Convergence: the wise words of Death, and decade reflections

A stairway to... somewhere? 

"It gets under your skin, life..." said Death. "Speaking metaphorically, of course. It's a habit that's hard to give up. One puff of breath is never enough. You'll find you want to take another." 

This, from Terry Pratchett's Hogfather, a twisted take on a Christmas story that I faithfully watch every year. 

Discworld is no Planet Earth, but BBC brings this other world into clear focus, and while entertaining, it also offers keen insights and intriguing perspective we can apply here, too, on our spinning round ball.  

A heartwarming tale, though the villain is truly villainous and not for the faint of heart, Death gets some of the best lines in the three-plus hours—worth considering as we close out both a year and a decade. 

"You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?" 

Some of the major themes I wrote about this year: create your future, the role of mindset, and the power of beliefs (conscious or not). 

We must believe: 1) in ourselves, 2) in our capabilities) 3) that we create based on what we want and not what we've done or what's necessarily true, 4) that we deserve our good, and 5) that the universe, or life force, or divine energy—whatever you want to call it—conspires for our highest and greatest good. 

It's important to note that we often get in our own way, usually without knowing it. It's those underlying beliefs that hold us back, the self-talk we don't notice or don't give credence to, and persistent patterns and habits that no longer support us. 

We can create the life we want. Sometimes we have to #dohardthings first, though, which usually includes a thorough self-audit, and there is this thing, I believe, called Divine Right Timing. Self-awareness is critical to growth and change. It requires deep reflection, soul-trembling honesty, and a willingness to let go of who we are for who we can be. 

"Human beings make life so interesting. Do you know that in a universe so full of wonders, they have managed to invent boredom?" 

Life is precious, and while I don't believe we should always be busy, always striving, nor always productive, I do believe curiosity is a superpower—one that consistently helps us grow and moves us forward. It's one of mine, and one I'm deeply grateful for. 

What do you wonder about? Are you curious about why you've made the choices you have? Are you curious enough to realize you've made choices your entire life, and the results of those choices are why you do what you do, live how you do, and determine who you have around you? What about the world-at-large fascinates or befuddles you? 

As far as we know, or at least as far as we can conceive consciously, we have this one life, and it's up to us to make it what we want it to be. We can live in ignorance and blame the world for our situations and be victims of our circumstances, but we'll perpetuate the life we're already living. It won't get better. We can 'create better problems', as author and blogger Mark Manson writes about. 

There are endless places and ideas to explore, things to try, entire libraries to delve into, new people who cross your path every day who have a different story than your own, and now, in our digital world, podcasts and new music to listen to, and encyclopedic volumes of information at our fingertips. I've mentioned my sociology professor before, who often said: See everyone as your guru of the moment. In other words, everyone has something to teach us, even when it isn't immediately apparent. 

What do you want to know more about? 

"There is always time for another last minute... there's no better present than a future... "

My birthday, the winter solstice, Christmas, and year-end all arrive within two weeks of each other. I take this convergence to mean it's a powerful time for me—a time to go deeper than usual, to reflect, assess what I've learned and what about the last year had meaning, and set intentions for creation and change in the, or my, new year. A Christmas birthday can be hard—I've had a lot of stories around it that aren't supportive... but shifting my thinking to one of convergence is how I've not just finally made peace with it—my initial thinking—but how it truly works in my favor. 

We can all do this, whether at year-end, around your birthday, or whenever it makes sense. But now, as we close out a decade, it can be helpful to take a look back as you think ahead. 

Could you have ever imagined, 10 years ago, where you'd be now? Whether you observe it / judge it to be good or bad, is this what you had in mind for your life?  

Ten years ago, I could barely see beyond what was immediately in front of me. Forrest and I had separated and didn't know if we'd be back together. I started a new job, and my first six months were rocky. I had a balloon payment due on my mortgage and had been out of work following a layoff when the 2008 recession hit, so even my home was at risk. 

While I had plenty of self-awareness and had been doing a lot of this work for a lot of my life, suddenly, nearly everything was in question. 

And, I was intentional. I got very clear when this all seemed to happen at once that something still wasn't working. I recognized I had beliefs and patterns and habits that kept me stuck, including that life was hard, I didn't believe I belonged here, and that I couldn't have what I wanted. 

So, with help, hard work, a lot of soul-searching and solitude, I changed all that. And here we are, at the end of one and the start of another decade. There are some outward similarities, but on the inside, I'm a different person. Just as much of our bodies regenerate every seven or so years, so too, have I regenerated my beliefs, my thinking, and my actions. 

That's a lot to celebrate. And it's important to acknowledge what we consider success. I can build on this as I look ahead to 2020, and the decade in front of me.   

No matter our condition, that we are living, breathing, evolving individuals all connected through an energetic system invisible to the eye, is nothing short of miraculous, considering the complexity of our very existence.

What do you want in these last minutes of this, our second decade of the 21st century? As Death so wisely stated, there's no better present than a future. How can you set the stage for an awesome 2020, and the next decade? 

If you like this post or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to subscribe (see right column), share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here. 

Let's talk about death...

Grape leaves: the cycle of life

A few months ago, I signed up for a dinner party where death had a seat at the table. You could even say death was the guest of honor. 

Talking about death isn't something most of us who grew up in western culture are comfortable with. Sadly, because not having those oh-so-important conversations can make loss even more devastating. 

And not only do we not want to talk about it, many of us don't have cultural rituals to guide us when loved ones die. In some cases where we do, those rituals we grew up with don't fit anymore. 


This isn't a post about grief; I write about that enough. This is a reminder to all of us to do the things that must be done—the hard things, those caring things that make life easier for those left behind when we, too, leave this mortal plane. 

#DeathDinners

My dinner with death was last Saturday, and yes, it was fascinating, and yes, death was nearly the sole topic of conversation.  

Based around 'death over dinner' events (#deathdinner) started by University of Washington professor Michael Hebb in 2013, the dinners grew from a graduate course called Let's Have Dinner and Talk about Death. In 2018, Hebb authored the best-seller, Let's Talk About Death Over Dinner; from this website, you can also learn about hosting your own dinner with death. Why over dinner? As Hebb notes, the dinner table is the most forgiving place for a difficult conversation.

The dinner I attended was hosted by former lawyer now end-of-life coach Ann Forrest Burns. (Do check out her site; it's fabulous and you can learn some things. Do it; it's safe to look.) There were six of us around the table, and we started our conversation by sharing the first memory we had of a significant death. 

The impact of loss

My dad was my first significant death, but not a memory of my own as he died shortly after I was born. But my mom mourned his death until she, too, left the mortal plane when I was 38. That was big. 

Other losses left an impenetrable mark at an early age. My caregivers and my reasons-for-being all died within a few short years of each other: first, my aunt, who died when I was 8; she said "goodbye, daddy" to my grandfather as she was taken from the house on a stretcher—and then never came home. My grandpa left me the following year, and three years later, my grandmother. I was 12, and her death signaled to me that anyone I cared about—or who cared for me—would leave. Hence my modus operandi for the next couple of decades—being left became an expectation, and I looked for love in all the wrong places. 

Since then there were countless others—cousins, friends, pets, and other family members, few from a 'ripe old age' and largely from lifestyle choices. When someone in my family lives to 80 or 90, it's cause for celebration. There are few of them. 

As a little girl, I attended many funerals because of a large, extended family, and while uncommon today, when I see a funeral procession drive by, I still get choked up. I was often in the family car leading the way. 

Death upon death

Mortal death isn't the only death, though. My mom died an emotional death after my aunt died, closing off and shutting down—that, too, left an indelible mark. And when those we care about lose their quality of life, that may be a series of deaths, as they lose the ability to do what they love. Often, this is a prolonged death. 

Planning ahead 

Death can break apart families. Pre-planning can make a difference. 

I have a Canadian friend who works in the industry and helps people pre-plan. She's been highly successful financially not because she's great at sales, but because she's truly passionate about helping people. Death is hard enough on those left behind; when we plan ahead so others don't have to, we lessen their suffering. She knows this at a deep level.  

Talk with those you love about your needs and desires. Do you want your life sustained if it means you're hooked up to tubes, incubators, or various other machines? There are legal documents that leave no question, and it's best to work with a professional (you can find them in all price ranges). A health directive, or living will, is a must-have to ensure you're taken care of the way you want to be when you can't make decisions for yourself anymore. And don't be smug; this can happen at any time—an accident, or an illness that comes on suddenly. 

When the time comes: 

• How do you want to symbolize your time on earth? 
• How do you want your family taken care of? 
• Who do you want to benefit from any means you may have left, or any of your prized belongings? 
• Do you care if there's a service, and if yes, how it's done? 
• Cremated or buried? Where? We even have a choice of 'green' services now. 

You may think these aren't important, but when the time comes, they're important to those still standing, and the fewer decisions they have to make, the easier it is during a time that's anything but easy.  

Be curious

On Saturday, we also played the game Morbid Curiosity. It's a combination of trivia questions and conversation starters. While some of the trivia answers are humorous, many inform or help you think about options to consider. Conversation starters were either thought-provoking or entertaining. If you need help getting the party started, this game will break the ice. 

Meaningful death

Our lives have meaning, not just for us but for those who care about us. Our death will have meaning, too. Let's help those we leave behind with those most difficult decisions, so they don't have to when their wound is wide open. 

I'm grateful that death doulas are becoming a thing. It's a much-needed service to help us make choices that are meaningful while we still can, and help us navigate the complex industry that death has become. 

Don't wait

While my mom talked about her own death and did some of the pre-planning (thanking lucky stars for the People's Memorial Association here in Washington), I was less-than-impressed with our family's funeral home, the place where I spent enough of my childhood to still have strong memories. If only there were death doulas, or end-of-life coaches, then. It would have saved confusion, frustration, and heartache. 

Don't wait. This is far too important, and it's never too soon. Talk, plan, or find some help. Or host a #deathdinner of your own. It really isn't morbid. We had great conversations, plenty of laughs, and some good food, too. Here's the link again, just in case it helps. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

The art and practice of forgiveness

Roses are the flowers of love,
a true love stronger than thorns. 
Forgiveness is the ultimate
act of love. 

Forgiveness is one of the hardest things we do, along with self-compassion. Forgiveness isn't about forgetting, or letting someone off the proverbial hook. But it is about letting go, and creating space for peace of mind. 

Forgiveness also isn't about doing something for someone else; while it is a gift to them, it's an even bigger gift to yourself. 

Practicing forgiveness

I had an experience last weekend that took me by surprise, and triggered an emotional response that I in no way expected. 

So now, I'm trying to find space within myself to forgive: my friend, who's grieving a major loss and lashed out in anger, and myself, for not anticipating that something I said could be received in a way I hadn't intended, and for my teary and completely befuddled and reactive response. I believe fully that the few words I chose were said with no intent to minimize or take away from her in-the-moment experience. And, that's how they landed.     

...Holding space

Holding space for someone isn't easy. It's being present and allowing what is to just be. It's stillness, understanding, grace, and getting our egos out of the way. It's also forgiveness. 

As Amy Wright Glenn writes in Holding Space, On Loving, Dying and Letting Go, we fear holding space in part because we don't want to say the wrong thing. "We don't want to add to the pain and suffering." Of course we don't. I certainly didn't. And yet, even though my words came from love, and while in no way meant to add to or even ease suffering, they were heard in ways I didn't and couldn't predict.  

Under normal circumstances, my friend would assume positive intent... (the only kind of assumption we should ever make, by the way, and one we should make often), but grieving such a loss isn't a normal circumstance. 

Letting go...

Surrender. Forgive. Let go. Those are the words that keep coming up for me as I process my own experience this last weekend. We all do the best we can in any given circumstance with the knowledge and capability we have. I know this to be true, in this case for her and for me; I also know "one's best" may be different every day, every moment, and that not everyone will see one's best in the same same way.  

Relationships are truly the hardest things we do, and there are times when I want to throw up my hands and say, "I'm done!" and isolate like my mother did. But that's not the answer. 

Practicing presence

Show up. Listen. Witness. That's what we do for the grief-stricken. I did those things, as well as cried, held, and honestly said few words.  

I'm not a therapist, and I know better than to wear my coaching hat when not asked. I showed up as a caring friend and nothing more. And yet, my few words were interpreted as the wrong words, words that apparently felt invalidating and unsupportive of her feelings and her need to be present with them, pushing her along before she was ready. 

I know myself well enough to know I wouldn't invalidate or not support. We must go through our experience, and the more we can dive in, bathe in it, breathe it in, the more meaningful and powerful it will be for us. It's necessary—and yes, it's necessary for healing. 

Because we do heal from loss and grief. 

And while loss stays with us until we, too, say goodbye to the mortal plane, it won't always be our daily moment-by-moment experience—hard as that may be to hear when we're right there in it. We must stay in those depths for as long as it takes. There is no timeline for grief, and there are no shortcuts. The one caveat—if after a period of time (for many, it's typically one to two years), we're still overcome with sadness and can't find joy in any part of our lives, we may need to get help from a skilled outside source.  


The tension of opposites...

There is both beauty and anguish in grief. I know this from personal experience; I've had many losses throughout my life—most of my immediate family, many extended family members, and some of my closest friends have died too young, lost to disease, drugs, depression, and accidents. In my earlier days, I endured huge abandonment issues that still show up on my very worst days. 

What I know most of all is how grief shows up differently for all of us. We each have our own process, and it's even different each time. There is no pushing through. We must feel what we feel, because there are consequences if we don't. 

So... we must give ourselves and those we love a lot of grace, and the room to make mistakes—we must hold space for and forgive again, and again, and again. Because dammit, there is no great love without great loss. 

Onward. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

Practicing impermanence

Callas are symbols of both rebirth
and death. They die back each year,
but the next year, they're stronger,
more beautiful, and more plentiful
than the year before. 

I am reminded this month of life's impermanence. Although I believe we are all energy, and energy can't be created or destroyed and only changes form, as humans on this mortal plane, we are impermanent. 

So as in life, so as in death.  

As humans, we are ever-changing, moment-by-moment, with every breath. As humans, we attach identity and meaning, but we choose these, either consciously or unconsciously. 

Our circumstances are also impermanent. And this is all good news.  

May is a month of anniversaries for me: the week after Mother's Day is the anniversary of my mom's death—this year marks 19 years. Her sister, who preceded her in death by several years, also left her earthly body in May. There are more. 

I currently have friends who just lost or are about to lose their closest relationships—one whose father recently transitioned, another whose parents are nearing their final days, and another whose date with death is literally planned through a MAID, or Medical Assistance in Death. It's not an easy time for many. 


The gift of presence


Death is hard for those who are left behind. 

On the same side of anguish, however, is presence. Death changes us, marks us, and shifts our perspective, reminding us of our own impermanence. Which makes today, our present moment, that much more meaningful and precious. 

On the other side of anguish is gratitude—for the moment, for our current experience, and for the future we still get to create. For the memories and gifts of those who left. 

On the other side of loss is forgiveness—for words unsaid, deeds undone, and grace not given. 

Parallel to pain is beauty—without pain, we cannot experience joy, happiness, contentment, nor peace. 

Perspective...

Physical loss is real, however the gifts that accompany that loss never leave us. We gain perspective. We grow appreciation. We soften over time as memories fade but feelings remain. We gain compassion and empathy, and are more likely to see others from a widened point of view.  

And, just as we are impermanent, so are our circumstances. There are other losses in my life right now. Changes at work and home, with friends and family. 

Change has many benefits... 

Impermanence serves us. We are not stuck. We can change how we think about our experience, change our response, and see our circumstances through a new lens.  

While loss of loved ones is truly one of the hardest things ever, I will always be grateful for change. Change is hopeful. Change is interesting, bringing meaning, substance and expansiveness from which we grow and learn. I wouldn't want to be the person I was in my youth, or even 20 years ago. Ugh! I am SO grateful for change. I have gained wisdom and experience that only comes with age and change. 

Good, bad, or otherwise, change happens, and our best option, for our highest and greatest good, is to find our way to peace with that. We must go through—there is no shortcut. If you're struggling with change, or the idea of impermanence, Buddhist sage Pema Chodron may be the preeminent authority and her foundation has many useful resources. 

Embrace what is...

We must embrace the anguish, the bittersweet experience that engulfs all loss. Mourn what was. Miss our loved ones. And trust that on the other side, life has its sweet rewards. There are still precious memories to make. Experiences to have. People to meet. I love yous to say. We will grow through loss, gain much, and love ourselves and each other that much more for it.  

Without impermanence, there would be no life.  


If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

When a parent dies...

The life cycle of a yellow rose. 

Sometimes, life kicks you in the ass, makes you re-evaluate and re-assess, see things, people and places differently...

My father-in-law, Del, took his last breath just after midnight east coast time. My partner Forrest was there, along with other members of the family. Del was diagnosed with throat and lung cancer earlier this spring, but didn't share that news because he was caring for his long-time partner, Dotty, who had Alzheimer's and preceded him in death by just a few weeks.

Del and Forrest's mom Okay divorced when Forrest was just four-years-old. While he and his siblings spent their summers with their dad in the north Georgia mountains, as an adult, Forrest wasn't close to him, despite a solid resemblance, a shared countenance and caustic wit. Del wasn't much of a 'dad' to his first family, never really taking responsibility. When still married to their mom, they moved a lot, as Del was a prospector looking for gold from the deep southeast to northern Alaska. The family story goes: he finally found it in the tourists who pass through Helen, Georgia, the country's first gold rush town. There he opened Duke's Creek Mines, a gold and precious gem panning business, along with the adjacent Heidi Hotel. I met him on two occasions, one of which was a long weekend visit many years ago with several shared meals and conversations. It was clear he was a man of few words, significant intellect, strong opinions, good humor, and a resilience about him that makes his death at 71 seem implausible.

Death is a funny thing no matter who it is that passes from this mortal coil. Funny in that it's the only real constant other than change (even taxes can be evaded...) but yet, it's something most of us don't plan for, don't really talk about, nor even actually expect, for ourselves or others. The death of a parent is often, but not always, devastating. Yet no matter the circumstances, it's one of the more significant changes each of us will experience in our lives; with it comes a different level of complexity, especially if the relationship was complicated or after a lengthy illness.

I'm not presumptuous enough to think I understand someone else's experience, and I certainly can't know what Del's family will go through. But I do know the death of a parent changes us, even if the relationship is strained. We are different. It has the capacity to bring families closer together or sever ties. It can shift our priorities and show us what's important. Mostly, it tends to bring us up-close and personal with our own mortality, our own shortcomings, our own unmet desires and regrets. It can show us, and those close to us, parts of ourselves and each other that weren't previously visible -- like the tenderness Del showed Dot, and unfamiliar or long-denied or hidden feelings that bubble from below the surface.

When my mom died, time stopped. I felt like I had a tattoo that read "mom died" on my forehead, as if this was a rite of passage that had to be marked. In between waves of grief, there's shock (at least, for a death unexpected), which is a useful thing as there are immediate decisions to be made and a laundry list of things to do. It's after all the 'things that must be done' are behind us that the reality sets in and processing begins.

Unless you're firmly in denial and prone to stuffing feelings, that's where introspection really kicks in. I went through many of the grief stages (although I find the traditional definitions of each stage lacking): anger, denial, remorse, sadness, and finally came to acceptance, despite a lingering void. But what often isn't among those official stages about grieving is relief. With her death, my mom was released from her suffering and sadness.

Grief and the time it takes to move through it -- and we do move through -- is different for all of us, but it's something we'll all experience. And from the other side of loss, I know it's worth the journey. Painful experiences can suck beyond comprehension, and many of us try to avoid them, or at least, the feelings that accompany them.

Dive in...  

Without these challenging times, we'd never experience nor understand the full spectrum of love and joy, gain empathy, nor even enjoy those quiet moments of contentment. And I believe those who left their imprint -- good and bad -- are with us always, whether from a spiritual, soul connection or a practical, in-our-DNA perspective; they help us become our best selves, even if it's "don't do as I did".

Our parents give us life, and while the best of them give us tools for living and help us become healthy, functional adults, some of us get there despite our families. And that's OK. By the time we reach a certain age, no matter our upbringing, we can be grateful, thank them and even acknowledge them for their own shortcomings. We can embrace ourselves and cherish our relationships from a place of compassion, connection and love that we may not have been able to before, even as we pine for what might have been had those relationships been different. And with their transition from this earthly plane, we can take deeper meaning from the lessons they proffered, perhaps unwittingly, and honor them by living our own lives fully, and being present to our daily experience.

Del never knew what great kids he had. Every one of them is a talented, creative, funny and extremely capable adult. I don't know if he had the depth of understanding to feel that loss. That might be the saddest thing of all.

Of cats and kids, and big decisions

Nightmare, or in this pic,
Kitty Dirty Paws

I don't have children - this is largely intentional. I'm not convinced I'd have been a good parent, given my own troubled youth and lack of good parenting models, nor did the option ever really present itself. I honestly can't remember if I wanted to have children. And my clock just didn't tick.

Many women grow up with this path in mind, and if not in mind, certainly in body. They know this is their destiny, and their bodies (or circumstances) tell them when it's time. Other than Barbie and a baby doll when I was very small, I don't remember even playing with dolls. I preferred my Matchbox cars, Tonka truck and a few stuffed animals. Barbie didn't have kids... she was all style and no substance - well, and maybe relationships. There was Ken, after all, and the other 'adult' dolls - and whatever personalities I assigned them from the recesses of my imagination. OK - so that's a stretch... It was all about the clothes. And the shoes. Oh, and the corvette... and so on.  So no, no dolls, and no kids. I don't think playing with dolls is an actual indicator, but my guess would be that it's a clue. 

At some point, I consciously decided I would not have children. I don't remember when. I know I was adamant about this by my mid-30s, but I'm sure I was somewhat cognizant of this much earlier. I don't have regrets. As I age, I sometimes engage in self-doubt and ask myself if I did the right thing, and the answer is always the same - it was the right choice for me. Thankfully, there is no longer a stigma around being childless, and I now have many friends, older and younger, who are also intentionally without children.

All that said, as Forrest's mom OKay pointed out, I am very nurturing. Until recently we had three cats - essentially my fur kids. I am connected to these little creatures in ways I wouldn't have imagined. We lost Motormouth to renal failure on Christmas eve, 2010, and Photon to lymphoma the following September. Nightmare, initially my mom's cat, is still with us, and at 14, pretty spry. And last week he was diagnosed with early stage renal failure. While I am told not to panic, I'm a little panicky and pretty heartbroken.

My little white furball still looks and acts like a sprout - he is playful, feisty, curious, active, eats well... and recently started drinking a lot of water. I didn't pick up on it initially, but it finally clicked that he was drinking more than normal, and by that point, for a couple of months. So I scheduled the vet appointment, hoping for an all's well call.

But instead the next day's call made my heart sink. Now, after several calls and email messages, a lot of my own research, and email messages to pet food companies and pet websites, I am feeling more hopeful. Cats can live a long time with proper care, even with failing kidneys.

Proper care, in my mind, is a blend of vet recommendations, what I learn from my own exploration, and gut instinct. For example, I'm not very interested in feeding my cat, who gets pretty decent grain-free food, a prescription diet from one of the major pet food companies. I feel about them the way I do about big agriculture and food producers. I will explore how to balance his protein needs with the right types of food, and supplement with vitamins and Chinese herbs. Acupuncture is another option, but I'm concerned that the trip in the car, unfamiliar surroundings, and new people would be more stressful and negate any benefit. Managing kitty stress is also part of the care plan. We'll see. Maybe they make home visits?

It's interesting to ponder end-of-life decisions. We do this for our pets, but only in a few states can we (legally) make choices for ourselves. We're not yet near this time for Nightmare, but the news brought it to mind. Quality of life is essential. My neighbor, just a few years shy of 100, was ready to go for a while before it was finally her turn. She was tired. And done. She had experienced all of life, her friends and family were gone, and her mobility was compromised. And my friend Stacey, at 49, left two young boys behind with no plan because it didn't occur to her or anyone else that she might die so young. Her brother had to make a choice when his options were limited. It begs the question: Are you ready? Just in case?

I don't look forward to making choices like these - for Nightmare or anyone. But if his quality of life ebbs to the point of pain and suffering, I will carefully calculate our options. Motormouth's last few days will stay with me for a long time to come. I don't think living beings should expect any less than dignity, comfort, peace and love when that time comes.

Many of us are able to choose whether or not to have children. What would it be like if we could choose how or when we die? We have a family joke about going out for that "last cup of tea" when we've outlived our usefullness. What if that were really possible? It's for the living we grieve, yes?

It comes in threes...

"Stuff comes in threes." How many times have I heard that?

While it can be applied to anything, the idea or belief that things happen in triplicate is usually applied to things that are weird, unusual, or just plan unpleasant. Maybe we notice the 'threes' because we pay more attention when bad things happen, and we're ready for them to stop at a certain point. Good things could just keep happening.

I'm not sure I buy it, but right now it's ringing true.

• I attended my aunt's memorial in Los Angeles this weekend; she left the mortal coil about a month ago after living with Alzheimer's, such as living with this disease is, for about five years. I didn't know her well. She didn't want to know me as a child; as an adult, long after my dad died, she welcomed me back into her life and helped me learn about their family - the paternal side that I knew less than a paragraph about growing up. I'm grateful for that opportunity, and her willingness to at last see from a different lense.
• My 98-year-old neighbor, a pillar in my world, a woman who knew me my entire life, my mom as a teenager, my grandparents, and so many more, left us on Friday. She was my evidence that we don't have to leave this world prematurely, as so many in my own family have. Although she's been ready to go for a while, until recently, she maintained her health and independence. But over the last two years or so, her quality of life deteriorated. She couldn't spend time in her garden, and she finally gave up driving. It's difficult to comprehend that she's no longer just across the street, keeping an eye on the neighborhood, or telling stories of former neighbors, friends and events.
• A woman I've known nearly all my life - we were kids together - was diagnosed with cancer just three weeks ago. Not quite two weeks ago, she had surgery to remove the tumors in her throat. She was going in for more tests this week, but on Monday night, something was very wrong so she called 911. By the time the medics came, she had to be revived, and now she's in the hospital, unconscious. While the human spirit is capable of much and she has two young boys she loved beyond anything, it doesn't look like she's going to recover. She's 49.

None of these are really "about me." But I am deeply sad and feel very affected. Mortality is an interesting thing. We don't know how long we're here. So many leave us before it seems they should - my mom at 64, my dad at 28, my aunts at 48 and 60, grandparents at 68 and 70, cousins at 18, 52, and 54, and countless friends and acquaintances gone at a young age. Yet one could argue that we all have our time - fate, destiny, whatever you might call it (Forrest says, "If you're meant to be drown, you won't be hanged").

Or as one friend says, there are lessons for those of us left behind.

If I could, would I want to know what the future really holds? Probably not. I think it would be hard to understand those lessons and see the gifts or silver linings without truly experiencing them. Currently, lessons coming to mind are:

• not leaving anything left unsaid (especially to those we care about),
• asking myself what's really important,
• planning for the future while living for today - at least covering the bases in whatever way possible for the unpredictable and unknown (perhaps a last gift for those we leave).

But I'm hoping this is it for a while. Three feels like plenty right now because in some ways, these are markers of time... and each of these women were significant in my life for different reasons. They were all part of my history.

For today, I am grateful and happy with where I am in my life. I am healthy, happy, gainfully employed working with good people, with a man I love and adore, and have a home in a location that's hard to beat. And I have exciting plans for my future that I intend to fulfill.

Onward, yes? There's a lot of life yet to be lived, and I don't want to waste a minute.