“Practice dying frequently” is family therapist Carl Whitaker’s advice on living fully. Throughout the 25 years that quote has been posted on my bulletin board, I’ve revised my interpretation of it from time to time. After having a foot in the grave, I’ve revised it once again.
     Awaking from a coma, in a foreign hospital, disoriented, I was reminded I had a physical body. Beeping monitors and flashing screens reflected the data of my existence. Large windows permitted visual access to sterile hospital personnel rather than earthy greenery or even polluting traffic. Oh yes, I had a body, though something had gone wrong.
     Something had been wrong for some time, but I didn’t see it. Denial is powerful. Could I have known before drastic measures were required? I don’t know, but I didn’t. That’s for sure.
     In retrospect many clues stand out. Hindsight is so acute. Didn’t I know I was miserable, or, at the very least, uncomfortable? My friends did. One gently chided me, “You think you know yourself so well.” Running my business and household, I stayed busy pushing on to the next day. Forsaken was the notion of anything being different, more or better than today. If some part of me knew, the rest of me was effectively rationalizing my misery and I plodded along, enduring. Not until there was data strewn around in lights and bytes, tubes and catheters did I snap to.
     Arousing to consciousness, my first waking thought, “Who knows I’m here?” While I could see other humans through the portal, I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. Do we exist if no one knows us? Existential relief arrived as my sister entered the ICU gowned in paper. “What are you doing here?” I asked. She looked at me like I had completely lost my mind, which for a while I guess I had.
     Does it require a dramatic hit by a virtual 2×4 to wake us up to what is precious? Maybe so. Painful consequences of critical events is a common impetus for the people in my life, both personally and professionally. An urgent need to share, to be witnessed by others, a need to be known and to recognize ourselves in the knowing. Those events, whether psychologically instigated or physically demanded, create distress. Are we civilized humans so thickly armored against the magnitude of stimuli from media, modernity and mama, that our own senses filter out the personal, physical and psychological indicators of trouble? I was. Only when the choice was as basic as “do it or die” was I able to dissemble the protective devices and face, head on, that which I dreaded the most.
     I was the last to know how close I came to having both feet in the grave. Fortunately, with the help of those who “know me into existence,” I pulled out the one foot I’d planted, for a while at least. That dress rehearsal for dying has provided valuable practice. Dying to the familiar, dying to misery, dying to knowing or thinking I do. Practice, practice, practice dying. In return, living is more brilliant, and each day an extra one. Thank you, Carl.

Here it is the end of May.
Class is out; the stage crossed.
Awards bestowed.
Anthems played.

All in past tense.
To come are brides to be kissed.
Father’s to be honored.
Flares to fire off.

And here I am in-between.
Watching the sunset
Exhaling, then,
What comes next, the inhale.

Somewhere betwixt back then, just moments ago,
And when, in just a little while, there am I.
Adjusting to what will never be again
Saying goodbye.

Merging into the next;
Staying open to the inhale
Taking it all in
Never to be again.

Tasting the blend of the fresh
Mixed with savorings of the freshly finished.
Constantly taking it all in.
Nourished by the moment.

     When I was a very young child I remember being told that I “HAD to share”…. even when I didn’t want to. Regardless of my own inclinations to hold onto my precious possessions, my parents knew best, of that I am sure. So, sharing was the social requirement. Yes, I was very young.
     It was when my children were of a similar age that I realized that “having” comes before “sharing”. While eating dinner at a restaurant one evening (can’t really call it dining with a three-year-old tot in tow), my aunt and I were catching up on family news; my daughter, Kate*, was flirting with the child in the booth behind us. As the neighbor child went reaching for Kate’s new toy, my precious little girl loudly proclaimed, “MINE.”
     That response was obviously contrary to southern etiquette required for properly raised children in my family. My aunt spoke up while I was still observing the wants of two youngsters vying for the object of desire. With a smile on her face, she insisted Kate share her toy, to which my lovely child, just as adamantly replied, “MINE”. Recognizing that this could quickly become a clash of wills with volume, I stepped up to the parenting plate.
     “It’s okay,” I said to Kate, “You don’t have to share.” Again, not a response common to the well bred according to accepted family protocols, my aunt being the reigning authority at the table. I could tell this not because I’d read that book of etiquette, but due to the mild shock on my aunt’s face and her flustering for words with which to offer me correction. But then, it’s also not the best of manners to dress-down your niece in a public venue, either.
     I looked at my dear aunt and said what seemed plain to me, having lost my copy of the Rules for Contemporary Southern Propriety. Knowing my daughter to be a generous child, and watching her in her negotiations with her new acquaintance, I remarked, “She cannot share until she has an experience of it being hers, owning it. It’s so new, it’s not real to her yet, her bond is too fragile to risk breaking by letting it go. When she’s lived with it a bit, she’ll be able to offer it to others and still know it belongs to her. Just, not yet.”
     Everyone calmed down. My aunt was reassured, my child was reassured and our little family concluded a successful mealtime experience in a public venue without taking center stage. Yippeeee!!!
     Over the past 15 years “having to share” has continued to evolve to a meaning revised from that which I held as a youngster. I haf’ta share, not as proper etiquette or in compliance with family rules of order, but simply because I must. Others have asked with various voices, and at this point, I’m happy to share what I have. Hopefully my musings will find their way to being useful. So, as I continue to practice life, the Life Practice blog is launched. A canvas to paint, with colors common to us all, the pictures I’ve come to claim as “mine.”
     We’ll see what happens.

* After spending years teaching my children to protect their identity on-line, my daughter has expressed her desire that I not use her real name. What can I say? So I’ve opted to use the name I had planned on calling her, but that a more fitting one came along before I could implement my plan. Here’s my chance. Those who know her will recognize her in spirit if not her nomen.

Stay tuned! More to come soon…