May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers
To break the dead shell of yesterday,
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love.
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.
~John O’Donahue
I haven’t the steam to create something new for my post just now. I am filled with stories I want to tell, pictures of the first tomato I had last evening, pictures of the pumpkins growing big, but these will come in their own organic sweetness.
In June, I was on a pilgrimage in Provence. We studied Mary Magdalene’s influence on the contemplative monastic orders that flowered after her in the south of France. Some of you may know that she was considered the first disciple, according to the Gospel of Thomas that was discovered, with other codices, in the Egyptian desert in 1945 and called the Nag Hammadi Library. Naturally it is controversial, especially to the patriarchal church.
After being home less than a week, we got a call from my ninety-year-old father. My little sister had been taken to intensive care in a hospital in southern California. I didn’t think I could make the trip, but it was essential. Jill had been put on life support and wasn’t conscious. I was the only one who knew her wishes regarding these medical heroics. She would have hated everything being done to keep her alive. Jilly died on July 3rd an hour after we took her off life support.
I have no doubt that I was buoyed by Love to survive the week. I have no doubt that my time with the women on the retreat sustained me. On the night before Jill died, my nephew and I sang a mantra that we had used on the retreat: I am remembering who I am. I am remembering who I am.
We sang it for Jill, over and over, as it was meant to be. At times, we changed the words: You are remembering who you are. But Jilly never regained consciousness although we are sure she could hear us. Medical professionals say that hearing is the last sense to go.
I think that by sharing the news of what has happened, I will take Jill with me into the next pages of the garden and the stories yet to tell. Jilly was a wonderful gardener. At her small apartment in Long Beach, hers was the only one with dozens of plants around the entrance. People always felt good being with Jill; she had that welcoming gift.
Your words of comfort will be deeply appreciated. I am absorbing everything I can right now. And I will share these words with our Father and Stepmom. I will share them with Jilly’s best friends and with her son.
Rest in peace and love my beautiful sister. I will miss you so.
P.S: A blog that I’ve been part of for the past year, Vision & Verb, is closing after five creative years. Below I’ve included notes from the women who wrote in after Jill’s death. Because the site is closing down, I wish them to be saved, otherwise they’ll be lost. If you’d like to view these notes, please click on the links. Thanks so much to all.