 
The Journey
(To Gin, my Love)
(Composed over the months of December & November, 2002
-from experiences before, during and after that time!)
Part One
(Friday, December 6, 2002)
I want to say that it started one day in the cold snow, even blizzard-like,
as one tiny snowflake, so small you wouldn’t see it.
But of course I cannot really say that in truth.
It didn’t start in spring or summer or fall or even on the coldest day in
winter.
It just is and was and always was and always will be.
That is the way of the journey.
An angel appeared and held his wings out –spread them out wide, as wide
as the ocean and far beyond- and folded me inside close to his heart
to keep in the warmth.
He would not let me go until I cried one tear. And I could not cry one tear
for
there was hardness in the way, and it burned like hot molten lava.
"One tear" he said, "and it will be all better. Just cry one
tear."
And that was the beginning of this part of the journey.
Beneath the hot lava there was a single flame. And that flame began slowly
to
flicker and to shine from within. It grew and it grew and it did become
my guide
when I could see and pay attention.
But throughout the journey there are clouds and storms and waves
and blizzards that blow out this guiding flame.
Whole days and weeks sometimes go by, and even months,
when the flame is nowhere to be seen or felt -and least of all,
to be my guide.
Part Two
(Saturday, December 7, 2002)
There are men that like to hunt in the coldest time of winter.
There are men that like to face the blizzard, to stomp through it,
to throw their fists into the howling wind and growl at the
wolf. They are
fierce no matter how iniquitous the
obstacle or challenge.
This is their way. When difficulty strikes, this is their way.
There are those who plant gardens or paint landscapes,
using brilliant colors to create a kaleidoscope of healing
in the face of difficulty. They create beauty in the face
of difficulty.
This is their way. When difficulty strikes, this is their way.
There are those who will talk. They get on the phone, they go out
–and wherever they go, they talk, interweaving long and
healing
conversations with family, friends and neighbors.
And this is their way. When
difficulty strikes, this is their way.
There are those who watch the snow fall from the sky and sit in
front of the
window, silent and patient, like a cat. And they
breathe with the wind –in and
out, bringing the weather from
outside into their soul. Into each full breath
comes peace.
Scanning the horizon with the eyes brings peace. Sitting
brings safety and
peace.
This is their way. When difficulty strikes, this is their way.
Healing comes in so many different ways. The orchestra doesn’t
have enough
notes or instruments to play every possible
way that is for healing.
In his book Meetings at the Edge, Stephen Levine has conversations
with people who are grieving and dying and healing and healed. One woman, Evy,
who has ALS, talks about her situation. ( On
pages 128 & 129) she
says:
"I feel like I am too inside it to get beneath it. This
ALS is getting worse
and worse. I have worked with so many physicians and healers
and
nothing seems to help…my legs aren’t that good anymore and
the trunk
is totally gone west –literally. I have fantasies of
eighteen feet of guts
sticking out in front of me. So all the intercostal muscles
seem to be
gone and most of the support muscles in my abdomen…My legs
could probably get me around but they can’t hold my
trunk."
…"I don’t know if I will ever get to that place [of
healing into death]. In fact,
I feel like I am in a last-ditch effort to keep my
body. I’m going to Los Angeles
this weekend to be with a group of strong
healers…a part of me sits back
and says, ‘We will see for sure which way you are going to
fly.‘"
…"Maybe my dying is really the healing I am looking
for."
When I read this I can say that this is me.
Part of me is there. Part of me is screaming and terribly fearful.
Part of me is calm, quiet, accepting, and even serene
–especially when I sit at the window and watch the snow fall.
When I breathe in, and breathe in again, and breathe in again, and keep
breathing in and out –the kaleidoscope of colors goes through me.
I sense a storm of waves, one after the other go through me.
And the healing begins anew. I feel it all.
And this is the journey.
The journey is the experience.
The journey is watching, fighting, exploding with rage,
the body curling up -as much as that is possible in this stiff body-
all held tightly in, crushed by fear, the body so brittle and rigid,
all curled up to cry and cry and cry.
(Yet this is not the crying, -not yet- that the angel was talking about.
These tears are of fear, of rage and self-obstruction and absorption,
of guilt and self-pity and loathing.
All the darkness of the darkest night, alone inside these tears.
There is no escape from these tears.
Hot, burning, as the rage and fear seep their way out.)
Part Three
(from a poem to Gin November 25, 2002)
What is healing?
What is healing –but striving to be true and learning to love.
What is love –but to do the best that one can do for another.
What is true compassion, but your eyes looking at me, your hands caressing me
and your heart opening to my pain.
Your hands are as gentle as your heart is strong.
I don’t know why it is so hard for me to accept your love sometimes,
and to see your striving and beauty and goodness.
Too often darkness clouds my heart like a dragon of pain.
You should be the pride of my heart as an oyster’s pearl!
The lioness both hunts and protects, and raises the young
-while the king sleeps off his big dinner and stores up more pride…
I am so sorry that I am so "rough and tumble"
instead of grateful and happy to be around you,
to be with you, to have your love and your tenderness
and your compassion.
You are my love –I hope you know it! That is the true healing!
(Sunday morning, December 8, 2002)
God provides. God gives blessings. God gives us opportunities.
The disasters and traumas and catastrophes that we feel inside
are our soul’s searching for meaning, connection,
searching for healing and searching for love.
Part Four
(Monday morning, December 9, 2002)
And the pain is real. The loss and suffering is very real. It is not just an
opportunity. It just is painful. And one must grieve and feel the pain. And I do
scream and kick (just ask Gin) –though not with my feet, I still can make huge
disruptions and chaos. And sometimes the pain goes on forever and you can get
stuck in it –I do get very stuck, despite my better efforts.
But there is help. God provides so many angels to help us. What we have to do
is ask for help and keep asking. Ask for it and accept it and believe that it
will be
there. And we have to believe that we deserve it.
And we must remember the journey.
It is not the end that is so important.
It is not what’s going to happen.
It is what is now. (And often, it is so hard to remember.)
What are the ways to help us remember?
On page 130 of Meetings at the Edge,
Stephen Levine says to Evy:
"Although it seems like there are no alternatives, there
is still one: the deep investigation of what is happening now.
You have a chance to work with the falling away of things
in a way that is seldom given. The yogi sitting in the cave
has to go through it. It is in the biography of every saint
and sage.
The letting go of the world as the only reality. The moving
through the pain of our suffering, our holding
to things being anyway at all…"
"The days when you lie there and cry because you don’t
know
what is real and whether you are fooling yourself, whether
there is such a thing as liberation –all that is the path of
liberation.
Don’t expect your mind to die quietly, it fights yet harder
than the body
for its imagined existence. The full range of emotions
will roll through again and again on the way
to a deeper recognition of the deathless."
"Don’t expect your mind to die quietly, it fights yet
harder
than the body for its imagined existence."
These words ring true for me. The mind follows slowly behind the body
–unless it is trained and trained well.
There are those who sit to train their mind.
There are those who are active in their work and work hard to train
their
mind and body. They discipline themselves daily, so
that when difficulty strikes they are ready. This is a type of
healing
practice –a practice of healing day in and day out.
And the discipline of this
practice helps.
When difficulty strikes, this is their way and they are ready.
There are those who have fallen or who have met a crisis
unexpectedly, a
catastrophe strikes without warning (or
sometimes with warning, but the warning
signs were not
noticed or they were ignored).
And these people must dig deep into their soul and reach for the
resources
that God has given them. They must accept help
from someone in order to survive
–or to help them die.
When difficulty strikes, this is their way.
There are those who have periodic smaller crises, or who work
hard for a bit
then forget or put the work away and then
come back to it again many times
throughout their lives.
And each time they come back to the work –the healing|
work- it may build stronger or it may be like starting over
again. When
difficulty strikes, this is their way.
And this is the journey too. All of these people are me and I am in
every
single one of them. Each way of being is part of the
journey.
And how many times do I want to quit. (And maybe some people
do quit.) But
even if I do quit for a few hours or even days
–it cannot last.
The body leads the way for me. Even when my mind is striving to
be
"good", "true", "healthy", and
"spiritual"
–no matter how stubborn my mind is- the truth is,
in this journey the body is my teacher.
What do I learn from this illness, from my body?
Every day the body teaches me something new, something my mind has not
thought of –because it cannot know. I could not possibly learn so deeply,
without the body being so masterful a teacher.
Part Five
(Monday afternoon, December 9, 2002)
First I learn about patience. Over and over I am given the opportunity to
learn
lessons about patience. Sometimes it is easy -and maybe that is
because I
have learned something…for example, I am starting to realize
that waiting for
someone to help me is not all bad. If I am on the toilet or
in the shower and
ready for someone move me, I often now remember to
breathe, to practice my
breathing exercises. It is a very good thing
because I need to practice to keep
the muscles in my lungs performing
as best as they can.
I have many, many chances to wait for help every day –and this also
gives me
opportunities to give thanks for the constant help I receive. It is
not
everyone who gets to have that much help all the time. I visit with several
friends every week that I would otherwise be too busy to see that often.
They
take interest in me and follow my weekly progress. So much help
around and so
much time to take advantage of it –who else can say that?
It is also the occasion that -when I remember- I can pray to my angels, to
ask
them for help, to work on -cultivate- again and again my consulting with
the spiritual world, so how wonderful that I should have so much time to
practice! (If I remember as a musician how much work and time it took to
learn
music -practicing- then I should not be surprised to find that
developing
an art to praying and investigating my inner thoughts -listening
to those inner
thoughts and feelings- should take that kind of commitment
and time –not so
easy at all.)
And going along with learning patience –I learn that slowing down life
is to my
advantage. When I was still able to walk –fortunately that was
during
warmer weather- Ginny and I went for walks around the pond in JP and
though it was often very tiring (and when I could get over my
embarrassment for using a walker) I found that going slowly offered us
much
more than we realized. We noticed more of the beauty around us at
the pond and
we had time to talk together at length. And as a
"Feldenkrais" person,
I examined from the inside out how my body moved
and I watched the changes
happen from week to week, in detail.
And anger. I am learning a lot about anger
. For
instance I used to call it
"my anger". (It is no more or less "my anger" than
this is "my body" or a
parent can say this is "my child"
–something to think about…) The anger
comes and goes and lives in the body.
Feelings live in the body and are
very well stored away in the body when the
mind is not attentive to what
the body is saying. The body, the feeling state,
the energy surrounding
the body, in and out of the body in me, has had a lot of
anger to express
(as well as other strong emotions –joy, sadness, love, etc.)
If I listen to
"my body" carefully, and take the time to really
discern what it is angry
about, usually I can express it in a new way. In a way
that is not hurtful to
me or others. (In French, people "are" not a
certain feeling or another,
they "have" feelings. It would be
incorrect grammar to say "I am angry."
It would be expressed, "I
have anger."
(And Rudolf Steiner talked about, the "I" differently. He said that
the "I" we are speaking of here is separate from the body and from
feelings… it is something infinitely more subtle…Can you go to the
place of
experiencing that "I" directly?)
And I have time –lots of time and opportunities for practicing,
experiencing this
new way of listening to the body, expressing the anger…I
should be so
lucky to have so many opportunities!
I am basically hard on myself and I tend to be hard on others that I love
too. I get
moody about it a lot. I like to call it high standards –but I think
it really just
boils down to being afraid to be vulnerable or to feel all the
feelings that
"I have" -which are many…(Gin says that’s due to my melancholic
temperament and as such it’s natural for me brood over all of the struggles
I go through –not a person of action like her! I churn things over and over
like a cow’s capacity to chew the cud (though I don’t really have
the
stomach for it, like the cow. –HA!)
Part Six
What is healing?
Healing is sitting down with someone who will listen to your story. It is
telling
your story to someone will listen to you.
Healing is going
through the eye of the needle. It is going through the torture and
pain,
sweating it out drop by drop, and watching the whole time from the
seat of the
soul.
Healing is being brave enough to be joyful –when all else makes you want to
scream or be crabby to your loved one or when you really want to dig in
your
heals and be mean at all life.
Healing is having the courage to shine as a bright light for yourself as well
as for
others.
Healing is laughing.
Haiku
(A respite from the long-winded)
Wind chases the sun
Blowing ice droplets all around
Sparkly dance launches Winter
Part Seven
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
(Back to the Journey)
When death and fears are not talked about feelings become like the ghosts in
haunted castles; they are the dusty furniture we sit in and vacant robes we
wear,
full of cobwebs and heavy as the late night fog. There the moon glows
solemnly
or hides in the shadows because no one talks to her. Just imagine if
every one
moved through their pain openly, truthfully, like the happy Buddha. No
holding
onto it. No pain, no suffering –only peace.
May all people be at peace. May all people be healed from suffering. May all
people be of one spirit. May all people experience love and joy.
Energy/Spirit Work
(From a meditation for healing I made up this afternoon)
Sink deep into the lower chakra. Breathe. Go into the body. Go into the aches and pains. Breathe where it is shallow and go deeper, getting deeper. Feel the
numbness, feel the pain. Feel where it is tingly in the tips of the fingers and
toes. Go deeper. Feel the healing powers at work. Feel the energy flow. Feel the
Earth energy rising through into the body. It is a river of energy flowing up
into the body and healing -all along as it goes. Feel it. Breathe it in. This is
your healing. This is your life source.
Breathe again. And keep breathing. With each new breath feel the pain, feel
the aches and feel the healing. Feel the Life-force breathing in, gaining
ground. Growing. The Life-force is enlivening. The seeds of health are growing.
Healing is taking place, right now.
Go to the area of discomfort. Go to where the stomach is churning. It is
releasing fear. These are the signs of health, of healing, releasing old fear.
Bravo. Continue the good work. This is how it goes. Again and again breathe in,
go to the places of healing. Go to the pain, go to the discomfort, and go to the
healing powers. Stay with and in the body. The body is your healer. The energy
will flow if you stay with it. Follow the energy, give yourself to the good
energy. See light and healing.
Blessed be.
Part Eight
Sat Nam, December 21, 2002
Again from the book Meetings at the Edge, (on
pages 135 & 136):
Evy says, "The disease and the unfinished business seem to be drawing
each other out, if that is possible. It draws out my children's resentments and
it draws out my resentments as well. It is like another presence in the room.
And no one is protected from it."
Stephen Levine writes about his talk with Evy: "We spoke of the
contagion of fear. How if one holds to it instead of investigating it, it can
solidify in the mind and be transmitted to all those about. How her children, in
finding they can't protect her body from dying anymore than they can protect
their own, may feel considerable frustration from this lack of control and how
it can cause emotional upheavals and great consternation, particularly on the
part of those who care for her most. But confusion too is just not knowing what
to do when there is stress. They are stressed and their reaction to stress isn't
a particularly useful one. As most people’s aren't. They want to blame someone
for your being sick and they can't find anyone to blame. So they just get stuck
in the place of blame and it all comes spitting out."
"Say what ever there is to say now while you have the energy and ability
to say it. But in a sense, that doesn't really finish business. What finishes
business is when you let go of your holding to the old accounts, the end of
relationships as 'business', and just send love. I know it is very difficult
now, but to what ever degree you want them to accept you, that is the degree to
which you just won't allow yourself to be who you are, how you are. And now, as
in no other time in your life, it is a time to just be there for yourself.
Because under that resentment is frustration and under that frustration is more
love that you can imagine. Don't try to bargain with their fears and
resentments. Notice the hardness and merciless of the mind and send it
forgiveness. Though the body seems recalcitrant and stiff and inoperable, you
may find access to a place within your mind, within your heart, that allows the
deepest sort of completion to come about, the deepest healing imaginable,
allowing your heart to come into its fullness as your body goes whichever way it
will."
and on page 144 :
(After Evy’s death,) "Evy learned as much a she was willing under the
circumstances and perhaps she made considerable progress and would continue even
after death, in whatever environment she found herself. As she herself said, 'My
race is run.' Her fear of pain, her self-doubt, her agitation, her moments of
peace, her desire to be free, are part of us all. There can be no judgment. Only
a deeper recognition of how we hold to life and the sense that there is no
better time to prepare then in this moment."
Part Nine
Christmas Day, 2002
It was an international morning. Uche from Nigeria, who is my overnight home
health aide and sleeps through the night on the couch when I don't have to wake
up every two or three hours. Last night was a good night --I slept from 12 to 6,
straight through. And Vita, from Haiti, my home health aide substitute for
Cordelia (who is also from Nigeria) in the morning to help me bathe and get
dressed and with breakfast. Vita speaks beautiful French as well as Creole. We
spent the morning speaking French together, she helping me to improve my French
vocabulary and the use of verb tenses, as I asked question after question. For
some reason, today I had an insatiable appetite for speaking French. With Ginny,
the four of us had an Italian Christmas breakfast. Uche could ask a few
questions and say a few words and French, not really knowing what he was saying.
Ginny, thinking she could say anything she wanted to in French and laughing the
whole time at Vita and me. And Vita and I continued to just speak French. We all
had tea, except for Ginny, she had her espresso-- which Uche tasted and thought
it was the most bitter thing he'd ever tried and could not believe that somebody
would drink that voluntarily. It was a good thing we had the Italian bread and
tea to get the taste out of his mouth.
After our international crew left, Ginny and I sat down to a quieter meal
together alone. We both realized it was the first time we've had breakfast
together in months. Truly I cannot remember the last time. I guess it must have
been September when we were on vacation, to celebrate our wedding anniversary.
Christmas morning, breakfast together. This is healing. A bit of quiet, a few
laughs, many tears as we both think silently it could be our last together.
There is so much for us to treasure together, while we are still together in
such form. It is hardly possible; so much love, so much to share -and yet so little time.
If we could just get beyond time and space to the real reality --love.
Now the phone calls began, my relatives and friends, Ginny's sister, father
and brother and his family. I go to the room Ginny's in to close the door, so
she can hear better on the phone with my music playing loudly. I try to close
the door but my power chair gets in the way and I cannot close the door I try
three or four times, finally Ginny gets up and helps me and I cry because I
cannot close the door.
Ginny found my Christmas albums which had been hiding up until today. I put
one of my favorites of Baroque Christmas music on and immediately tears came to my eyes as I realize music is such a deer part of my personal tradition at
Christmas and the music touches my soul. Music reaches me in places where nothing else does or can. And so I listen to my music and go to those places,
or try to -playing the same music that I heard as a child and that I’ve
listened to just about every year since…
Healing comes as I listen. Tears come as I listen.
Tears for healing, tears for sadness, tears for the past.
Tears of frustration for not being able to hold my tea cup.
It gets heavier every day.
Last night at Chef Chang's for our traditional Christmas Eve Chinese feast of
Peking Duck, I asked Ginny to practice feeding me for the time that would come
soon when she would have to, because I could no longer lift my left arm and
hand. I've been using my left hand for the last six months or so, because my
right hand cannot sense things and I drop things so easily. I cannot get a grip
of things with my right hand . But now I must be use both hands to wobble up
from plate to mouth. It works pretty well but I feel awkward and self-conscious.
And I say to Ginny, "Let's look into each other's eyes." And as we
do this, both sets of eyes, tear up and I behold a sea of love and compassion.
And after a few moments of silence I speak again and say, "This is what I
need now and for when I am dying. I don't want to be alone. I want you and I
want your love and I want to take it with me."
And this heals me. And then we go back to our discussion about my therapist,
and to eating our duck.
And in mind, I am miles away to Christmases past.
And in my body, and in my
heart I am in the sadness and love
of this Christmas, -the love that is not quite joy -but just
as deep as joy-
It is the love I have for Ginny,
the deep appreciation for her love for me.
And this is my healing.
I am in the middle of struggling.
I am in the middle of loving.
I am in the middle of dying and living.
I am in the middle of praying and singing and learning how to eat
in a new way –and more importantly,
I am learning how to love in a new way.
I am in the middle of watching my life from a new vantage point.
I am in the middle of becoming comfortable being myself.
I am in the middle of trying to figure out how to live and how to die.
I am in the middle of a new type of Christmas.
I am in the middle of loving as much as I can, feeling as much as I
can,
learning about who I am, truly, as much as I can.
I am in the middle of a gigantic snowstorm (really, it’s covering the
whole
Northeast)
I am in the middle of finding peace inside, as I am learning how to
stop the
war inside.
It only takes a second to see beauty when you are ready to see it. It only
takes a second to feel the feelings when you are ready to feel
them. But it
seems to take hours or years, or lifetimes
to arrive at that second.
I am in the middle of that hour, that year, that lifetime; that second.
It is Christmas Day, 2002 and I am in the middle.
I am in the middle.
Part Ten
The Healing
Christmas Eve, 2002
Ginny and I went to a service at a church that I have not been to before. A
friend invited us. It was a children’s service, with children’s choirs and
stories. It was a beautiful service. Full of music that I love, hearing the
carols from children’s voices is always very special. This choir had rehearsed
well and sounded very good. I was able to sit right up front because of being in
a wheelchair. I did not have to wait in line as many, many people came in. It
was packed of course for Christmas Eve. My friends had reserved us seats –they
had come earlier.
There was a moment in the singing that touched my heart so deeply and
tenderly that I cried.
|
-There are events that mark our place in time and that give space to
reflect, to remember the years past, the people in our lives now, and think
about how we want to live in the future. A Christmas Eve service can do this if
it has all the elements. A sense of ritual happens year after year, in some way
the same, even if it is a different church, people you don’t know and an
environment that is completely different. Still, if it has music or prayers and
verse or a sermon, or simply the ornate art and architecture that somehow is
bigger and more meaningful when you’re in a church service, and the
stained-glass windows that fascinate children and adults alike, and sitting
quietly on cold or hard pews-
|
And I tried to stay inside once the tears came. I took it as a sign from God
–well more correctly it was a sign from inside my being that I was listening
to God,
open at that moment to my feelings and to a communion with God. I had Ginny
at my side and reached out my hand to her –for the feelings extended to her as
well as to me. I felt loss and I knew her loss, I felt sad and I knew her
sadness, I felt love and I knew her love. It was tenderness that went low and
high.
Tenderness. I was in the state of tenderness. I was asking for forgiveness
from God and I was forgiving myself. I was bowing down before the alter. I was
feeling so much love, and so much sadness.
Then came the ritual of communion. I did not grow up with this experience.
But in recent years I have practiced it. I remembered the very first time I
received communion in another church with a very striking, intelligent and
spiritually beautiful woman priest -it was very powerful. It was as if I had
been there before and was very comfortable with the ritual. I thought of her,
for she had just recently moved onto the spirit world –a shock to all in the
congregation. And now I thought of her and missed her profoundly. I could see
her face so clearly, her gaze solid and full of light, offering each person the
same spirited food of life love. And now this was the first time I was receiving
communion in a wheelchair. I had walked up for communion on crutches and after
that, using a walker. And I remember well the offerings in the past to people
who could not easily get up to the front. I remembered that there would be a
special time after the service, or a priest might come afterward to offer
communion to those who could not walk up
the aisle without help. I was in a sort of dream-state remembering all these
past
experiences and seeing those vivid images. And I sat there looking at how
beautiful the priests were, how respectful and careful they were as they set
up the alter. The thought, "What should I do?" entered my head for
some brief seconds as I watched a large and beautiful black woman in a long
white robe who was the officiating priest of this service. She looked at me and
she walked directly to me. She had the bread of Christ in her hands and offered
it to me first. And right behind her another priest offered me the wine. They
came to me first. It was just like in the Bible where Christ helps those who
need healing first, those who are ready. And I was ready. And I was so moved,
surprised and open. I realized I was full of hope, not just sadness but full
with hope and faith –and it was all held in love. I took in more love than I
could remember feeling for a long time. It was an ancient and reminiscent
feeling, a dim familiar memory. It was simple. It was beautiful and it was an
act of love that went right to me, right into
me. I was filled with such love and gratitude and I could not stop the tears.
And this is healing me.
I was able to stay in a state of grace for quite awhile after that.
And life must go on. And I must find ways to return to the state of grace. To
return to that openness. To remember that the sadness is not just sadness, but
it is held by love. In the sadness and pain and suffering and anger –it is all
a way to God, to the inner Self, if we can only listen and see from within and
follow the right path. I do believe that that path is there for us all -though
the form it takes may be very different and unique for each person.
Conclusion
"One tear" he said, "and it will be all better. Just cry one
tear."
And that was the beginning of this part of the journey.
I believe that the Christmas Eve tear is the tear that the angel was talking
about,
from the beginning of this part of the journey, of this poem.
It is the tear of forgiveness, the tear of love, the tear of healing, the
tear of God.
Humbling.
What is a journey if it is not humbling?
The tear of God is the center of this journey for me.
And as I said before, the journey is not over, it never ends,
just like life never ends.
When the student asked,
"What is the opposite of death? Is it not life?"
The old Masters said,
"Oh no, the opposite of death is birth. "
"Life has no opposite."
Life keeps going, it is truly eternal. When the body dies, another door is
opened
for the soul. The spirit flies high whether it is in a body or not.
And this is the end of this part of the journey.
Thanks…
Thank you to Allandra for her beautiful and intelligent work with me and for
inspiring this poem.
Thank you to Betty Brenneman for the story about the
student and the master.
Thank you to Stephen Levine for all his dedicated work with people who are
dying, living and
healing and for his many fine books.
Thank you to all of my friends and relatives for the incredible &
constant support.
And Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, to Ginny, my angel –not a
saint, but close to it!
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