So what do we do when one comes to visit; the kind that rips us apart and sends us reeling?
All of us encounter such dark moments; if you haven't yet, you will. In our brief walk on this planet, none of us escape scot-free. The question is, how do we handle it?
One of my own darkest moments was the sudden death of a close friend who was loved by many and who was, by all accounts, completely undeserving of so early a passage. Yet there he was, and then-- there he wasn't.
His name was Pete. The name suited him: it sounds friendly, down-to-earth, unswayed by trivia. And so was he.
Like all others who knew Pete, I was devastated when he retired from planet earth and moved on. He had been friend, counsellor, nurturer, mentor and humorist to many for several good years. His spirit was the sort that put spring into our days, good ones and bad ones, and his wisdom kept us on balance whenever we were in serious danger of veering off course.
You don't meet a lot of people of his stature in one lifetime; I know I consider myself lucky to have known him at all. More than lucky: he helped grow me, which is the biggest thing any human can ever do for another.
So the day Pete left was an awful day for all of us who treasured him. A black day, full of grief and personal angst. How to reconfigure days and weeks without this incredible life force in it? In the beginning, at the first glimpse of a vanished friend, it does not seem possible. That's why we weep. Not for our friend: but for the sudden desperate vacuum in our own lives. At least it seems like a desperate vacuum.
As for Pete, we all knew he was managing: he was certainly in heaven, probably regaling angels with heaven and hell jokes, and telling them what a fine job they were doing with reprobates like himself. Making them feel important; that was one of the things he did best.
And when he wasn't around to do that for me anymore, I took it hard. I remember feeling stunned, angry, baffled, bereft, heartbroken all at once. There's nothing unusual in that; everyone has these feelings around a death. And while we have all been told the feelings will eventually recede, that is a future fact and it doesn't impact the awfulness of fresh grief. I had one tool, though, that many of my friends did not. I knew about meditation.
Meditation, getting utterly silent and still, can make a difference with anything. I mean anything. I knew that, and shortly after I came face to face with my own hot slice of sorrow over Pete, I did call on this tool. I sat down in my apartment, closed my eyes and lowered myself into the Silence. The first day it was only for a few moments. By the third day, I was able to do it for ten minutes. I wasn't asking for anything, or even waiting to hear anything - I was frankly just looking for some small connection with Peace.
After the meditation, my mind would jump fairly quickly back to feeling sad and bereft. So in the first few days, it certainly looked like getting Silent was pointless.
I kept on with it, though, even though the large part of my day was soggy from moping. I kept on with it, because I had no other remedy for grief.
And here's what happened. At the end of two weeks, without warning, I woke up sharply in the middle of the night. I was wide awake, but unmoving, staring out of my uncovered windows. Since I lived high up in a multi-storied building, the view was a broad cityscape under an even broader sky. There I was, eyes wide, mouth open. frozen as a stone.
I was staring because dead center in front of me was a full bright unwinking moon, so alive and so close it seemed almost touchable. All I know is the moon was shining full heat right on my face, and as it did I understood that Pete was fine, and Pete was there.
"Hello, Pete." I said, and in that same moment, buckets of grief lifted away from me, leaving me as light-hearted as a child on the first day of summer vacation. Because there was Pete, waving from Elsewhere.
Rivers of warmth washed over me; I took one long last look at that uniquely brilliant moon, and then turned over and floated back to sleep.
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