dying & living

I dreamed I’d been told I was dying. 
Then I dreamed I wrote a poem about this dream of dying.
I’m not sure I care that much about my dying. 
I am currently more concerned with my living. 

Pádraig Ó Tuama released a new book last week, Being Here: Prayers for Curiosity, Justice, and Love. My books are mostly electronic these days — easier for my eyes, easier to carry, easier to copy quotes as well. Not this one. This one is a small, hardcover version that now sits next to my laptop. The quote that guides me: 

… this is a way of living
That’s worth living daily.

A book of daily liturgies and essays, it’s both ancient and fresh. Both an art form and an invitation to be present in the messy, complicated fabric of our life. 

And that is what concerns me. My messy, complicated life. How I am living in this moment. I don’t have a lot of time or energy for my dying. 

Should I?

I wonder if I am waiting for my living to be up to some standard I’ve not yet achieved, therefore I’m not ready to think of my dying.

I don’t feel troubled by the thought of my dying. There are no mountains I’ve yet to climb before I’m ready to bid farewell. 

Except this sense that I still need to strip away this veneer of control to experience true freedom. Some final act of surrender so that I can experience real peace.

I’ve begun a practice of sitting with a small glass timepiece. It’s an hourglass — transparent sea-green glass with smooth, flowing sand that measures exactly five minutes. At least once a day, and often more, I turn the glass and watch and wait. The rules are simple: My eyes remain focussed on the sand, my body remains still. No matter what thought occurs, no matter was sound tempts me to turn and look. I watch the sand and I breathe. 

It surprises me how difficult it is to remain focussed on just the sand and my breathing. For five minutes! It’s as if the turning of the earth depends on my busily making notes and organizing my calendar and solving all the large and small matters that draw my attention. 

This is what I mean. How am I living? And what is the time of my life worth? To me, most of all? 

What of life am I missing in the volumes of notes and the calendar dates and the matters that distract me from being present to the moment I’m in right now?

What does it look like to live slowly, deeply, mindful of the play of light on the tall grasses outside my window?

What is the peace of sitting without doing anything worthy or useful?

What might happen if I focussed on writing poetry or drawing a sketch of the birds  at my feeder or listening to the sound of water rushing over rocks?

I might be ready to think about my dying.