feel very good. It’s no wonder we do all we can to avoid it. The sages say that dying is easier if one can relax into it.
I wonder what I need in order to die well?
I wonder if, after dying,
I will have what it takes to bring forth life.
I think I will. I’ve given birth many times and I know how the body and spirit are stronger than one imagines them to be.
I have a son who died. He was alone in his death, and that is something that has caused me much agony. I wasn’t there. No one was there. Well, no earthly human. I believe that his hand was being held, and probably he had a whole cloud of witnesses. But it burns that I wasn’t there, too. I do not know why it happened this way. But even though I wasn’t present as he crossed over the veil, I was there shortly after. I looked death straight in the eyes — it’s not a look that a person will ever forget. My son’s death came unexpectedly, and sometimes it happens that way. But other times, we know it’s coming, and in these instances we get to choose what to do with it.
I know death is coming for me soon and I have to decide if I want to do it alone or if I need someone to be with me. I decide that I do not want to do it alone.
So I search for the right person to sit with my on my deathbed and to hold my hand as I take my last breaths, and as my new self is birthed. I find her. And now I wait. Words don’t work to describe awaiting one’s death. I’m really scared. There is a lump in my throat. My heart feels like a thousand pounds of pressure is squeezing it from all sides. My fists are clenched. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I am full of eagerness and dread alike.
I’ve read that the more we grow in our ability to die the many deaths required of us as we live this life, the easier physical death will be. It seems as though that might be true.
I want to grow in my ability to die without resistance. I wonder if this is possible. There’s a few lines of a song that come to mind:
‘Cause rain and leaves
and snow and tears and stars
and that’s not all my friend
They all fall with confidence and grace
So let it fall, let it fall.*
When I woke this morning it was with a heavy heart and none of this felt possible. Then Love came to me through the words of a book and said,
“The heroine’s journey is about woman’s initiation into the underground forest through the rite of endurance. The word endurance sounds as though it means “to continue without cessation” and while this is an occasional part of the task underlying the tale, the word endurance also means “to harden, to make sturdy, to make robust, to strengthen,” and this is the principle thrust of the tale. We do not go on just to go on. Endurance means we are making something substantial.**
This is always what this kind of death has been about isn’t it? It’s not about cruelty or injustice. It’s about discovering the steel in one’s bones … you know that kind of courage we see in others that makes our mouths drop in awe and wonder. It’s about allowing the fluff to fall away, to die, so that the pureness, the beauty, the essence can be found. How far we’ve grown from our center! How plastered up we’ve become with that which is false. And death is an invitation into a holy place where we allow the things that no longer serve us to fall away. Death is the trumpeter and what he is heralding is this:
See, I am doing a new thing.
It has already begun!
Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway
through the wilderness.
I will create rivers
in the dry wasteland.
Isaiah 43:19
*Let It Fall by Over the Rhine
**Woman Who Run With The Wolves"
Dear Fawne, This piece astounds me. At first there was a little fear: "Should I continue?" But very quickly I felt grounded in the truth of words you wrangled into power and perspective. Over and over ...I too live in this space (not always in a helpful way), and I so long to transform into much more alive. 💚 Thank you! PS The Isaiah passage was part of a Lectio Divina I did yesterday. Cool.