Acceptance Not (Yet)

Acceptance.
Can I accept?
Which phrase don't I understand?
And so it is.
It is what it is.
Being.
Being Here and Now.
Being OK with the Here and Now.
The Now.
Now.
Now is perfect.

I am alright with Now, and I Love the Being Here and Now most often, and I know that what Is often just Is, and can’t be changed.

But.........
Presently, I must Accept the dying of two dear friends. One will precede the other within the year. And if not in a year, then too soon. The loss of two people who I turn to for love, answers.

Both know of their impending death from cancer. They have time to process and make peace and Accept. Just as I must come to Accept that these two dearest ones will soon be unavailable physically. They'll still give me answers, if I'm open to listen to them. But the physical here and now of contact will be gone.

It is Yom Kippur today, and I can't stop thinking of them.

One is Laura. She recently gave me one of the greatest gifts one could receive: words of wisdom that penetrate one's soul. Words which ring true as soon as they are heard, which cut to the quick, which must be examined, pondered, thus made my own, taken into my being. Once I caught their meaning, her words had the power to change my frame of reference, my angle of vision, my point of view, and I opened to the hormonal shifts which this new perspective created: a peaceful cascade of cellular changes. Her wisdom and power has now totally infused me, has become part of my fabric, my new truth. Laura’s words were the catalyst to help shift my focus, thus shift my pain/discomfort level.

I spent two wonderful days at Laura's home in Willits, less than one mile from where Margaret and I had lived. Being there was comforting to me on a very deep level. It felt easy to be there, easy to talk and try to make myself useful with cooking and small chores. And my comfort in her home was increased by the presence of Margaret's favorite chair and some artwork which Laura purchased after Margaret's death. So I was surrounded by pieces of my old home, as well as Laura's love.

Laura has terminal breast cancer which has spread to her liver, lungs, and spine. Her most recent bout of chemo therapy has made her bald, revealing a very beautiful head. She is graceful beyond words. She glides across the floor when up, and gestures gracefully with her hands when sitting, which is usually the case; her stamina is poor.

Sitting and talking in her living room on the first of our two days together, I complained that my soul, when I am in southern California, my current home, is not being fed. “My soul’s not being fed there.”

And she wisely replyed,: “No, it is being fed, you just don’t like what it’s being fed. It’s bitter, and you want sweet.”

These were her Words of Wisdom which jolted my being. Which caused my positive shift of perspective. After pondering her reply, I had an epiphany: Who is responsible for what my soul eats/is fed? Why me, only I alone am responsible. (Excluding Grace of Course, which may feed our soul without our doing, out of the blue, a blessing.) So I've gone about my life here in southern California with a lighter step, with more daily joy, with mindfulness of feeding my soul.

This is just one very small piece of what this woman Laura has given me. She is my dear friend and I don’t want to lose her. I know it is “only” on the physical plane, but this plane houses the specific soul package of Laura, who I can phone and ask: “Now tell me again, how do cells communicate?” She always explains things so easily and gracefully. She is one of the smartest people I know. She is a physician, can learn/figure out anything, has tremendous, true insight, is vulnerable, is self aware. She is a graceful and wise woman. And what an honor to witness her beauty, grace, and wisdom.

She shared the eulogy she wrote for herself, and I have her permission to quote from it:
"I do believe that surrendering to Divine will allows the Universe to work in ways that are infinitely benign, although unfathomable. My surrender was a daily commitment, and some days were easier than others. But even the bliss of total surrender embraces the very human grief we feel with loss."