The Final Curtain

How will you spend your declining years? Do you really think you have much control over your final years or your life? Can you let go of the delusions of youth or the achievements of maturity gracefully? Do you really know who you are?

She lies on the plastic covered mattress of a hospital bed, clutching a large doll and smiling through her toothless mouth. She might weigh 80lbs; her wardrobe consists of pale blue hospital gowns and over sized disposable diapers. She can't tell you her name or age or what brought her to the four-bed ward of an extended care hospital, but the nurses and aides tell you she is co-operative, never causes a fuss and enjoys applesauce. On the bulletin board beside her bed there are several faded black and white photos. One shows a smiling woman in a military uniform. Another is an antique picture of a solemn faced girl wearing a lace collar with her dark hair in long ringlets. A slightly larger photo shows a joyful couple in their wedding regalia, the brides veil is festooned with tiny white flowers and she seems to be holding a bouquet of roses. Finally, there are several small pictures of a stub nosed, freckled boy with a glint of mischief in his laughing eyes. He seems to be about ten or twelve in the pictures and bears a strong resemblance to the man in the wedding photograph.

Sara, for that's the name on the woman's file, was born in 1904 on April 18Th. She has no living relatives except for a cousin who lives in England. She's been diagnosed with senile dementia and has a do not revive label clipped to her medical chart. A social workers note informs us that she lost her husband to a stroke fifteen years ago and that there only child, William, succumbed to diphtheria in 1933. There is no indication as to who the woman in the Second World War uniform is. However, included in Sara's file is reference to her being a prize winning ballroom dancer, the recipient of a number of awards, ribbons and trophies.

Looking at Sara, you might wonder what dreams, hopes and experiences defined her life and her self. Was she a cheerful person? How did she cope with the loss of her only child? Did she have a good marriage? Her religious affiliation is listed as Roman Catholic, but was she a true believer in the infallibility of the Pope or the divinity of Jesus? Did Sara ever go through a crisis of faith or have a mystical experience? Her story is lost to us, along with her nimble legs and fancy footwork, the pale roses in her wedding bouquet, and over 90 years of accumulated experience.

Is Sara aware of what is happening to her? Does she think of her husband or child anymore? Is she frustrated by her inability to walk, dress herself or go to the bathroom without assistance? Does that toothless smile reveal her true spirit or is it a meaningless grimace concealing a decaying brain? Sara will eventually go where her husband, friends. and child has gone. We too will eventually pass through the concealing folds of the final curtain . What lies on the other side? How will our lives be evaluated and by whom? Will our passage through the veils of death happen with the speed of a Coronary Thrombosis or will it be a slow slide into Alzheimers?

A Fearful Place

The future can be a fearful place for those who place great store in being in charge, controlling our own lives, standing on our own two feet and directing the pageant of life around us. Particularly fearful are those who did not live their own lives, who ignored their spirit selves, and blindly conformed to the expectations of others and economic necessities. Haunted by the unfulfilled dreams of youth, the promise of worlds to explore, romances to enjoy and adventures to embark on; the poor in spirit can only await their inevitable decline with fear and trepidation.

In some ways fear is a gift. It alerts us to challenges and to dangers. Fear can motivate us to take risks and face the challenge of life, or it can drop us into an emotional abyss of anxiety and paralysis. Trapped in the frozen wasteland of despair one can only wait for deliverance, search for distractions or take a risk and confront the source of the fear.

That old teacher, fear, makes us aware of the unknown, uncontrollable and possibly catastrophic consequences of our activities. Allied with imagination, it anticipates the future and either makes plans, develop skills, avoid perilous situations or accept our mortal limitations and put our trust in something greater than our selves. Perhaps abandoning presumptuous notions about ones infallibility, immunity and control is the most frightening challenge of all. I learned this about 25 years ago on a beach in Mexico.

Being raised in a beach town in Southern California, a world centre of surfboarding, I became a passionate devotee of body surfing. Lacking the money for a surfboard, or a sense of balance, I devoted my summers to transforming my body into a high flying, ocean propelled missile. I would dog paddle out to a wave, try to get on top at that exact moment when the ocean swell collapsed into a frothy, white torrent, propelling me towards the shore. On those rare occasions, I knew what flight, speed and weightlessness felt like. When my timing was off, I either missed the magic moment when the blue green sea turned into a force of nature, or had to dive under the torrent less I be swept under and drowned. But on rare occasions, I actually caught or was caught by a wave. It was glorious to surrender to its power, liberated from the demands of gravity and thrown through the frothy foam to the shallow shore.

Towards the middle of my third decade, I stood on a beach at Mazatlan; slightly broader and heavier in a two piece swimsuit, watching incredible waves crash on a shell covered beach. There was a warning sign in Spanish and English forbidding any swimming and telling me how dangerous the surf really was. But there was nobody around to enforce the warning and the waves looked too fine to walk away from. Taking advantage of a brief hiatus in the surf, I stepped in and rapidly discovered the waves broke only a few yards from the shore. So intense was their power, again and again I found myself tumbled about like a paper airplane caught up in a tropical gale. I was thrown beneath the waves, my swimsuit torn and my skin cut and scratched by sharp clamshells. Still I struggled out beyond the shallows and managed to catch one glorious wave that unceremoniously dumped me under another wave, leaving me gasping for breath and pulling up my swim suit bottom. I knew I should go back to the dry beach that I was only courting bruises, and was very likely to be caught in a rip tide, dragged out to sea and drowned. However, I was determined to catch another wave and ride it into shore.

I slowly became conscious of my bodies rigidity, the way it instinctively froze when a wave broke and thundered toward me. I knew I was no match for the oceans power, I couldn't hope to stand against the tide, but deep inside I was afraid to dive under the swells, to be tossed, and pummelled about, to have my face pushed deep into the wet sand and the sharp shells. So I stood against the oncoming surf and again and again I was pulled off my feet and bounced beneath the waters, my skin bruised and my pride in tatters. I was unwilling to give up my dream of being a wave rider and seemingly incapable to simply relax and go with the tide. But finally I turned my back on another giant surge and forced my rigid limbs to gently collapse into the surf. Yes, I was pulled about, submerged under the froth, dragged along the ocean bottom, but in surrendering to the surging power, I found myself at one with my enemy and no longer limb locked in combat.

I thought of body surfing as a way to challenge the indomitable strength of the ocean waves and bring them under my puny control. I though I would be the conqueror, the heroine, determined to do her own thing and have her own way, no matter what the odds. Instead I learned to surrender my silly notions of personal control and entrust my fragile ego to the tides and currents and broken swells where the sea met the shore.

A Great Task

OK, I am getting a little too poetic and self-dramatising in my anecdotes. You might be wondering what turning your body into a surf board and getting wiped out a few yards from the shore has to do with senile resident in a long term care hospital or with sanity, spirituality and having a life. Ill give you a hint; eventually all of us will reach the limits of our strength, agility, and intellect. Our faces will grow wrinkled, our midriffs will broaden, and our voices will quaver and break. The passions and ambitions that drove our youth will weaken and fade and we will vanish into the cluttered annals of history and the distorted memories of our descendants. Some of us may embrace the notion of reincarnation and imagine returning again and again to set the record straight. Others may look forward to a heavenly paradise or reunion with an all-embracing Nirvana. We may look at the final curtain with fear and dread or hope and expectation. However, no matter how we perceive our ultimate destination, eventually we will need to let go of the concerns, possessions and accomplishments that make up our lives. Knowing when to let go of emotional and material bric a brac is one of the great tasks of being alive.

Some of us, myself included, would rather wait until time and circumstances took our treasures away. We would rather pretend that everything will remain the same, that our lives are not subject to the forces of entropy and decay. Others give up too soon or facing the inevitable dissolution of everything they work for, refuse to squander their precious time, energy or resources on any thing, which doesn't produce immediate results. They play it safe, procrastinate, go along with their contemporaries and wake up one morning wondering where their lives went. Others beat themselves up, indulging in the rituals of self-blame and victim consciousness, mourning lost opportunities and unfulfilled expectations. However a few, very few, learn how to balance detachment with effort and enter the domain of contentment.

The Domain of Contentment

There is a Sufi story about an impoverished dervish who decided to test the king of the dervishes and find out if he really deserved his exalted position. On entering the kings palace, the impoverished dervish wandered through one chamber and another wondering at the wealth, the opulence and sheer grandeur of the palace. He felt a trifle envious, but denied it by telling himself that the King of the dervishes must not be all that spiritual and most definitely did not deserve the status of a King. "After all," he told himself," in our religion, we are not supposed to heap up possessions lest they encourage greed and attachment." Then he entered the presence of the king intending to challenge him to go on a pilgrimage. No sooner had the dervish opened his mouth, than the King declared himself ready to go on pilgrimage. The King stepped down from his throne, grasped the dervish by the hand and quickly walked out of the palace. The dervish was so astonished that he failed to bring his only possession, a water bag. After a few miles, he became aware of this lack and told the King they had to return, so he could retrieve it. "What?" declared the King, " I was willing to leave my palace, my treasure chests, and my servants behind, while you cant sacrifice a simple water bag! Tell me now, do you still feel spiritually superior to me?"

Then, there is the story of a young man who was suddenly seized by a religious vocation. Filled with a burning desire to devote his life to a spiritual cause, he went to the master and declared himself willing to give up everything, if the master would accept him as a disciple.
"Tell me," the master replied," You say you are willing to sacrifice all of your possessions, your ambitions and desires if I agree to make you my disciple?"
"Yes, I am!"
"Then tell me, exactly what do you have to give up? What accomplishments, desires or possessions are you willing to sacrifice?"
The young man grew silent, for if the truth were to be told, he had not done much with his life and had very little to offer. He had not developed his natural skills, nor exerted himself to achieve material, personal or social objectives and as the master probably realised, he had yet to test his strength in the arena of commitment.

Committment and Regret

No matter where our journey takes us, be it along the path of material wealth, personal growth or spiritual awareness, the vehicle of commitment is required. I think it would be better if one could freely commit herself to a principle, a task, or a course through life. However, commitment isn't necessarily conscious. Those qualities and habits that characterise your life and influence your relationships are commitments. In this context, a drug addicts desperate need to get a fix is a commitment. She may not have much conscious control over her appetite, but the determination to satisfy even the most destructive of cravings is no less a commitment than the desire to earn a living or raise a child. One of the peculiar aspects of commitment is if you take advantage of your desires and detach yourself from the useless residue of past errors and misfortunes, you will realise your objectives and fulfill your purposes. However, most of the time, people turn their mistakes into habits and allow the dead bodies of the past dictate current behaviours and future aspirations.

Clinging to the corpse of our past life, reiterating again and again how we have been screwed up, regretting our mistakes and our lost opportunities, denying our natural gifts and our accomplishments and refusing to accept the challenges of change has the effect of prematurely lowering the final curtain . So many people wonder if there is life after death, my question is, is there life after birth? How much time am I willing to devote to the process of being sane, spiritual and living my life? Would it be easier or more satisfying to abandon my dreams and submit to the tyranny of tribal expectations and familial conditioning? Do I really want to become more conscious, more in tune with the challenges and excitement of life, or would I prefer to be a zombie, drifting through the twilight zone of mindless entertainment and soul numbing apathy?

Wisdom comes from asking the right question and questions, which focus on our lives, our beliefs and our habits are infinitely more rewarding than pat little excuses, which only serve to reinforce the status quo.

The next chapter will focus on images of the Self and examine its motivations, for an unexamined life is not worth living.

" True loss is for him whose days have been spent in utter ignorance of his true self."
(Baha'u'llah)
Blind imitation of the past will stunt the mind. But once every soul inquireth into the truth, society will be free from the darkness of continually repeating the past.
(Abdu'l-Baha)

Irrespective of the faith you hold and the spiritual processes you commit yourself to, self-knowledge and devotion to the truth are as critical to your spirit as food is to your body. No matter what your circumstances are, your health, age, personal beliefs, triumphs or failures, the option of personal examination and self-reconciliation remain open. All of us partake in the gift of life; however, the gift of Self is something one needs to work for. It requires honesty, acceptance, appreciation and support. The degree, to which we understand and care for our unique selves and our lives, denotes our capacity to be sane, spiritual and have a life of our own. I do not believe there is any greater gift or prize to be won other than the one of actualising ones own unique individuality. I also believe that this is a prize one can only give ones self. However, before I pull down the curtain on my literary venture, I shall share my personal perspective on the nature and motives of the Self.