Hope, Despair and the Right to Die with Dignity 101

pablo 3

I very tentatively and intentionally watched Anthony Bourdain’s PARTS UNKNOWN SEASON 10 (CNN).

Bourdain is an unwilling participant and reticently, sarcastically and often in his caustic rapid fire spitted out, “… what do you want to see?”

Waffle House fills that deep homing context and Bourdain proves it. He’s satisfied downing a pecan waffle at Waffle House with a 5 star chef. It’s followed by a t-bone and fried eggs, spearing and breaking the soft yellow orange egg yolks dripping from the toast onto the platter with hashed browns. He says one word in Japanese to the guest chef that translates into, “I’ll suck your cock for that (porkchop)” and the chef and Bourdain fall into hysterics.

Fun aside Bourdain says at the top of 10 about believing in hope over despair and I get the need to lie about one’s belief in hope when you actually don’t trust that hope will stay with you (anymore)You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, friend.

To be alone

It is of a color that

Cannot be named:

This mountain where cedars rise

Into the autumn dusk

[12th Century Poet, Jakuren]

My girlfriend asked me a few days after the Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain inundation and my comments here and there, filled with thoughts of death, dying, despair and a total acceptance of living life on life’s terms’ meanings to me. “Are you doing ok tonight?” she asked me when I laid in bed, my voice low and we were whispering together quietly now, again, in ritual and in an easy beat. I said, “… you mean, am I thinking of suicide?” and I knew full well that only I could see my face in bed, under the bed sheet. It was a hot Atlanta June night and I wasn’t smiling and I just laid in bed in the dark listening to the quiet whirring of the fan overhead. Thinking.

“No, I’m not,” I whispered quietly and I went on to describe that because I forensically and behaviorally am talky to the point of being rude while in my own parts of despair, I often resist stubbornly, reaching in the dark and groping, working to be socially appropriate. 

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“But it is always a question whether I wish to avoid these glooms. . .  These 9 weeks give one a plunge into deep waters… One goes down into the well & nothing protects one from the assault of truth.”

[Virginia Woolf]

yellow tower
Tower 1, Acrylic on Canvas (c) Jen Padron Imagery 2018, Atlanta, Georgia

Completing is one’s inherent truth to living a life that is fully cognizent of one’s mortality and living it fearlessly of death or of dying in this physical body.

Dying a good death is, “… tangent to reason and consideration and is almost always… (and) seemingly best way to end (the) pain, the futility, the voices, or hopelessness… decisions about suicide are not fleeting thoughts than can be willed away in deference to the best interest of others. Suicide wells up from cumulative anguish or is hastened by impulse,” (Jamison, K.R., 1999).

This opting-out has greater permanence because Bourdain shares death with us so publically. My fascination with death and dying has to do with my own experiences of trauma, of loss, of near deaths, of seeing people die, of holding them near and dear with the death knoll morphine drip (ICU) ending the writhing pain from invasive cancers of the body, mind and spirit.

I see that blank lie in the eyes of many of my professional Peers, Colleagues, Leaders. I’ve shared drinks and listened to birds singing at 4 AM with the sun not too far on its’ way, talking smack and ingesting anything to abate my own numbness. I’ve sat in cars listening to, “… I’m ready to go” uttered a colleague who remains a national suicide prevention expert, an innovator and leader but also painfully, a survivor lover from a long gone love and it comes out barely, quietly as a whisper.

I get it. The national Peer communities direly require all supports to sustain physically, well and to grow whole. I care for longevity in sum.

The uneasiness, the disruption, the slap in your face, the quick right to the side of your cheek will make you bleed and sweat and hurt when life happens. Discern the greater good for how you live, truly. “The meanings of life aren’t inherited. What is inherited is the mandate to make meanings of life by how we live. The endings of life give life’s meanings a chance to show. The beginning of the end of our order, our way, is now in view. This isn’t punishment, any more than dying is a punishment for being born, ” (Jenkinson, S., 2017). For Bourdain, “… having a conscience (now) is a grief-soaked proposition,” and “… Dying is active. Dying is now what happens to you. Dying what is what you do. We should be able to tell the difference between dying and being killed,” (Jenkinson, S., 2018).

You see things which you cannot unsee. Many deaths and many times later, I remain drawn to trying to make my peace with my own death and dying, an unforeseen misnomer as I sit in my mid 50s struggling to regain ground with daily physical beat-downs in my 1st year teaching in a Title I impoverished Central Georgia high school.

We will not romanticize. We must not sentimentalize. We must see with clear and bright eyes. We must be astonished when the truth of loveliness or atrocious a reality as inevitable as our walk is quietly moving on, really.

JANE: Did I hear you say commit death?

PILKINGS: Obviously he means murder.

JANE: You mean a ritual murder?

PILKINGS: Must be. You think you’ve stamped it all out but it’s always lurking under the surface somewhere.

Wole Soyinka, Death and the king’s horseman, 1975

 

So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love. Sometimes you want to say, “I love you, but…”

Erich Seagal, Love Story, (1970)

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Listening to others, and considering well what they say,

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,

Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of space;

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1855)

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piano solo

“Give me the simple life…”

I must learn how to live again.

My surroundings meld to gray. Ignore the brilliance of the oranges, the reds, purple, tallowed yellows. They do not exist any longer. May my visual acuity turn bland.

Let my energy focus on turning off life force. I must not linger, too long, over music, my love, my Beloved. They cannot breathe where they used to prevent rain.

The rain outside seeping in and whimpering now where it used to be full-on blue rain no longer. No longer. The sumptuousness of the wet and her smell of the rain no longer exists.

Since the moment of bliss, the thrilling kiss, heaven has shut her door on me for romance on the menu. There is no longer the slide slide slide pushiness of sex to wound through afternoons. That part of me is dead.

Day in. Day out.

Gershwin’s horns and the strings meeting at crescendo mean nothing to me anymore.

It came out of my mouth quickly and without thinking yesterday and it was the opening of a door, “Mary is dead…” and my friend and I both were frozen, grimacing and nodding.

I will promise you nothing and promise myself everything for now on.

The next three months are an end of a season.

I will, I must make the lap to Christmas Eve. Marker

Hello to a death march of trudgery, of plannedness, for wellness to persevere, to a life where nothing at all else marks me, ever again. Never again. Never again. She has killed me already many deaths daily, night sweating into obliviousness, holding on for footing.

The pain and the harm experienced is grievous. Were I to hold unlimited capital, I would correct the crime breaking another’s Beloved heart, but I instead do not.

That I lack a tribe, a community, a family, a prompter, I task, now.

 

 

her hands

yosemite30 days hath september

april, june and november

from what summer did we have, now winter

did it any of it ever take place

any of it

i wonder
it was a dream
perfect realism
i was awake but briefly
belabored breathing
climbing to the top

was it real
was it real
was it real

i have some proof

rocks to hold in my hand

branches of trees touched, in my hand

sand from mexico in a honey jar

in my hand drip drip drip

were it not for the leftover solstice hat

it slumbers, it holds no shape now

far away from mine

remember hers

in them i am

 

 

the tempest

where is my Queen Leah now

carrie-fisher-2

i am forsaken

it is possible that the stars and moon and shapes of the world are behind the pine trees and the old oak in vines and the dogwoods are sleeping in the dark too

somebody let off a stream of fireworks sizzling and popping that stopped at the ground fast with reverb

yosemite

the air in atlanta in august smells like smoke and truck exhaust

it whips at the back of your throat when you inhale it

i am forsaken

after the knowing and lovely loving, there is but a draught of familiarity

of cold

my skin and my mind does touch off rapid fire memories and it’s war again

a high wire of white and silver ring high like lightning and thunder

it roars

my body scan depicts a swollen mind and my cave is empty and cock hard

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Race Relations 101

My voice is silent today. I listen and I discern on the next right steps to take.

I was in The Respect Institute of Georgia from Monday through yesterday.

Graduation is today.

Sitting in this place, then, I give you a poem by a favorite poet Laureate, Mary Oliver:

After Her Death

I am trying to find the lesson
for tomorrow. Matthew something.
Which lectionary? I have not
forgotten the Way, but, a little,
the way to the Way. The trees keep whispering
peace, peace, and the birds
in the shallows are full of the
bodies of small fish and are
content. They open their wings
so easily, and fly. It is still
possible.

I open the book
which the strange, difficult, beautiful church
has given me. To Matthew. Anywhere.

by Mary Oliver

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