fall

On this rainy and interior day, as I write letters about Mummy, I feel her presence so strongly. Just now, I can feel her sending her love to me. Suddenly, I see and feel her standing there, just a couple yards in front of me by the window, looking younger, and yet every age and no age. She's all in white, radiating light, smiling her smile, and love is pouring out of her eyes onto me, covering me. Ifeel my heart pounding, a ringing in my ears. I find it hard to breathe. It is overwhelming ... I know now she'll always be with me and, though it makes me sad to think I can't be with her in person anymore, I know I'll never not be with her again.

The heart of most spiritual practice is simply this -- remember:

Remember who you love.
Remember what is sacred.
Remember what is true.
Remember that you will die, and that this day is a gift.
Remembver how you wish to life.

Death is the flow from silence and love to deeper silence and greater love.

Often we hear, "Is there a right time to die?" Of course there is: when one has been invited back home. When the Universal is waiting. The Light will invite you. The Doorway will open. You will know this with either your senses or your intuition or both. You will look outward ata the world and experience a sense of peace that only the opened Doorway and the Light can provide.

We die to many parts of ourselves, and the quality of each of these dying processes determiners the vitality of each rebith. It seem sto me that between heaven and earth there is just the slightest, most permeable membrane, and dthat it is possible to live in both realms simultaneously, at least some of the time. The conjunction of the two dimensions that we so loosely call death and birth is equally permeable. Each courageous end is also the finest and most pure beginning. To journey into that great unknown is the human-making pilgrimage, a gradual return to the image and likeness of God.

"Perfect love casts out fear." It is not be thinking ourselve sright that we cease to fear. It is simply by loving, and abandoning ourselves to the One whom we love without returning to self. That is what makes death sweet and precious. When we are dead to ourselves, the death of the body is only the consummation of the work of grace.

Modern life does not give us the experiences that might enlarge our vision. It hardly occurs to us that the living can have anything to say to the dying, or that the dying have anything to communicate to the living. We think that the dying are beyond our reach as they lie there, unable ot speak or respond in any way, but we are wrong. They can still hear what is said to them, even in what seems like deep unconsciousness; they can still be aware of touch... The dying need us to go as far as we can with them on the journey

O Love that will not let me go:
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to Thee;
My heart restores its borrowd ray,
That in Thy sunshine's blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

I welcomed each pregnancy with thanksgiving. To feel life within my womb, little hands and feet tapping from within, this is extraordinary. Then the births. I entered into each one of them, feeling the crescendo of pain until it became so strong I felt I could not survive. In a way, I saw it like death. Prayer came easy.

It is a central paradox of desert experience that only that which dies can live again. The fundamental rule of the divine life is this: the one who loses, wins. The carefree playfulness and freedom of the Holy One are mysteries entered only on the farside of darkness and death.