111215 01:39 A Lesson in Humility:
I have appreciated, postmortal, the response of a lover who voiced approval of my attention to their pleasure & joy. Think “Little Death” as in a euphemism for orgasm. My favorite is the British; “arrival.” There is an intimacy beyond sensual pleasure and joy. It is transparent honesty; exponentially more unitive than congress itself.
I entered hospice service at the behest of a person who will remain anonymous. It took me two and a half years to make the first step. A measure of my grief, unresolved after thirty-five years. Not plainly the deaths of my children, but friends, strangers, parents, the dead baby pigeons I observed at four--marriages and liaisons assassinated by abandoning them.
This hospice uses a form inquiring exactly what the nature of my gift was. Would I be willing to work with ‘patients,’ do lawn work, wash dishes, et cetera. I indicated that I would do anything required of me.
At first I was tasked with visiting the homes of the dying to relieve their care giving family members for a respite. Usually an hour or so.
Given our crisis precipitated by greed and power gone insane; not simply the politicians and bankers but our own search for more--yet again more-More-MORE! Which is the primary definition of addiction. There is nothing wonderful about addiction it controls and contorts the victim, you, me all of US.
In short order the crisis hit the care giving industry--Hospice is an organization that runs 24/7/365. Think electricity, toilet paper, staff, clean sheets and floors. Staff people move on, die, whatever, and they cannot be replaced due to budgetary constraints--think Pentagon versus Health.
Ten of us--from one-hundred and ten or so available--were recruited to fill in, on a rotating schedule, for an absent staff member. At first I had no idea what was required, it was not stipulated. Later I discovered that the (and I’m imagining/extrapolating) job was “Ward Clerk”: Answer the phone, direct calls and so on. The issue is that one cannot simply sit idly while others are in need. A delicate balance is struck between probable and actual number of residents at any given time and the number of personnel to serve them.
The needs volunteers can serve are prohibitively limited. None of us are trained nurses, or nurses aids. The requirements of the patient are often simple: turn on the ceiling fan, turn on/off the television, a light, a cup of water; scratch my big toe. At first I sat there while the staff worked themselves to the bone. Then it became apparent that this was an opportunity to learn. Lacking a formal education I am desirous of leaning and deem anything I can learn a gift.
What we give without expectation is often returned amplified--enhanced. Personally the experience has impelled me to question my vanity, ego, every hidden fear, greed for acknowledgement, affirmation, belonging, longing to be loved. In short: all the crippling dysfunctions of being an abandoned and abused child. This and more has been healed by they who serve, those who die and their families. Convicted I now know love is what you give regardless of what you receive. The ‘abuses’ were given by people who in their turn had been neglected, abandoned and abused.
“What does not kill me, makes me stronger.” --Friedrich Nietzsche
“Love seeketh not itself to please,
I have appreciated, postmortal, the response of a lover who voiced approval of my attention to their pleasure & joy. Think “Little Death” as in a euphemism for orgasm. My favorite is the British; “arrival.” There is an intimacy beyond sensual pleasure and joy. It is transparent honesty; exponentially more unitive than congress itself.
I entered hospice service at the behest of a person who will remain anonymous. It took me two and a half years to make the first step. A measure of my grief, unresolved after thirty-five years. Not plainly the deaths of my children, but friends, strangers, parents, the dead baby pigeons I observed at four--marriages and liaisons assassinated by abandoning them.
This hospice uses a form inquiring exactly what the nature of my gift was. Would I be willing to work with ‘patients,’ do lawn work, wash dishes, et cetera. I indicated that I would do anything required of me.
At first I was tasked with visiting the homes of the dying to relieve their care giving family members for a respite. Usually an hour or so.
Given our crisis precipitated by greed and power gone insane; not simply the politicians and bankers but our own search for more--yet again more-More-MORE! Which is the primary definition of addiction. There is nothing wonderful about addiction it controls and contorts the victim, you, me all of US.
In short order the crisis hit the care giving industry--Hospice is an organization that runs 24/7/365. Think electricity, toilet paper, staff, clean sheets and floors. Staff people move on, die, whatever, and they cannot be replaced due to budgetary constraints--think Pentagon versus Health.
Ten of us--from one-hundred and ten or so available--were recruited to fill in, on a rotating schedule, for an absent staff member. At first I had no idea what was required, it was not stipulated. Later I discovered that the (and I’m imagining/extrapolating) job was “Ward Clerk”: Answer the phone, direct calls and so on. The issue is that one cannot simply sit idly while others are in need. A delicate balance is struck between probable and actual number of residents at any given time and the number of personnel to serve them.
The needs volunteers can serve are prohibitively limited. None of us are trained nurses, or nurses aids. The requirements of the patient are often simple: turn on the ceiling fan, turn on/off the television, a light, a cup of water; scratch my big toe. At first I sat there while the staff worked themselves to the bone. Then it became apparent that this was an opportunity to learn. Lacking a formal education I am desirous of leaning and deem anything I can learn a gift.
What we give without expectation is often returned amplified--enhanced. Personally the experience has impelled me to question my vanity, ego, every hidden fear, greed for acknowledgement, affirmation, belonging, longing to be loved. In short: all the crippling dysfunctions of being an abandoned and abused child. This and more has been healed by they who serve, those who die and their families. Convicted I now know love is what you give regardless of what you receive. The ‘abuses’ were given by people who in their turn had been neglected, abandoned and abused.
“What does not kill me, makes me stronger.” --Friedrich Nietzsche
“Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.” --William Blake
Experientially I sense humiliation is a function of ego refusing to be seen; held accountable and altered. Humility is accepting the lesson and moving on.
Expansion versus contraction.
Response versus reaction.
Exalt the young who serve shoulder-to-shoulder at grave’s cusp. Having yet to know, in fullness, losses sorrow as we elder so near those we serve. To die to self, then dying altogether, knowing face-to-face the loving light we share.
Experientially I sense humiliation is a function of ego refusing to be seen; held accountable and altered. Humility is accepting the lesson and moving on.
Expansion versus contraction.
Response versus reaction.
Exalt the young who serve shoulder-to-shoulder at grave’s cusp. Having yet to know, in fullness, losses sorrow as we elder so near those we serve. To die to self, then dying altogether, knowing face-to-face the loving light we share.
