Finding Life after Death

Richard Carlson

When my dear friend Robert died in a car crash, I was totally unprepared, as everyone always is at an unexpected tragedy. It happened so suddenly. The timing couldn't have been worse either, as the accident occurred two nights before my wedding. I was tense already, but Robert would have been able to help make me laugh and keep things lighthearted. He was a warm, supportive, and loving friend—and we had always known we would be friends for decades to come. But it wasn't to be.

For a while, my world fell apart. It was the first time I couldn't "fix" a situation or even pretend that it was fixable. This time I couldn't run away. There was nowhere to go, nor was there anywhere to hide. I had been considered strong, even wise for my years, but I proved everyone wrong. My grief was too overwhelming for me to even pretend to put up any pretences.

The first time I "came up for air" was when I was able to spend a day sharing my grief with Stephen Levine in San Francisco. You may know Stephen for his landmark book, "Who Dies?" I thought of him as a remarkably loving being, and someone who was more comfortable with the subject of death than anyone I had ever known. Had we not met that day, I do not know what would have happened to me. What he shared with me changed my outlook forever.

When our familiar world falls apart, especially through the pain of death—of losing someone we love—we are shaken at our very core. We realize, perhaps for the first time, that there is no easy or quick way out. We must go through the process, which will be a little different for each of us—the common thread being pain.

In the midst of that inner struggle, however, something begins to happen. There are the moments that are most resisted—and there is extreme pain. Simultaneously, however, there are voluntary or involuntary bursts of letting go. Perhaps the pain is too much for the moment—the mind takes a break, shuts down, or wakes up, I'm not really sure. But in those moments, there is a release from the pain; an acknowledgment that although we don't understand it, and it hurts like hell, the universe somehow knows what it's doing.

One of my favorite sayings comes from Seng-Ts'an. He said, "Our way is not difficult, save the picking and choosing." Entire books and weeklong courses could be developed around these words. The wisdom is simple, but extremely powerful and profound, particularly when dealing with loss. Although it's so much easier said than done, when we take a step back and a full breath, we can see loss from what I believe is the deepest perspective. We can see the seasons come and go. We can know that although God did not plan or cause the death of our loved one—or the pain we are going through—He is, nevertheless, there to comfort us.

God may speak to us directly, in line with our own faith and belief, as we quiet down and listen. Or He may show up cleverly disguised as a friend, neighbor, family member, minister, rabbi, spiritual teacher, emergency worker, or someone else whom you may never suspect. But however it happens and regardless of how God presents himself, you will experience his presence as hope, compassion, strength, and kindness.

One night, after speaking to an audience in Chicago, I went out for a quiet dinner, all alone. In the booth next to me was a man who told me an extraordinary story. He had experienced the unimaginable pain of the death of his only child. Already being a single dad, he had few places to turn for comfort.

One day, in the midst of his deepest grief, he met an angel disguised as a waitress. His connection to her was spiritual, not physical. She had been through a similar experience herself and was able to give him a gentle push in a healing direction. He connected with a new church and a whole new group of friends. He said that he could trace his entire healing process back to that waitress, whom he had never seen again. There was no doubt in his mind that God had visited him that day.

When dealing with lesser things, it's easier to see that if we did not want these things to be different, then we would be free. Certainly if we didn't wish to control our world, the events and people in our lives, then we would be at peace. How much of our pain and suffering stems from our intense need for things to be different?

Our way through life should not be difficult—but it is. The fact is that our lives are filled mostly with picking and choosing. "I want this, but not that." And because things are not anything other than the way they really are, we suffer. Nowhere is this more apparent and painful than when we are trying to find life after death. We so desperately want things to be the way they were. But they are not. So the longing itself becomes an additional source of suffering.

After almost two decades of meditation and a personal lifetime commitment to truth, I have both good and bad news to report. The bad news is that there is no hiding from the painful thoughts that are the inevitable by-product of the death of a loved one. The comforting news is that it's possible to relate to our pain in a more compassionate manner.

As painful thoughts and feelings arise, we are tempted to go in one of two directions. Sometimes we indulge ourselves in painful memories or anticipate future pain. We become immersed and absorbed in the pain, and our thoughts frighten us. Or instead of thinking about our loss, or even talking about it to others, we repress or deny its existence. As thoughts come up, we push them away. We pretend they don't exist. We keep busy and distract ourselves. It's too painful to face—so we don't.

A third option is not a compromise. It's neither an indulgence, nor is it any form of denial. It's simply a compassionate acknowledgment of the truth. As thoughts arise, we don't push them away—or hate them. Nor do we run. We simply see them as they are: "There's pain, and there's loss. And now I'm missing my child, my partner, my lover, my friend." The thoughts are not judged or altered, nor is the pain minimized in any way.

But while this is going on we relate with compassion to whatever is arising. We send love and kindness to ourselves and to our thoughts. As we do, an openness and a spaciousness begin to emerge. In the absence of mental energy running toward the future—or the past—our pain begins to soften and dissolve. Healing begins. We become stronger.

We just keep giving our pain space, over and over again, for however long it takes. Days, months, years—or an entire lifetime. It doesn't matter. We keep allowing whatever is to be there. Just as we would hold a child close to our heart to keep her feeling safe and comforted, so would we do the same for ourselves. Offer no resistance. Don't push it away. Instead be kind and compassionate to your pain, as you would be for that child, or for your best friend.

In 1989, the above-mentioned and admired Stephen Levine contributed to a book that I had co-edited with my dear friend Benjamin Shield called "Healers on Healing." He wrote about a woman he had worked with who was suffering from an excruciatingly painful bone metastasis—cancer. Up to that point, she had lived a life of anger and self-pity. She had never even met her grandchildren, and even in the hospital she greeted every person with rage. She hated the world—and it hated back.

One night, after weeks in the hospital, the pain became unbearable. A lifetime of withholding and resistance became too much, and she could withhold no more. For the first time in her life, she opened and surrendered to her pain. Instead of sending it hate and hardening her heart, she softened—finally. For the first time in her life, she treated her pain with something other than anger and fear. She treated it with loving-kindness. As this happened, she suddenly felt a lifelong buildup of compassion for others. She said she knew, for the first time, the suffering of others. She even described her pain not as "my pain," but as "the pain."

In the next six weeks before her death, she experienced a complete turnaround and emotional healing. Her anger completely dissolved and turned to love. She continued to soften around her pain. She begged her children for forgiveness, which she received. Within days, the grandchildren she had never met were comforting her by her side, stroking her hands. Unbelievably, she became one of the most loved people in the hospital. Nurses and doctors would go out of their way to visit her.

Hers was the most remarkable healing I have ever heard about. It taught me several important things. First, that healing goes far beyond the physical. This woman died as healed as anyone could ever hope for. Secondly, it reinforced the incredible power of softening to one's pain. Whether our pain is physical or emotional—as when we lose someone we love—the key to healing is a softening to our pain.

Recently, I read an extraordinary book, "How to Survive the Loss of a Love" by Harold Bloomfield, M.D., Melba Colgrove, Ph.D., and Peter McWilliams. If you are experiencing any type of loss, I recommend this book above all others. If there was a single message that stood out for me as I read and reread the book, it was that we will survive, and that this is not in doubt. Healing from a loss is a natural process of life—just as healing from a broken bone is too. Knowing this in the midst of pain is of great comfort.

If it's at all possible, don't be alone. Seek out the comfort and help you need and deserve. This is not the time to be brave or strong. Instead it's the time to reach out to others and to be open to receive their kindness. It's your turn. Finding life after death is among the greatest challenges we face. But it is possible, and it will happen for you. I send you my love.

Finding a Way to Help

Steve Goodier

Have you ever wanted to help but didn't know what to do?

A friend once told me a beautiful story of how ordinary people found a simple way to help. He was enjoying the scenic view atop Casper Mountain, a favorite spot for visitors to Casper, Wyoming (USA). Even in the summer it is cool on top of the mountain, and on this day he noticed a young woman who apparently had no coat. She shivered as she wrapped her arms around herself.

Then he saw an older man approach the young woman, take off his sweater and place it on her shoulders. The man said, "Here, keep the sweater. The view is even better when you're warm." She smiled her thanks and wrapped the warm garment around her arms as he drove away.

Before the woman left, she spotted a middle-aged woman who was obviously cold and handed her the sweater. "Keep it," she said. "The view is even better when you're warm."

Intrigued, my friend kept his eyes on the sweater. He noticed that before the current owner of the sweater left, she approached a shivering man, gave it to him and said, "Here...keep the sweater. The view is even better when you're warm."

"That happened a couple of years ago," my friend said. "And as far as I know, that sweater is still on top of Casper Mountain, going from one person to another."

Ordinary people...finding a way to help. Sally Koch said, "Great opportunities to help others seldom come, but small ones surround us daily." Or like somebody else likes to say: "Nobody can help everybody, but everybody can help somebody!"

Finding Surprises

Steve Goodier

Have you noticed how life is full of surprises? A sailor tried to find a new trade route to China and stumbled upon a new (to him) continent. Alexander Fleming inadvertently left a culture dish on a window sill and discovered penicillin. Another scientist discovered saccharin when he noticed a strange, sugary taste in his sandwich.

According to a story from UNCLE JOHN'S ULTIMATE BATHROOM READER (The Bathroom Readers' Institute Bathroom Readers' Press, 1996), in 1989, an unidentified "middle-aged financial analyst from Philadelphia" paid four dollars for a painting at a flea market. He didn't even like the painting—it was the frame he wanted. So he took the picture apart...and when he did, a copy of the US Declaration of Independence fell out. It was folded up, about the size of a business envelope. He thought it might be an early 19th-century printing and worth keeping as a curiosity.

A few years later, the man showed the print to a friend, who suspected it might be valuable and encouraged him to look into it. He did, and learned that only hours after finishing work on the Declaration in 1776, the Continental Congress had delivered the handwritten draft to a printer with orders to send copies of the Declaration to "the several Assemblies, Conventions & Committees and the Commanding Officers of the Continental troops, that it be proclaimed in each of the United States & at the head of the Army."

This was one of those original copies. No one is sure how many were printed that night; today only 24 survive, and most are in poor condition. But the one in the picture frame was in excellent shape, having spent the better part of two centuries undisturbed. In 1991, it sold at auction for $2.4 million.

Life is full of surprises! But most surprises are not nearly as dramatic as these. The unexpected occurs every day...random kindness from a stranger; a tragic accident is narrowly avoided; sickness unexpectedly healed.

There is a surprise hidden in every day. It may be disguised as a mere coincidence, but those who look will find it.

It's an exciting way to live!

Use Your Greatest Power

Steve Goodier

"Becoming aware of my character defects leads me naturally to the next step of blaming my parents," one woman quips.

Benjamin Franklin didn't feel that way. Becoming aware of his character defects led him to something quite remarkable. He exercised what author J. Martin Kohe calls YOUR GREATEST POWER (1955 & 2005)—your power to choose.

Franklin noticed that he had difficulty getting along with people. He tended to argue too much. He had trouble making and keeping friends. So he made a choice. He chose to examine his own personality and make a list of what he considered undesirable personality traits. (It's not known if other people helped him make this list.)

It was New Year's Day. Franklin finished his list of personality traits he wanted to change. He identified 13 character flaws and determined to work on each one for a week. He did this for an entire year and finally checked each trait off his list.

Benjamin Franklin developed one of the finest personalities in America. People looked up to him and admired him. When the colonies needed help from France, they sent Franklin. The French liked him and gave him what he wanted.

Suppose Franklin had chosen to go through life without using his greatest power—his power to choose. Suppose he reasoned that there was really nothing he could do about himself. Would France have supported the colonies? The history of the world may have been significantly different.

One good wish changes nothing. But one good decision changes everything. Your power to choose, to make a good decision, spells the difference between wishing and making those wishes come true.

Do you need to exercise your greatest power? Your power to choose can never be taken from you. It can be neglected. It can be ignored. But if used, it can make all the difference. Use your greatest power and, whether or not you change history, you will certainly change your future.

Your Life is an Inside Job

Steve Goodier

A whole and healthy life—a life of character—is cultivated on the inside. It has little to do with outward appearances, or even reputations. It's an inside job!

It is groomed from within. It grows from seeds of good decisions. Like always choosing to do the right thing, even when you're alone. Or standing up for what is good and decent, even if you run the risk of criticism.

A life of character is sometimes difficult to grow. But what else can you accomplish as worthwhile?

There is no work you'll ever complete; no project you'll ever attempt; no skill you'll ever master; no book you'll ever write; no race you'll ever run; no sculpture you'll ever create; no task you'll ever perform; no structure you'll ever build; nothing you'll ever do—more important than the life you shape one day at a time.

Nurture your life on the inside and you'll never be disappointed with the fruit it bears.

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