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Posted: April 28th, 2008 at 2:51pm
A couple of years back, my grandmother, Sally Munro, was preparing to celebrate her 98th birthday. To mark the occasion, I wrote a story for this column about a very memorable lesson granny taught me in my childhood.
It was a lesson about the power of saying “hello” to fear. It took place one night in my aunt’s farmhouse in Mt. Holly, VT. There I was, age five or so, cowering in bed under the covers as violent thunder shook the floors and beams of the old place. Every few minutes or so, lightning flashed across the room, illuminating what seemed like very scary objects waiting to attack — the army tank ready to shoot me (a dresser in the corner) and the bear standing in front of the bedroom door (a threadbare robe hanging on a hook).
Granny proposed that we get up and look out the window to watch the lightning light up the dark hilltops around our little valley. It seemed an unthinkable thing to do at first, but I reluctantly joined her. After a while, instead of shrinking from the bolts of light, I began to look forward to each strike, hoping it would reveal something new outside, perhaps a real bear or a moose with antlers.
That night, granny helped me see the wisdom in watching my fear, being with it, allowing it to reveal something to me — rather than hide from it.
Flash forward 43 years to 2007, the day after Christmas. Granny died. She was beginning her 100th year.
The last year was particularly tough for her. She was in and out of hospitals; she fell and broke a hip that had to be pinned together. After recovering, she had a bad gall bladder attack and doctors removed it. Then she lost her appetite, got dehydrated. More hospitalization. She developed bedsores because she was in too much pain to move around.
Her last few days were spent drifting in and out of consciousness in a bed in a rehab facility, where she was fighting a bad infection. It pains me to say that, in her last moments, she was alone in death, except for a picture of her great grand-daughter Rachel. It was taped to the bed railing.
At the wake, my brother, Mike, got up and talked about granny, a lifelong Roman Catholic. He told the small group about the suffering at the close of her life, and how she remained devoted to Jesus’ mother, Mary. Mike said that during one visit a few days before she died, he found her inconsolable because she could not remember the words to the prayer, the Hail Mary. He repeated the prayer with her and then told her that her intention to pray was a prayer in itself.
At the service, I wanted to get up, too, to tell the mourners about the last few months I spent with granny. But I started breathing heavy at the thought of eyes watching me talk. Besides, the room was in Mike's hands at that point. I thought to myself, “Who could top Mike’s act?”
But if I had gone up I would have talked about that lesson she taught me years ago in Vermont. And I would have also shared how, in the last few years of her life, she showed me another: the wisdom of letting go.
I saw her let go of a lot, and each time, she somehow always managed to show a good deal of forbearance and wisdom. For example, a few years after gramps died, she found she could no longer live alone in her remote Mt. Holly home, set high on a wooded hill. So she moved to nearby Wallingford, to senior apartments converted from an 18th century hotel. Granny took up residence in a carriage house apartment, and bolstered by frequent visits from friends and family, she seemed to once again thrive during this new chapter of her life.
A few years later, she suffered a stroke, and after months of rehabilitation and a remarkable recovery, she said goodbye to her second home and moved to an assisted living facility on Long Island. It was an easier lifestyle: her meals, laundry and cleaning would all be provided. And the place was much closer to where her children lived.
Then, it was time to say ‘goodbye’ to that arrangement as well. She could no longer stay in assisted living because she began getting up in the night and falling. One time, she lay on the bathroom floor until morning before an aide arrived for duty.
The next stop was an apartment in our little town, close to her son and grandchildren. We hired an aide to be with her 24/7. And that was the last stop before she died.
On many occassions, I was there with granny as she was letting go of the safe and familiar things in her life. She’d always say something reassuring, like, “Well, God is good to me, and he takes care of me.” It was a statement of faith that she was not alone in embracing change. There was also a bit of practical Yankee wisdom in there: going with an uncertain future is better than clinging to something painful that has outlived itself.
Late in life, granny’s response to fear and the unknown was just as wise as the one she’d showed me early on in my life. She met the scary prospect of an unknown future with a faith that helped her believe that, no matter the outcome, she’d continue to be taken care of by God — in whatever way that meant.
Me, I’m still holding on to the familiar, what feels safe. But once in a while I get inspired to do the complete opposite. When challenged by uncertainty, I let go, and the freedom I sometimes experience gives me a new sense of security that prepares me for whatever will arise.
I learned this from the Buddhists. In a chapter called Nothing Solid, in her book, Comfortable with Uncertainty, American Buddhist nun and author Pema Chödrön writes: “Something about nothing solid begins to equal freedom. In the meantime, we discover that we would rather feel fully present to our lives than be off trying to make everything solid by engaging our fantasies or our addictive patterns. We realize that connecting with our experience by meeting it feels better than resisting it by moving away.”
Spiritual warriors know Chodron’s way. They practice Granny’s way. Perhaps someday I will be one, too.
— — —
Don Munro is a freelance writer who lives in New York and Vermont. He explores spiritual realities and possibilities — especially the beauty of fusing together different traditions — on his blog Awareness 101. He also writes poetry at Poetry & prose from this breath of mine, often spiritually themed. His email address is {email Munrodh@verizon.net}Munrodh@verizon.net{/email}. © copyright 2008 by Don Munro
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It was a lesson about the power of saying “hello” to fear. It took place one night in my aunt’s farmhouse in Mt. Holly, VT. There I was, age five or so, cowering in bed under the covers as violent thunder shook the floors and beams of the old place. Every few minutes or so, lightning flashed across the room, illuminating what seemed like very scary objects waiting to attack — the army tank ready to shoot me (a dresser in the corner) and the bear standing in front of the bedroom door (a threadbare robe hanging on a hook).
Granny proposed that we get up and look out the window to watch the lightning light up the dark hilltops around our little valley. It seemed an unthinkable thing to do at first, but I reluctantly joined her. After a while, instead of shrinking from the bolts of light, I began to look forward to each strike, hoping it would reveal something new outside, perhaps a real bear or a moose with antlers.
That night, granny helped me see the wisdom in watching my fear, being with it, allowing it to reveal something to me — rather than hide from it.
Flash forward 43 years to 2007, the day after Christmas. Granny died. She was beginning her 100th year.
The last year was particularly tough for her. She was in and out of hospitals; she fell and broke a hip that had to be pinned together. After recovering, she had a bad gall bladder attack and doctors removed it. Then she lost her appetite, got dehydrated. More hospitalization. She developed bedsores because she was in too much pain to move around.
Her last few days were spent drifting in and out of consciousness in a bed in a rehab facility, where she was fighting a bad infection. It pains me to say that, in her last moments, she was alone in death, except for a picture of her great grand-daughter Rachel. It was taped to the bed railing.
At the wake, my brother, Mike, got up and talked about granny, a lifelong Roman Catholic. He told the small group about the suffering at the close of her life, and how she remained devoted to Jesus’ mother, Mary. Mike said that during one visit a few days before she died, he found her inconsolable because she could not remember the words to the prayer, the Hail Mary. He repeated the prayer with her and then told her that her intention to pray was a prayer in itself.
At the service, I wanted to get up, too, to tell the mourners about the last few months I spent with granny. But I started breathing heavy at the thought of eyes watching me talk. Besides, the room was in Mike's hands at that point. I thought to myself, “Who could top Mike’s act?”
But if I had gone up I would have talked about that lesson she taught me years ago in Vermont. And I would have also shared how, in the last few years of her life, she showed me another: the wisdom of letting go.
I saw her let go of a lot, and each time, she somehow always managed to show a good deal of forbearance and wisdom. For example, a few years after gramps died, she found she could no longer live alone in her remote Mt. Holly home, set high on a wooded hill. So she moved to nearby Wallingford, to senior apartments converted from an 18th century hotel. Granny took up residence in a carriage house apartment, and bolstered by frequent visits from friends and family, she seemed to once again thrive during this new chapter of her life.
A few years later, she suffered a stroke, and after months of rehabilitation and a remarkable recovery, she said goodbye to her second home and moved to an assisted living facility on Long Island. It was an easier lifestyle: her meals, laundry and cleaning would all be provided. And the place was much closer to where her children lived.
Then, it was time to say ‘goodbye’ to that arrangement as well. She could no longer stay in assisted living because she began getting up in the night and falling. One time, she lay on the bathroom floor until morning before an aide arrived for duty.
The next stop was an apartment in our little town, close to her son and grandchildren. We hired an aide to be with her 24/7. And that was the last stop before she died.
On many occassions, I was there with granny as she was letting go of the safe and familiar things in her life. She’d always say something reassuring, like, “Well, God is good to me, and he takes care of me.” It was a statement of faith that she was not alone in embracing change. There was also a bit of practical Yankee wisdom in there: going with an uncertain future is better than clinging to something painful that has outlived itself.
Late in life, granny’s response to fear and the unknown was just as wise as the one she’d showed me early on in my life. She met the scary prospect of an unknown future with a faith that helped her believe that, no matter the outcome, she’d continue to be taken care of by God — in whatever way that meant.
Me, I’m still holding on to the familiar, what feels safe. But once in a while I get inspired to do the complete opposite. When challenged by uncertainty, I let go, and the freedom I sometimes experience gives me a new sense of security that prepares me for whatever will arise.
I learned this from the Buddhists. In a chapter called Nothing Solid, in her book, Comfortable with Uncertainty, American Buddhist nun and author Pema Chödrön writes: “Something about nothing solid begins to equal freedom. In the meantime, we discover that we would rather feel fully present to our lives than be off trying to make everything solid by engaging our fantasies or our addictive patterns. We realize that connecting with our experience by meeting it feels better than resisting it by moving away.”
Spiritual warriors know Chodron’s way. They practice Granny’s way. Perhaps someday I will be one, too.
— — —
Don Munro is a freelance writer who lives in New York and Vermont. He explores spiritual realities and possibilities — especially the beauty of fusing together different traditions — on his blog Awareness 101. He also writes poetry at Poetry & prose from this breath of mine, often spiritually themed. His email address is {email Munrodh@verizon.net}Munrodh@verizon.net{/email}. © copyright 2008 by Don Munro
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