Note: The folllowing post was written in June 2006. For some reason, I was reluctant to publish it at that time. Now, it seems perfectly appropriate. So here it is.
I have been wondering how our life experiences can be so perfectly designed.
Recently, I visited two friends who live in the foothills outside of Denver. They both moved to this same town a few years ago, not knowing each other beforehand. Over time, these two friends have formed close relationships to each other and to me.
It had been about six weeks since I had seen each friend, one at a workshop that we had co-facilitated and the other at her home. Now, six weeks later, one had given birth to a healthy boy and the other was getting ready to die. I have written about Ilene, the one getting ready to die, in my postings on Conscious Living and Conscious Leaving and her journey with ALS.
I visited Jenn, the friend with the new baby first. Jenn’s mother was visiting and I could see the glow and delight of a new grandmother in her face. She tended to the baby while Jenn and I talked.
Jenn was tired and vibrant at the same time. The baby was sleeping for three-hour stretches at night but daytime napping had not worked out so well. With the baby taking in everything like a sponge, I found Jenn to be exhilarated by new life.
As I finished up my visit, Jenn’s mother emerged from another room and said good-bye. She was going home to New Mexico tomorrow, so I was happy that the timing of my visit allowed me to meet her.
My other friend, Ilene lives at the top of a hill, accessible only by winding dirt roads that reveal breathtaking views at regular intervals. It has always felt like a long way up the hill, but Jenn assured me that it was only ten minutes away. She had made the trip many times.
When I reached Ilene’s house, I met Ilene’s mother, visiting from California. Ilene remarked how helpful her mother had been. She joked about getting that last bit of housework done before her mother left the next day. At lunch I asked Ilene’s mother about what type of child Ilene was. Her answer was one that any child would be proud to hear–adventurous. In her face, I saw the poignancy of a mother who knew the end was near for her child and wanted to feel the warmth of those early memories.
With Ilene as well, there was a mixture of tiredness (I could see it in her face when I first walked in the door) and vibrancy. The vibrancy was reflected in talking about her childhood and in hearing about what I was up to.
My visit with Ilene went by quickly and when I got ready to leave, Ilene’s mother was nowhere in sight. I didn’t think to ask about her until I was in the car.
As I drove down the gravel road, I saw Ilene’s mother. She was walking back from getting the mail, at the place on the side of the road where mailboxes congregate in rural communities and make nice photo opportunites. I rolled down my window. We exchanged pleasantries and then she said, "Thank you for doing this project with Ilene. I’ll be interested to hear the tapes." Outside the house, away from Ilene, I could sense the worry of a mother who feared for her child, not knowing what would come next. I stretched my hand through the window, to take hold of hers and said, "Your daughter is a gift to this world." She nodded and then we parted.
On the long drive back to my house, I thought about the synchronicity of these two visits. How ten minutes took me from one end of the human experience to the other end, through the eyes of mothers. Birth is not so different from death in that it bonds us to each other, in spite of coming from different generations, cultures, beliefs, and ways of living.
I have written about how darkness and lightness walk side by side, how life and death are two sides of the same coin. I’ve never been more convinced of this as I am now.