the gift of endings

Mother’s day has been a strange one for me this year. My mum is at the end of her life, with the hospice at home team coming in. As challenging as accompanying mum in this journey is, in both practical and emotional ways it is also bringing me joy as I feel so connected to the preciousness of life.

Being this close to death is bringing focus to my life.

I’ve always loved the Mary Oliver quote from her poem, The Summers Day ‘tell me what will you do with your one wild and precious life’. It reminds me that even though this life feels long, we never know for sure how long it will be or how it may change.

Don’t get me wrong, there are many moments when I get pulled into the drama of the situation and there is lots of it to be pulled into, mum being very unwell with chest infections and decisions to be made about how to treat them, or not, and much soul searching for what is really for the best, and for who.

There are however also moments when the loudness and importance of all that is going on is drowning out some of the more mundane things that usually trouble me. And I am stopped in my tracks by the beauty of bird song or stop to feel the sun on my face and really let in how amazing it feels.

That by being faced with this end of life, I am more aware of the need to take care of myself, that this body needs good food and rest to be well.

I’m grateful to remember that these big life transitions, death, separations, illnesses, alongside the immense challenge of them also bring moments of beauty and gift me with as much learning as any training ever has, and so remind me to allow them and myself space to be with all that is.

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean--the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention,

how to fall down into the grass,

how to kneel in the grass, how to be idle and blessed,

how to stroll through the fields

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver
The Summer Day