You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘wisdom of body’ tag.

At 6 A.M., I woke with this dream:

It is August, the evening of my arrival at the Eastern Point Retreat House for my eight-day directed retreat. Animated conversations of other retreatants draw me to the dining room for buffet supper. I search among them for my friend Pat, but she has not yet arrived. I’m concerned. Winds sweep dense levels of humidity from the Atlantic’s surface that borders the complex. I feel clammy, heavy.

At first, the dream’s setting, EPRH, thrilled me, the Jesuit retreat house that I had frequented for decades at Gloucester, Massachusetts. Profound spiritual cleansings had buoyed my spirit, until home for a while; and the emergence of entrenched habits resumed their former dominance.  

Then, I looked deeper into my psyche: Animated conversations of other retreatants exposedthe seepage of inner chatter, warring against my practice of meditation and spiritual reading that blocks “conscious contact” with Higher Power. This had been true at Gloucester, as well; only within its silence could I settle down to fully engage in its critical work, guided by my director.

In my present circumstances, I yearn for the same depth of silence in my psyche. This is not happening as much as I would like. I feel clammy, heavy. My body has never died before and I need guidance in prayer and from other spiritually minded persons. Yet, control still has mastery, despite my practice of CPA’s Twelve Steps; though, such sparring does yield spiritual growth. Time is of the essence.

In the dream I also noted anxiety over the absence of my friend, as if unable to surrender to the grace of the retreat that necessitates psychic change. This image speaks to existential loneliness, casting me adrift in powerlessness. Therein, I eventually find my God who companions me through end time. No one else can serve this purpose.

So I plod along, one day at a time …

Before 2020 melts like a snowflake within 2021, I want to review where I’ve been—a sober preparation to bring in The New Year.

The major glitch in 2020 occurred with the implications of my terminal diagnosis, Interstitial Lung Disease with Rheumatoid Arthritis that confirmed my eligibility for hospice care, with weekly nursing and chaplain visits beginning in November 2019.

Initially over-medicated on Dexamethasone, my diagnosis drew tears of those around me. The finalization of my last wishes stressed my lawyer, broker, accountant, and funeral director. In between completing my ADLs and daily Heartwhisperings blogs, I continued studying the German theologian Ladislaus Boros and the transpersonal psychologist, Katherine Dowling Singh: both authors of significant material on death and dying. I would be ready for whatever comes, so I thought—No matter that my ILD was a slow developing illness.

Weeks slipped into months, seasons, into seasons. With the subtle increase in weakness, shortness of breath, and exhaustion, my passivity deepened. Others began helping me with personal care and my business. More drugs were offered, but leery of side effects, I declined. In hindsight, my sleep deprivation was largely the culprit.

With last September’s nightly “cocktail” of morpheme and Lorazapan, regular sleep returned, and recently, significant dreams and a tad more energy. Making speech has become work, however. I’m not always happy when the phone rings, but I answer anyway. 

Again, it seems that I’ve plateaued in my terminal disease, and therein, my limited life as I continue experiencing it, one day at a time.

But many were 2020’s gifts: spiritual growth through 12-Step work, daily blogging my terminal illness/old age, the support from friends and helpers, and the direction from significant dreams. With God’s grace, I hope to fill The New Year with His inspiration. It’s not about me. It never has been.

Available on Amazon

%d bloggers like this: