Someday It'll Be Me. Someday It'll Be You.

[CW: end of life topic; deep thoughts ahead; crossposted from Facebook]

There's nothing like attending a deathbed to make you consider where your priorities really are. Today I walked into a room immediately after a woman had passed away. We sang for the family while the undertakers respectfully waited to take her. There was so much love in that room, so much care, that it touched my soul profoundly, especially as the family each reached out to hug us tight, and as they hugged me, to whisper their thanks, their love for their mother, everything we’d been holding space for. There was healing and closure for some people today.

And while there was closure for them, it opened up a whole  something else inside of me. I’ve been pondering for literal hours:  Do we (humans) have our priorities straight? Where are we putting our energy for however long we have left here in this existence? 

Someday it'll be me. 

Someday it'll be you.

How will you spend the rest of your life? Are you living for the now or living in the past? Are you living from love, forgiving hurts, saying sorry? Or are you spending energy fighting online about stupid crap, holding grudges, going to bed mad?

This isn't meant to sound preachy, by the way. I hope it doesn’t come across that way, and my sincere apologies if it does. It's just meant to stimulate whoever is reading this (and I believe that if you are reading this, then perhaps you are meant to see it) to focus on the good stuff too and perhaps to consider a priority reset if you’re feeling bogged down in negativity.

Themes that show themselves to me again and again these last several years: 

Heal old wounds. 

Nurture worthy relationships. 

Let go of what isn’t healthy for you (including people).

Breathe. 

Be Love.

I’ve been saying this since the first time I died: LOVE is the key to the absolutely everything. It’s what runs the universe.

Another thought that occurred to me on the drive home from hospice today: Who do I want to be when I move on from here? 

I want to be Love. And I hope to be remembered as someone who cared.

So who do you want to be?

I know it’s not always comfortable to read about topics like this. I was changed by today's experience—so deeply affected that I had to share. I appreciate you reading.  ❤️

Photo by Jamez Picard on Unsplash

When Feeling Grief while Singing at Bedside

One thing I love about being a Threshold Singer is seeing how music brings a sense of peace to a patient and their families. To be able to hold space for someone who is dying, for their families to grieve, and to be able to comfort that family is why we do what we do. 

The song is the gift ... for all of us.

Each time I go to hospice, I feel like I'm entering a sacred space. But each visit has been different from others, as varied as the people in the world—no two visits are alike. And some days impact me more deeply than others. 

On my most recent visit, I learned what preemptive grief is. I knew that it would come up at some point in my journey as a bedside singer. I didn't know when it would hit, but I knew it would at some point. 

"Some point" is today, apparently. 

Training to be a threshold singer prepares you for such things, thankfully. I've done a lot of examination of my own thoughts around death and how I personally process grief. I feel I have grown so much through that work. And today I witnessed two situations that I imagine I will experience some day. They felt a little close to home, and that feeling of preemptive grief arrived. It happened mid-song, so instead of reacting, I took the role of observer, thinking "Hm. Okay. This is grief happening, and I will look more closely at it later when I'm done with this visit."

Now that I am home from a song visit, I will sit, and I will feel: grief to gratitude, heart open, sitting in loving light, sending loving-kindness to all beings...

To all souls.

I am grateful for my fellow singers. And I am grateful to the family members present in each of those situations for their openness, their willingness to share both current, physical space and timeless, liminal space with us during their sorrow and their exhaustion and their pain, as well as their memories and their joy in having been part of a life well lived. We witness all of these things, and more. I'm grateful that they let the music be whatever they need it to be in that moment. 

I'm especially grateful for the ones who could hear us in another room, who wonder if we'll come to them next and eagerly greet us when we do. They have demonstrated such generosity and beauty of spirit. They and my fellow singers kept me going when those uncomfortable feelings cropped up, like a life-saver ring thrown into a sea of emotions. I held on and let them lift me out of the depths.

Thank you for that gift.