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Colors of Completion

A utumn usually lasts for about a week where I live in Colorado. Soon after the trees start to change color, a cold front blows through bringing freezing rain and snow, which causes the now browned and soggy leaves to drop, and it’s over. Although we try to quickly schedule a drive on the scenic mountain highway above town, sometimes the whole season comes and goes before we make it up to the high country.

Fall will never be the same for me after last year. On October 23rd, my dad died of cancer. During his last few weeks, I was in close touch by telephone. When the call came from my mom that it was time for me to fly home, I was out planting tulips in my front yard. I remember digging while holding the phone with my shoulder, suddenly aware that my tears would help to bring life to the green sprouts that would poke through the soil in the spring.

I had just come back from seeing him 10 days earlier. We knew that his time was short, and I wanted to be with him while he was still doing relatively well. One moment from that visit stands out particularly clearly in my memory.

He was sleeping really late in the mornings by then. He came slowly down the stairs about noon, and my mom cooked him his favorite breakfast. I put on his most cherished jazz CD, and he brought his plate into the living room to eat. As he settled in on the couch he took a satisfied breath and surveyed the room. With a big smile on his face he said, “Boy, this is really nice. I have my favorite music, good food, and my family with me.” As tears welled up in my eyes, he took a small bite of his food and chewed it slowly, savoring every sensation. He wasn’t able to eat much, but every mouthful was a small miracle.

When I went back 10 days later, he wasn’t getting out of bed anymore. He wasn’t eating, either. But he was still conscious, and still savoring life. When I walked in his eyes lit up, and he reached out his hand towards me.

A few days later, the only mode of expression left to him was his eyes. It’s amazing how much can be said with only eyebrows! As outer means of communication were diminishing, the inner connection between us was expanding. As I sat next to his bed holding his hand, I knew what was in his heart. He was surrendered, at peace, unafraid. He simply took each moment as it came.

Because of the relatively slow progression of his disease, he had been able to tie up all loose ends and make peace with his life. There was no unfinished business to keep him here, no resistance to letting go. But despite being so surrendered to death, his heart continued to beat, and his lungs continued to breathe. As all of life, even death comes on its own schedule. His eyes told me that despite the labored appearance of his body, he was inside there just patiently waiting for the bus.

When the bus finally pulled into the station, we were all there at his bedside. My mom, my two brothers, and me. One minute his breath was labored and raspy, and the next it was gone. He never even closed his eyes.

I’d never witnessed a death before. What was the most surprising to me was that I never felt him leave. Even to this day, I still feel him as though he were here. I can hear his advice when I want to, and feel his strong comforting presence. Perhaps it is because I have lived 900 miles away for 10 years, and I have become accustomed to the absence of his physical presence. Or perhaps the essence of a person really does live on after the body dies.

When I cry, even at the funeral when I cried, it was not from grief or a sense of loss. It was from a profoundly deep place of sweetness and tenderness. The one-of-a-kind expression of the energy of life that was my dad will never again exist. The totality of him, all the idiosyncrasies and treasures and sometimes frustrating qualities, will never be embodied in the same way again.

And this is the gift his death has given me. When I came back home, I saw those around me through different eyes. I knew, really knew, that their quirks and idiosyncrasies would become precious memories when they were gone from my life. It’s not much of a stretch from that knowledge to a place of acceptance in the now.

Death is the great leveler and destroyer of judgment. My dad was not a perfect person. But he was perfectly himself. And if he were to walk back through my door today, I wouldn’t change a thing about him.

So every autumn, I will use the changing leaves and falling snow as a reminder. A reminder that nothing lasts forever, and that if I wish away this moment, or a particular trait in someone I love, I am missing out on the joy of savoring unique perfection. Because Life only creates originals. Like snowflakes, not one of us will ever be replicated.

Snowflakes melt so quickly . . . why spend even one instant wishing that one snowflake was more like another? Just catch it on your mitten and enjoy it while it lasts.

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You can find Karen Alonge living her passion all day, every day in her career as an intuitive life coach and parenting consultant. Visit her website, www.karenalonge.com, for more information

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