An Open Letter of Gratitude to Cynthia Bourgeault
Seemingly out of the clear blue, a book crossed my path. The author spoke a language I already knew on the inside, but had not yet encountered in time. I was already walking in what I sensed, but no one in my life had traveled that way before.
Cynthia Bourgeault wrote boldly, vulnerably, humanly, and those words became a field guide. The book validated my experience, introduced maps so I could find my bearings, sobered me to the responsibility required, contextualized it within Christianity, and illustrated the wonder and coherence of the divine heart of the cosmos.
When I got out of balance and fell, her words were breadcrumbs to eat and follow until I could feel my way back from the inside.
Yesterday, I wrote and recorded this letter about how being formed in this Wisdom lineage has strengthened and softened me.
Dear Cynthia,
During this year’s Lenten season, we received the news that my mother-in-law was dying. I traveled with only one small carry-on and one book: The Good Wine.
What we thought would be a week’s stay at her bedside turned into a five-plus-week assignment. Scott’s mom needed help, and oddly, we were available enough to meet her there. We did not decide once; we just kept saying yes.
Had I been called upon in earlier seasons of my life, I would have delegated this, knowing I could not bear the weight of it. As it happened, there was no shred of resistance. A very particular kind of tears rose and fell as the gravity of each next step dawned. The realization that I would be entering terrain hitherto unreachable.
“I am you, and you are me.”
I was not asked to eat the task whole. The way was made in a series of tiny obediences, carried by help unseen but palpable. The lightness of being never once ebbed.
I can recall only one day when my soul was cast down. This day was a threshold. I was watching the class on the integral and time. My mother-in-law came into the room where I was watching during the Q & A. She encouraged me to continue watching whatever I was watching. There was hesitation on my part, knowing there would be friction.
Though not directly expressed, this long-time Bible study teacher stayed up late into the night dictating her lesson for what turned out to be her final teaching on one of the letters to the Corinthians. I heard her repeating “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” loudly after midnight several times, and warning of false teachers. In the next room during Bible Study, I heard the women praying for me, concerned I was deceived.
The irony. I could say yes to the task solely because the gospel has penetrated me so deeply at a cellular level, “beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing.” Christ in my backbone, the power to consent to the call.
I remember grief and anger, but not at a personal level. The validity of my faith was being evaluated on church attendance and a perception that I had strayed from biblical teachings.
I had a visceral front-row seat to how evil trickles down through systems. Personal pain mixed with power compounds separation and proliferates density. At the end of a long and faithful life, fear and scarcity were edging out the fruits of the Spirit.
But the tide turned the next day. I witnessed the beauty of the ego lifting and lightening. There were ebbs and flows to the end, of course, but the stranglehold loosened.
The image of Mom I choose to carry is of a grateful woman. One who took my hand often and said, “Kirsti, have I told you how much I appreciate you?” I tucked a snapshot into my heart of the graceful acceptance of the many little deaths that preceded her physical death. These are sacred stories I will hold close.
In Mom’s final days, I sat vigil in the recliner next to her bed, singing the hymns, blessings, and sacred chants that I was raised on, and have since found to be home. Her last words to me were, “I love your voice.” She enjoyed her last days.
Sitting Vigil
Though I do not remember where it was nestled sequentially, there was another moment, one that I sense was anchored in eternity.
Here’s how I described it in real time to our Wisdom Circle:
Dear Ones.
You may remember I am caring for my mother-in-law as she is at home on hospice. We have been here two days shy of one month. Over the past 3 days, I have slept a total of 10 hrs in small increments. Mom crossed a threshold into active dying. Scott and I were without trained support for the first 48 hrs of this. As her body began to shut down, the care needs increased in ways we were not prepared for. We moved together harmoniously, with sincerity and a lightness of being. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, and one of the greatest honors of my life, which I only began to awaken to the realization of last evening.
What arises freshly now: in the deep vulnerability of our longest night, the three of us sweat blood in the garden. After clearing our most arduous hurdle, as dawn approached in the depth of her suffering (suffering we felt ill-equipped to meet skillfully in World 48), “I am” kissed her hand tenderly, spoke words of love, gratitude, and the willingness to abide. In the presence of Mercy, I witnessed surprise, tears on cheeks, and the fullness of softening.
Last night, after being mostly non-verbal for 24 hrs, Mom began to speak in words and short phrases intermittently to us and to invisible others, right as skilled care arrived. I was the only family member in the apartment, because we are taking turns resting for a full night at a nearby hotel.
Though instructed by the hospice nurse to sleep while help was nigh, there were several hours of constriction and fear that Mom would feel abandoned, because the private home health aide was unfamiliar and perceptibly frazzled.
I napped for 30 minutes and then checked on her. She said, “Where are my children?”
For the next 2+ hours, I experienced intense, energetically dissonant (this word doesn’t seem sharp enough, electric enough) physical sensations, confusion, and fear, co-present with a tiny sliver of compassion for little i’s. There was a recollection that decisions were made in the atmosphere of collective Métis when an unexpected and mercifully swift possibility of help materialized. Constriction abated gradually, and I slept for three consecutive hours.
I have arrived at the hotel and will be here for at least 20 hrs, come what may. I know that offering these impressions to you all is an obedience, a preparation.
Another message to Circle after my return:
Mom passed away on 3/20. Her hospice home health aide had attended to her earlier that day, a day before she was scheduled to, obedient to the timing she sensed, though she did not utter it. Mom looked regal in her favorite lipstick and blue turban.
My husband fell ill suddenly (and, as it turns out, very briefly), and he left to rest. His brother was also at home resting. A nurse called to tell me that, though it was her night off, her phone would be nearby. I took her up on the invitation to ask for help. Another nurse called to help me discern what to do. He signed off with, “Lean on your caregiver.” We had someone coming sit with Mom while we rested.
I went to sleep at 11:15 pm. At 12:05, there was a knock on my door. It seems Mom was waiting for a moment when we were not in the room to let go of form.
This may have been my first bone-deep taste, in linear time, of conscious labor and intentional suffering. It may sound cold, but I trust you will hear through the coarseness of my words. I did not feel sentimentality about Mom’s passing. It was time. She was ready. There was a poignancy, but I was removed enough not to feel clingy. There was a task. Mom needed care. I was available. It was a series of tiny obediences.
I know the Love & Respect practice is stitched together with a force.
Time and time again, I looked into her eyes, whether in my mind’s eye or with my physical eyes. “And in all that I think, may I be worthy of that.”
“I am you, and you are me.”
About a year ago, I whispered a very specific consent into the Imaginal Realm.
Am I willing to do unto all what I am willing to do unto one, when given the chance?
In this case, and to my surprise, I am.
The most fitting offering I can imagine as I close is gratitude extended with a deep bow, through tears.
Thank you for trusting the invincibility of your heart, for wagering everything on one level to orient to the highest possible outcome on another, for choosing not to hide your light under a bushel.
Thank you for writing boldly, vulnerably, humanly.
Your “yeses” prepared the way for mine.
I understand now, from the inside, that “no conscious work is ever wasted.” Here is how the imaginal refrain has taken shape in me:
Every action matters; let go of how and why,
Love,
Kirsten
NOTE: The word obedience is complicated, I know. Here’s what it means to me: “listening from the depths” and responding to what I hear. Something in me knows what to do, and the rest of me yields what is known.
My name is Kirsten. In spiritual direction, I accompany folks as they attune to the inner dimensions of life. This way of being together is grounding and spacious. Together, we anchor into presence and a familiar flow of relating.
