a voice from beyond

While clearing a stack of old mail off of my dining table this morning, in preparation for the arrival of my first "test subject" in my current healing research project, I came across a letter from my aunt. Anne, whose memorial service I just attended two days ago, had sent this to me in May, and her letter had somehow found its way, unopened, into the middle of a pile of old magazines and catalogs.

The timing of this "message from beyond the grave" was not lost on me. Today is Halloween, the day when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is at its thinnest, the day for honoring and petitioning our ancestors and those others who have transitioned out of this life and into the next.

Her message similarly could not have been more appropriate. She had written this letter to me several hours after a visit to her—along with my mother and sister—on Mother's Day weekend. The four of us had spent that morning around the breakfast table, excavating and healing old rifts that had existed between us, some that had remained unresolved for years. It was a very emotional, but very necessary, couple of hours, and it left all of us feeling vulnerable, exhausted, and relieved.

In previous blog entries, I mentioned that Anne spent the remaining months of her life using her time, and her process of dying, to help others release the pain and blocks that we so frequently carry around for decades—often more out of habit and stubbornness than anything else. Even healers—especially healers—need to heal, and neither I nor my aunt is any exception. In addition to mediating our release, she opened herself to share her own process of coming to terms with the disappointments and pain in her life.

She had written to me in caring support of my own path, thanking me for having brought myself so openly to the table that morning. Anne also wrote to remind me that healing is a process, with no magic bullets, and that some days will always be better than others as we take two steps forward for the occasional one step backward. Even though my path is very different from hers, her words showed me that she had a better understanding of my work than I had realized.

This wisdom was not so much revelatory—even coming from such a master as Anne—as it was incredibly reassuring, which was the purpose of her missive. And it reached me, finally, just an hour before my first client of the day was set to arrive, as I embark upon this new phase of my own work as a healer. Anne has left an incredible legacy for the therapists and healers who follow her, and this simple note of hers—aunt to niece, healer to healer, one human being to another—let me know in a very powerful way that I am in no way alone in serving as such a catalyst, and reminded me what an honor it is to witness and be present for those who are transforming their lives through release, healing, and integration.

a lesson in dying

It's been too long since my last blog entry, and for that I humbly apologize. I won't make excuses for my absence, but will instead dive right in....

My mother's sister, Anne, passed away on Friday morning, 14 October 2005, at approximately 8 a.m. PDT. She had been diagnosed with secondary metastasized melanoma in December of last year, with the original cancer having been treated and eradicated some thirty-five years prior. I wrote briefly about her decision to embrace the dying part of life in a previous entry: death with dignity (23 March 2005).

I had the opportunity to spend two weekends visiting with my aunt this year—in May and September. Although she had even won a local golf tournament in June, by September it was evident that she would be leaving soon. She was always in good spirits, though, laughing and making jokes about her deteriorating health and speaking very candidly about her experience. I don't think I once heard her complain about any regrets in her life.

My mother was able to be present in the room with Anne when she passed. Although I had attuned my mother to reiki years ago, she hadn't felt called to use it (consciously) before that particular morning. She gently laid her hands on her sister's feet, which had grown cold to the touch, and quietly helped push her sister's energy up and out, helping her to sever her remaining ties to her body. My mother reported that she kept feeling resistance at the heart, until Anne breathed a final, peaceful sigh—in sharp contrast the labored, spasmodic breathing that had characterized the previous few days—and that was it.

Anne is finally free, at long last. I found myself sobbing in both mourning and relief. I am so glad I had the opportunity to say my goodbyes to her, and am so very grateful that my mother was able to be present for her, to act as midwife to her passing.

Although the memorial service will not be held until late October, I felt the need that Friday morning to honor in my own way the transition of this great woman. It was a misty morning here in metro-Portland, and I lit a candle and walked over to the grove of trees on the community property. This simple place has become the sanctuary I retreat to when I am in need of solitude, inspiration, and the like. I sat on the ground, surrounded by dewed grass and glinting spider webs, as I placed the candle before me and said my blessings for my aunt's life and her transition.

She was an amazing woman, a psychologist who worked mainly in family reconstruction. I'm still in awe of the passion which characterized her life, as well as the manner in which she spent her last months, harnessing her own dying process as a means of helping to bring other family members together to heal our wounds—some deeply entrenched—to free us from those bonds so that we might embrace the time we have.

I don't know that I ever saw her truly say "No," either to living or dying.

Thank you all for your love and support during this time. I would not have been able to be so strong for my mother if not for my friends—even those I've never met—backing me up. I love you all; you are very precious to me.