This past Sunday was quite eventful.
First, the Long Beach Unitarian Universalist Church celebrated its annual music Sunday. The house band, the choir, and singers (a separate group), all led by the acting music director, gave full throat to a sweet gathering.
We may not have been quite the near professional program I was used to in New England, but it was compelling. More like the family presenting than anything else. Sweet. Sweet. And, then I was invited to share the homily. Which I did, gratefully.
After the service Jan and I did the traditional minister Sunday thing. We went home, had lunch, and then took a nap. A nice nap. A really nice nap.
Then we fell into our usual, if not absolute Sunday pattern of going to a late afternoon matinee movie. This time a Quiet Passion, a bio pic about Emily Dickinson.
It’s a small movie. Of course, how could it be otherwise since the story is about such a constrained life. The film is about a genius tangled in Massachusett’s rigid nineteenth century Calvinism, with everything that means. And most importantly where freedom, at least of a sort, can be found within those constraints.
The movie was filmed completely in tight shots. And all of it pretty slow moving. Actually one of the people who was leaving the screening before we entered muttered something about paint drying. Me, I thought they added in a bit too much yelling at each other as a substitute for action. But, you know, as the summer blockbusters proceed, I’ve got no complaint about a small literary movie – even if the dialogue was forced and very play-like. Me, I enjoyed it. Jan liked it a little less. But, we both recommend it.
Then we went out to dinner. A carnivore’s delight. I shall say no more on that subject.
Finally, we turned in at about a quarter after ten. We are getting old. And, well, the day was done. Then I was startled awake by a crash. I sat up groggily, noted about a half an hour had passed since I’d fallen asleep, and saw Jan wasn’t in bed. I noticed the door to the bathroom was closed and the light was on. I called out, “Are you okay?” And I heard an affirmative.
So, I returned to sleep. Only to be startled awake by a second crash. I jumped out of bed and went over to the bathroom door, which was closed. And through it I said, “Jan? Jan!” But she said nothing.
However, there was noise. There was a horrid rasping sound, like gasping for breath with bare success. I opened the door but it was blocked. I could see through the crack Jan was lying there. I pushed my way in. She was unconscious, her head was at a terrible angle. It was clear she could barely breath. That horrid rasping sound was bone chilling frightening. I was afraid to touch her in case her neck was broken. And I was afraid not to, because it seemed she couldn’t possibly be getting enough air. I decided to act. I pulled her down so her head wouldn’t be at that angle. And immediately she began to breath more clearly.
Then I called 911.
It’s been a long time since I’ve pulled an all nighter. The good news is that Jan is okay. After a lot of tests we’re still not exactly sure what happened. But, what we do know is there is no trace of a heart attack. A cat scan shows no damage to her skull or brain. Although there is an amazing hole in the door where her head bashed against it. (That’s the picture that accompanies this reflection, in case you were wondering…)
So, we’re left with some reasonable speculations about what happened. A combination of things, probably, including lying down and getting up more or less suddenly. That’s also connected to aging. Maybe complicated by dehydration. Hard to say.
Of course, we have that little souvenir, the head sized hole in the bathroom door. My thoughts haunt of how fortunate it was her head bashed against something that gave. Not something harder. Or, worse, not something angled. And she struck it at an angle for her head that didn’t break her neck.
Out of this Jan is shaken, but okay. As for me. There was that half hour when I was pretty sure Jan was dying. A range of feelings had fired through me. That litany is long and complicated, and none of it pleasurable. I did not like the experience. I turn it over in my heart and it is still raw. Still hard. Still painful.
The Buddha once said We are of the nature to sicken. There is no way to escape illness. We are of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape aging. And, and. We are are of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.
Turns out all our lives are constrained. There are boundaries. There is a beginning. There is an end. And, a precious, terrible, beautiful, sad thing in between. And. At the same time. There is freedom, of a sort, to be found.
And, actually “freedom of a sort” is not quite right either. Our freedom is found completely within the restraint. The circumstances, the conditions, these are the stuff of our lives. They are the place of sorrow, and of joy. And, not turning away from them, but rather finding a new way to live into them is what the wise call us to.
So, a moment. A frightening and precious moment reminding me, anyway, why I so love that Mary Oliver poem that sets it all out, the only way we can live.
“to live in this world
you must be able
to do three things
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go”
Just this.
Only this.
There is no place else to go.
And our power lies in how we meet it…
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