The New Year
The new year was coming on—a time when resolutions and good intentions abound, as well as the cliché about them: “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” Depending on what the resolutions are and the intentions—maybe/maybe not. In my younger years my resolutions would have been practical and outwardly focused, such as losing weight, eating more healthfully, getting regular exercise. They had a definite goal and outcome I could quantify. Sometimes I achieved them (for a while), sometimes not.
This year I had to ponder a less practical intention, one much less attainable, as my resolution would require more than physical discipline and a time commitment. If I lived my intention, it would lead more toward the heavenly rather than in the other direction. It was qualitative—inward and could not be accomplished or measured each day. It would be a process over time through a daily practice and consciousness of the intention. There might be a feeling that I was doing better on some days than others, not in judgement or blame, but as a guide on “The Way,” to what lay ahead for me.
My resolution was “to submit,” which probably does not come easily for anyone and certainly not for me, but, when there is an inevitability—the unavoidable, like Hamlet we must either decide to “suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” or “take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.” In my case it seemed like I had to do both, endure and take arms. Physical suffering was a certainty, and preparing mentally/emotionally was a must. I wanted to submit to what was ahead, to give over to calm acceptance in a conscious way. This was my resolution as the year of 2019 began, which I had hoped would be better than the one ending. It began as one of the worst times of my life, but I may come to think of it differently in time.
After Renee’s death another friend described her as a “practical mystic.” I agreed. I felt honored and fortunate to have had a close neighbor with whom to share ideas, and a few glasses of wine from time to time. She genuinely cared about and for me, as I did for her. I am grieving still.
Then followed six months of chronic pain. I found that I had to have a hip replacement, which I thought would get me back to my normally healthy and active self. I struggled through those months, as my husband and I bought a condo and moved. I also kept working at a part time job and continued to fulfill my other commitments in Massachusetts, despite my lack of focus and motivation. I returned to Pennsylvania for the surgery in October of 2018. Toward the end of December, however, I was not feeling much better energy wise and began to have trouble breathing. I found I had pneumonia. Not only my physical condition and discomfort, but other situations as well were creating an extremely emotional response in me.
My husband’s Parkinson’s disease was affecting his ability to do many of the things I had always counted on him for, and for which he felt the loss of as well, but never complained. The thought that his condition would only get worse over time was and is an ever-present concern. Also, our older son, Rob and his wife were going their separate ways after 12 years of marriage and 2 children. I could see and hear that he was devastated. Yet, he remained committed, determined to be the anchor to hold things together, hoping that there would be a saved marriage so the family might avoid that kind of break, but that was not to be. His sadness and anxiety throughout, and then his final acceptance of what was to be (leaving the home they had created for their family, not being with his children every day) was also unbearable for me. Of course, it was his/their lives and maybe their destiny, not mine, but I felt and saw how it shattered him. As his mother and grandmother to their two children ages 10 and 7 at the time, it was hard to bear how life had changed in such a short time for all of us.
How would it be now, with no family gathering at Christmas that year--the usual house full of preparations, gifts, warmth and laughter; things as they had been came to an unexpected and abrupt end. Not only holidays, but everything would be different from now on. My husband and I would be alone in the empty nest this holiday season, and how would we manage family vacations spent together, as we had in years past.
My husband and I decided that we would not put up a Christmas tree—just us, for the first time since before our first child was born 45 years ago. It was a sad, but quiet, warm time in its own way—a drive on Christmas Eve into hill and orchard country to the restaurant where our younger son Seth is a chef. On Christmas Day we went to his house for dinner and spent the afternoon with his family and our newest grandchild, Lilly. Then we came home to the stillness of our house, lit oil lamps and drank a toast to whatever would be in the unforeseen coming year.
In early January, another medical issue emerged. I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure due to a dysfunctional mitral valve, and I would need open heart surgery to repair it. All of it overwhelming--this news, my already psychological dysfunctional state--prone to tears many times a day for all of the above unhappy happenings. I cried at at everything and anything, most of all at "remembrance of things past," even the joyful memories, but, the prospect of the heart surgery was going to be biggest and most unexpected challenge in my adult life.
My cardiologist and surgeon, though admitting that it would be major surgery, seemed to also consider it rather routine in that, statistically, it has highly successful outcomes. I was terrified, and like Hamlet, I wished, “that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.” I wanted only to know the basics of it, and did not research information or videos about the surgery. My being an anxious person in general and an over-thinker is not a good combination to prepare for such an event.
I had complete confidence in my chosen surgeon, a well-known and skilled one, Dr. Vallabhajosyula (Dr. V. for short) at the University of Pennsylania hospital. He seemed a compassionate and gentle soul, inspiring confidence that all would be well.
It was hard to digest it all though, and beside the actual physical cause for my condition, I kept thinking (if I didn’t know better) that the heartache, heartbreak from the condition of my husband and the situation of my son and his family were reasons enough for the heart failure that I was starting to experience before the new year.
This year I had to ponder a less practical intention, one much less attainable, as my resolution would require more than physical discipline and a time commitment. If I lived my intention, it would lead more toward the heavenly rather than in the other direction. It was qualitative—inward and could not be accomplished or measured each day. It would be a process over time through a daily practice and consciousness of the intention. There might be a feeling that I was doing better on some days than others, not in judgement or blame, but as a guide on “The Way,” to what lay ahead for me.
My resolution was “to submit,” which probably does not come easily for anyone and certainly not for me, but, when there is an inevitability—the unavoidable, like Hamlet we must either decide to “suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” or “take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.” In my case it seemed like I had to do both, endure and take arms. Physical suffering was a certainty, and preparing mentally/emotionally was a must. I wanted to submit to what was ahead, to give over to calm acceptance in a conscious way. This was my resolution as the year of 2019 began, which I had hoped would be better than the one ending. It began as one of the worst times of my life, but I may come to think of it differently in time.
Loss
In March of 2018 my challenges began and took me in many directions. I lost my next door neighbor and good friend, Renee to an unexpected and fast-moving illness. When I last saw her on her death bed, she said she was anointing me into a “sisterhood,” suggesting that we indeed were connected, even more than I had imagined. I never had such a neighbor, living as I had in an impersonal suburb in Pennsylvania, where often people don’t connect or even talk to each other. Her level of consciousness of “the other," (me in this case) even as she lay dying confirmed that she was a remarkable woman, taking every moment to continue to connect. At age 85 she was very active, both mentally and physically; creative; quirky; warm and generous. I felt she had, if not extra-sensory perception, at least an acute awareness and understanding of others, of herself and of her life.After Renee’s death another friend described her as a “practical mystic.” I agreed. I felt honored and fortunate to have had a close neighbor with whom to share ideas, and a few glasses of wine from time to time. She genuinely cared about and for me, as I did for her. I am grieving still.
Then followed six months of chronic pain. I found that I had to have a hip replacement, which I thought would get me back to my normally healthy and active self. I struggled through those months, as my husband and I bought a condo and moved. I also kept working at a part time job and continued to fulfill my other commitments in Massachusetts, despite my lack of focus and motivation. I returned to Pennsylvania for the surgery in October of 2018. Toward the end of December, however, I was not feeling much better energy wise and began to have trouble breathing. I found I had pneumonia. Not only my physical condition and discomfort, but other situations as well were creating an extremely emotional response in me.
My husband’s Parkinson’s disease was affecting his ability to do many of the things I had always counted on him for, and for which he felt the loss of as well, but never complained. The thought that his condition would only get worse over time was and is an ever-present concern. Also, our older son, Rob and his wife were going their separate ways after 12 years of marriage and 2 children. I could see and hear that he was devastated. Yet, he remained committed, determined to be the anchor to hold things together, hoping that there would be a saved marriage so the family might avoid that kind of break, but that was not to be. His sadness and anxiety throughout, and then his final acceptance of what was to be (leaving the home they had created for their family, not being with his children every day) was also unbearable for me. Of course, it was his/their lives and maybe their destiny, not mine, but I felt and saw how it shattered him. As his mother and grandmother to their two children ages 10 and 7 at the time, it was hard to bear how life had changed in such a short time for all of us.
How would it be now, with no family gathering at Christmas that year--the usual house full of preparations, gifts, warmth and laughter; things as they had been came to an unexpected and abrupt end. Not only holidays, but everything would be different from now on. My husband and I would be alone in the empty nest this holiday season, and how would we manage family vacations spent together, as we had in years past.
My husband and I decided that we would not put up a Christmas tree—just us, for the first time since before our first child was born 45 years ago. It was a sad, but quiet, warm time in its own way—a drive on Christmas Eve into hill and orchard country to the restaurant where our younger son Seth is a chef. On Christmas Day we went to his house for dinner and spent the afternoon with his family and our newest grandchild, Lilly. Then we came home to the stillness of our house, lit oil lamps and drank a toast to whatever would be in the unforeseen coming year.
In early January, another medical issue emerged. I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure due to a dysfunctional mitral valve, and I would need open heart surgery to repair it. All of it overwhelming--this news, my already psychological dysfunctional state--prone to tears many times a day for all of the above unhappy happenings. I cried at at everything and anything, most of all at "remembrance of things past," even the joyful memories, but, the prospect of the heart surgery was going to be biggest and most unexpected challenge in my adult life.
My cardiologist and surgeon, though admitting that it would be major surgery, seemed to also consider it rather routine in that, statistically, it has highly successful outcomes. I was terrified, and like Hamlet, I wished, “that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.” I wanted only to know the basics of it, and did not research information or videos about the surgery. My being an anxious person in general and an over-thinker is not a good combination to prepare for such an event.
I had complete confidence in my chosen surgeon, a well-known and skilled one, Dr. Vallabhajosyula (Dr. V. for short) at the University of Pennsylania hospital. He seemed a compassionate and gentle soul, inspiring confidence that all would be well.
It was hard to digest it all though, and beside the actual physical cause for my condition, I kept thinking (if I didn’t know better) that the heartache, heartbreak from the condition of my husband and the situation of my son and his family were reasons enough for the heart failure that I was starting to experience before the new year.
On "The Way"
I realized though if I were to come through in good physical, as well as emotional shape, I would have to push everything to the periphery in the circle of my life and place myself at the center in order to carry out my New Year’s resolution to submit. I had to cease the habitual “going out” to the periphery for everyone and everything—which I had done all my life, as woman, mother, wife, sister, friend, teacher and colleague. Now I had to focus on my “self,” so as not to dissipate or compromise the forces I must garner for the experience ahead. I had to relegate everything to the periphery: current political climate replete with mean-spiritedness; name-calling, lies and vulgarity (making daily life surreal and more stressful), and certainly my son’s situation, my husband’s diminishing condition. But, how? How would I achieve a calm acceptance and submit to what had to be, what would be?
I imagined I was on “The Way,” a pilgrim—following a path that leads to a hiterto unseen destination. The love, concern, and encouragement from friends and family was abundant and most welcomed, but I had to travel the way alone. I gained perspective from all the support on how I stood in relation to so many people in my life. I was and will be forever grateful, but I had to find the right relationship to "self,” and what I was and would be experiencing.
I did not think I would die, although there is always that risk with surgery. My intuition became more real to me with a wise and dear friend's consolation: I must think of the whole ordeal as "bringing death into life," an esoteric concept that is part of the raised consciousness of our human condition--coming to terms with unwanted transitions and losses along the way. I sensed my life in some ways would never be the same--a detaching from what was, but also perhaps a more enriched sense of life ahead.
I knew I had to prepare for the trauma of all that lay ahead. How would I keep focus on myself? How would I submit to calm and acceptance in the darkness of winter.
I imagined I was on “The Way,” a pilgrim—following a path that leads to a hiterto unseen destination. The love, concern, and encouragement from friends and family was abundant and most welcomed, but I had to travel the way alone. I gained perspective from all the support on how I stood in relation to so many people in my life. I was and will be forever grateful, but I had to find the right relationship to "self,” and what I was and would be experiencing.
I did not think I would die, although there is always that risk with surgery. My intuition became more real to me with a wise and dear friend's consolation: I must think of the whole ordeal as "bringing death into life," an esoteric concept that is part of the raised consciousness of our human condition--coming to terms with unwanted transitions and losses along the way. I sensed my life in some ways would never be the same--a detaching from what was, but also perhaps a more enriched sense of life ahead.
I knew I had to prepare for the trauma of all that lay ahead. How would I keep focus on myself? How would I submit to calm and acceptance in the darkness of winter.
Here is what I did
I woke each morning at 6:00 am and lit candles. I looked out to the fields beyond to the opening in the trees where the sky would become all light and color at sunrise. I wrote poetry and other thoughts I found relevant in my Book of Pain.
I woke each morning at 6:00 am and lit candles. I looked out to the fields beyond to the opening in the trees where the sky would become all light and color at sunrise. I wrote poetry and other thoughts I found relevant in my Book of Pain.
Excerpt from “In Dark Times”
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
…I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? ~ Theodore Roethke
From Heschel
It is the sense of the sublime that we have to regard as the root of man’s creative activities in art, thought and noble living.
From Aurelius
What we cannot bear removes us from life; what remains can be borne.
Receive without conceit; release without struggle
What we cannot bear removes us from life; what remains can be borne.
Receive without conceit; release without struggle
Morning Prayer
Black branches feathery leaves
edging against pale blue sky
bright opening among the tangles
where the sun—Oh Sun!
will rise and color the light
To live in its grandeur this day
sun and soul-blessed
rising above dark sorrow
May it be so!
Hope
Soul light
soul shadow
heart threads
heart breaths
fragrant thoughts
starlight
green rain
sky blue
new year—no fear
leave tears—so near
comprehension convention
association relation
separation apprehension
“I find thee apt”
Submit
Heart Mudra
Each morning I also I practiced the apana vaya mudra, a hand gesture said to support the heart for strength and healing and for relief of emotional stress--letting go. I needed both. I wasn't entirely sure the mudra would help, but it is an ancient practice which I respect, and, certainly, there is a mind/body connection. It couldn’t hurt, as a mind over matter effort, its quiet discipline and its intention. My mantra was: "I will be strong—I will be healed—I will be new." More Thoughts
My thinking tends toward analogy and metaphor, and I often must articulate my experience with an “It is like.” I wrote: ”When I awoke this morning, I felt anxious. I felt it was like being in my own Garden of Gethsemane, not with the same spiritual significance for the world as the Biblical event, of course, but, nevertheless, my knowing that inevitable suffering lay ahead—that the cup could not, would not be passed. I must go it alone, but also believing there would be new life ahead and peace of mind, if all went well.
My thinking tends toward analogy and metaphor, and I often must articulate my experience with an “It is like.” I wrote: ”When I awoke this morning, I felt anxious. I felt it was like being in my own Garden of Gethsemane, not with the same spiritual significance for the world as the Biblical event, of course, but, nevertheless, my knowing that inevitable suffering lay ahead—that the cup could not, would not be passed. I must go it alone, but also believing there would be new life ahead and peace of mind, if all went well.
Reading Vincent
I began reading the voluminous art book, Vincent. My husband had bought it 50 years ago in Australia when he was on R &R from Vietnam. I had paged through it many times over the years, but now it became part of my meditations to really “see” and "feel" the color, light and passion of Van Gogh. I poured over his biography taking in every word and image. There were photos of the places he had lived and worked: among the coal miners in the Boranage, the Hague, Paris and Arles, and of the asylums he was in toward the end of this life.
The book was published in 1969 when there were still people alive who had seen and known Vincent, to whom the author gave voice. I had known only a little of Van Gogh’s life; now I learned much more in this beautifully and sensitively written work--in great detail, including many excerpts of the letters exchanged between Vincent and his brother Theo.
It was heartwarming and calming, but I had to pace myself and guard against the impact of empathy as I read, for there was much sorrow, loneliness and suffering in his life. The later episodes of madness and suicide, I saved for when I would be home again after the surgery.
Vincent was misunderstood. He was an enigma; some who knew him or lived around him often became wary and avoided him, even mocked him for his strange behavior and dress. He was never recognized in his lifetime for the extraordinary and unique expressions of his vision in form, color and light. At times though, there were those who saw his passion and were open and kind to him. Some took him in, experienced his goodness and devotion to his work, and to the welfare of others. One of his landlords remarked after he had moved away that the townspeople “thought he was a madman, but he was really a saint.” Certainly his work was divine.
Through these preparations and practices, I came to the acceptance and submission of what would be. I felt calm and tranquil when it was time to leave for the hospital on the morning of surgery, early on February 14, 2019, Valentine’s Day--how fitting!
Both of my sons, Rob and Seth, accompanied me to the University of Pennsylvania hospital in Philadelphia. They were supportive and loving, my younger son clearly more emotional and attentive, my older son more practical, positive and reassuring. I needed both.
The book was published in 1969 when there were still people alive who had seen and known Vincent, to whom the author gave voice. I had known only a little of Van Gogh’s life; now I learned much more in this beautifully and sensitively written work--in great detail, including many excerpts of the letters exchanged between Vincent and his brother Theo.
It was heartwarming and calming, but I had to pace myself and guard against the impact of empathy as I read, for there was much sorrow, loneliness and suffering in his life. The later episodes of madness and suicide, I saved for when I would be home again after the surgery.
Vincent was misunderstood. He was an enigma; some who knew him or lived around him often became wary and avoided him, even mocked him for his strange behavior and dress. He was never recognized in his lifetime for the extraordinary and unique expressions of his vision in form, color and light. At times though, there were those who saw his passion and were open and kind to him. Some took him in, experienced his goodness and devotion to his work, and to the welfare of others. One of his landlords remarked after he had moved away that the townspeople “thought he was a madman, but he was really a saint.” Certainly his work was divine.
Through these preparations and practices, I came to the acceptance and submission of what would be. I felt calm and tranquil when it was time to leave for the hospital on the morning of surgery, early on February 14, 2019, Valentine’s Day--how fitting!
Both of my sons, Rob and Seth, accompanied me to the University of Pennsylvania hospital in Philadelphia. They were supportive and loving, my younger son clearly more emotional and attentive, my older son more practical, positive and reassuring. I needed both.
My husband Bob stayed behind, as it would have been too overwhelming for him: the drive, the frenetic pace of the city’s congestion, the hospital itself and the long day of waiting. His love and concern for me was better left at home waiting to hear how things went.
I had achieved my New Year's resolution, remaining perfectly calm up to the moment I was taken into the OR. I held my hands in the heart mudra position before I went under, with thoughts and names of all those whose love, support and concern I had received in wishes, emails and cards. I felt surrounded in love and healing thoughts—washing over the shore of my heart.
My sons stayed at the hospital all day into early evening until I was in the ICU, although I was unaware of their presence and visit to my room. I became conscious only later that evening. I had no choice now but to submit to all the rest that lay ahead. The physical ordeal I just went though unconsiously in surgery was going into another stage of healing and recovery which in some ways I was not prepared for, but too weak and vulnerable to not submit
When I awoke gradually, I was in the ICU in critical, but stable condition, pale with loss of blood, a ventilator, which had feared to wake up to had been removed as I was able to breathe on their own, before I was fully conscious. Over the next four days, I was given a blood transfusion, experienced atrial fibrillation several times so the heart had to be brought back into rhythm with cardioversion, all of these responses and procedures not uncommon.
I had achieved my New Year's resolution, remaining perfectly calm up to the moment I was taken into the OR. I held my hands in the heart mudra position before I went under, with thoughts and names of all those whose love, support and concern I had received in wishes, emails and cards. I felt surrounded in love and healing thoughts—washing over the shore of my heart.
My sons stayed at the hospital all day into early evening until I was in the ICU, although I was unaware of their presence and visit to my room. I became conscious only later that evening. I had no choice now but to submit to all the rest that lay ahead. The physical ordeal I just went though unconsiously in surgery was going into another stage of healing and recovery which in some ways I was not prepared for, but too weak and vulnerable to not submit
When I awoke gradually, I was in the ICU in critical, but stable condition, pale with loss of blood, a ventilator, which had feared to wake up to had been removed as I was able to breathe on their own, before I was fully conscious. Over the next four days, I was given a blood transfusion, experienced atrial fibrillation several times so the heart had to be brought back into rhythm with cardioversion, all of these responses and procedures not uncommon.
Then gradually there was the removal of the monitoring and diagnostic tubes in the abdomen and neck, and stitches put in the places where they had been; so many shots and intravenous drugs were administered; taking of vitals and blood draws; and X-rays and EKG’s every day. completely vulnerable but given over to the care by a skilled and compassionate medical team and hospital staff. It was all still part of my “submission condition" into the hands of caretakers (angels all).
It was a comfort and deeply and inspiring that in my vulnerability, everything was being done to ensure my full recovery with kindness and expertise.
On my post-op visit 4 weeks later, I received the surgeon's report, which prompted me to do some research. I found the anesthesia induces a long period of coma. I knew the flesh was sliced, the sternum sawed apart and the heart exposed, opened for repair. I did not know the body is brought into hypothermia to 64 degrees. There is no pulse, no blood pressure, no brain activity and the lungs function with mechanics. For all intents and purposes the patient’s state is almost indistinguishable from death. The repair is made to close the hole in the heart with the skillful hands of the surgeon. Then the heart is tested and restarted with electric shock (cardioversion).
Where was the “I” that I am through that whole experience? I still wonder. Did I or would I ever fully incarnate?
The rest of the journey will still take patience and time, especially considering that disconnection of those vital body functions during surgery and various potent medications taken in. Before the surgey I had been on no medication, but now the list was long, and I still had almost a year ahead of appointments, some of the medications and monitoring to ensure that all was healing as expected.
I sense that I am different and somehow feel life will never be the same--not that I will not recover, just that I am on the other side of where I was, but still on “The Way,” as we all are. First, I must build back strength and stamina. I do not think I can simply "go back" to my old life with the same concerns and activities. I will go forward thoughtfully and decide what I will and will not do on this other side of my journey--which was not long ago, but seemingly very far away. It is like coming down off the proverbial mountain Martin Luther King spoke of, or out of Plato's cave into the sunlight.
Not to be too grand, maybe it is more like Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning after a review of his life—though I was not as animated:
I don’t know what to do! I am as light as a feather; I am as happy as an angel… A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo! I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. (A Christmas Carol)
I am not only in a new year, but in a new, unfamiliar place—mostly the present moment with a functioning heart, practicing patience to live face to face with myself—which is hard, as there are not so many distractions from my true “self.” With a new perspective, I am observing and turning from the dark winter to the longer days and soon the greening branches and the warmth of spring. I am holding an eternal vision of what the heart truly and humanly is—not a mechanical organ, but a sacred abode.
New Life?
I was discharged from the hospital on the eighth day. Going out into the cold and bright sunlight in the busy city, and settling into the car's back seat for the ride home with a heart pillow held to my chest. I felt I was emerging into a new and seemingly strange place--tentative with weakness and pain, but I was going home. My husband welcomed me, as we silently held each other in recognition of all that had been and was ahead. A dear friend had come from Boston to stay with me for a week. Saint Stacey anticipated my every need, kept me company, offered encouragement, made me laugh and got me into a routine. Another gift of love--my eternal gratitude to her. On my post-op visit 4 weeks later, I received the surgeon's report, which prompted me to do some research. I found the anesthesia induces a long period of coma. I knew the flesh was sliced, the sternum sawed apart and the heart exposed, opened for repair. I did not know the body is brought into hypothermia to 64 degrees. There is no pulse, no blood pressure, no brain activity and the lungs function with mechanics. For all intents and purposes the patient’s state is almost indistinguishable from death. The repair is made to close the hole in the heart with the skillful hands of the surgeon. Then the heart is tested and restarted with electric shock (cardioversion).
Where was the “I” that I am through that whole experience? I still wonder. Did I or would I ever fully incarnate?
The rest of the journey will still take patience and time, especially considering that disconnection of those vital body functions during surgery and various potent medications taken in. Before the surgey I had been on no medication, but now the list was long, and I still had almost a year ahead of appointments, some of the medications and monitoring to ensure that all was healing as expected.
I sense that I am different and somehow feel life will never be the same--not that I will not recover, just that I am on the other side of where I was, but still on “The Way,” as we all are. First, I must build back strength and stamina. I do not think I can simply "go back" to my old life with the same concerns and activities. I will go forward thoughtfully and decide what I will and will not do on this other side of my journey--which was not long ago, but seemingly very far away. It is like coming down off the proverbial mountain Martin Luther King spoke of, or out of Plato's cave into the sunlight.
Not to be too grand, maybe it is more like Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning after a review of his life—though I was not as animated:
I don’t know what to do! I am as light as a feather; I am as happy as an angel… A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo! I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. (A Christmas Carol)
I am not only in a new year, but in a new, unfamiliar place—mostly the present moment with a functioning heart, practicing patience to live face to face with myself—which is hard, as there are not so many distractions from my true “self.” With a new perspective, I am observing and turning from the dark winter to the longer days and soon the greening branches and the warmth of spring. I am holding an eternal vision of what the heart truly and humanly is—not a mechanical organ, but a sacred abode.
From The Upanishads
The "space of the heart” is an abode, a small lotus flower. Within that is a smaller space. What is within that space should be searched out; that, assuredly, is what one should desire to understand. "As far, verily, as this world-space extends, so far extends the space within the heart. Within it, indeed, are contained both heaven and earth, both fire and wind, both sun and moon, lightning and the stars, both what one possesses here and what one does not possess; everything here is contained within it.”Addemdum/Update: October 2022 (almost 4 years later). Three months after the surgery, in May, I again took up all of my previous commitments. Though always a bit depleted by midday and feeling the side effects of the new medications, I still had my habitual enthusiam and commitments from my "previous life," and I went back to Massachusetts, resumed my part-time job, served on a board of directors for Gloucester Writers Center and co-chaired the first writers' conference on Cape Ann in September of 2019, enormous undertakings all.
In April of this year, I found that the repair surgery I had has not held, and I still have severe regurgiation of the mitral valvel. I do not have symptons as of this writing, but they may emerge at any time, which would require another open heart surgery. So much for a new life and good health. I cannot even begin to imagine going through that again, but I will be monitored, and with any luck I can get through without symptoms (though improbable),Then I will have to really make a life/death decsion.
