Reading · ClearLife with Cecily Mak

Welcome new readers. I publish bi-weekly about shifting our relationship with things we do or consume to feel less such as eating, snark, exercise, shopping, sex, work, drugs, or even over-functioning. The framework is the Eight Awarenesses. Prior posts here. Information about my recent book, upcoming events, and more via my website.

The last two weeks have felt slower, stretched out, paced. Home throughout, patterns have emerged. Upon awakening pre-dawn, after a moment to revisit my dreams (so many dreams these days), my mind ignites:

What day is it?
Am I alone in the house, and if not, who across our family is here?
Where is our dog?
How much quiet time do I have before the daily expectations fire up?

Brush teeth. Coffee on the deck with my phone and a blanket. More days than not, a sit at my newly simplified altar. I recycled the old black one. It was heavy and wobbly, picked up at a flea market in a different life. The new one is white. Sturdy. It has edges, but is somehow soft too.

I was scheduled to be out of town last week. Three nights of remote work at our fractional coastal retreat, a night at home with my Love, and then three nights in Nashville, a long weekend with my bestie. A treat.

Monday afternoon I found myself sitting on the ground in the shade on the patio outside our kitchen door. The concrete ground a cool reprieve amidst our unusual NorCal heat wave.

Our phones chimed notifications inside on the kitchen counter, momentarily ignored as Soren and I talked. Our dog Sacha panted steadily. Is it the heat? Is she in pain?

The news had come in that since we saw him two days prior, Soren’s father had been admitted to hospice. Mercilessly, also that afternoon, we confirmed that Sacha had cancer throughout her body and we’d need to let her go, probably within days.

Plans, suddenly almost trivial seeming, were cancelled with a few clicks. Flights for family to join us here were booked. With two dear beings nearing end of life, the only place to be was home to care, support, and hold space for it all.

And that we did.

We lost both within 24 hours squarely on the Vernal Equinox, right after the month’s New Moon. Papa G passed first, peacefully after a long string of days surrounded by his kids and grandkids, silent and mostly still, but most certainly feeling and hearing the love and liveliness and love surrounding him. There was singing, storytelling, and quieter, one-way conversations as he was celebrated and honored as he transitioned to the other side. While members of the family took turns being bedside, I reached out for and gratefully accepted the guidance of dear friends fluent in the mystery of death and dying. Encourage him. What a sacred time. He can hear you.

I noticed familiar scents of the transition as it approached, recalling my mother’s passing fifteen years ago. I witnessed love—active love—as family held space and cared for all that needed to be tended to all the way through, and each other.

And then he went.

And then Sacha.

In the hours of time in togetherness I was asked “Do you remember what it was like when your mom passed?”

Yes, I remember a lot. What stands out now is how extremely different it was.

She was unwell in numerous ways. It was tense, charged, and in some ways, tragic.

And I was still actively dimming with alcohol. The last night my mother was alive I enjoyed at least two strong drinks on the deck with a family member as we struggled to process what was happening on the other side of the sliding glass door. Rather than feel it all, I admired the view and numbed it out. Well, because I am human…. but also because at that time in my life I simply didn’t have other tools available (or if I did, I didn’t recognize or know how to use them). Alcohol was adaptable, acceptable, and accessible in almost all of my circles.

When she passed, I went into to-do mode. Dispose of the drugs. Clean the space. Call the people. Schedule the things.

The time around these recent passings was different. Sure, family members probably had a drink or a puff here or there as the long weeks passed, but there was extensive feeling, being present, letting it all in, emoting happening too. Everyone felt very “there for it” while also having their own experiences and processes in the days following. For me, I felt like my senses lit up. Colors, sounds, tastes, scents—they were all amplified, making the mundane spectacular. The song. The soda. The sound of the birds on the deck in the morning. The depth of color and meaning in the floral arrangements assembled and delivered by a dear friend. I think many of us rode the waves of gratitude where passivity had previously prevailed.

Yet, I can see where I still dim. I might not be drinking anymore—or using substances to escape, but I have other tools available, and I use them, sometimes in regrettable ways.

The day we said goodbye to sweet Sacha, family was sitting (and crying) with her outside in the hours leading up to the last vet visit. More than once I heard “Cecily, are you going to come out?” “In a minute,” I’d respond. Recycling to take out. Counters to clean. Texts to send. Laundry to fold. A note to write. Tea to make. Vitamins to take. The list of things I could find to do to avoid the solemnity of our last hours with our beautiful dog is embarrassing now. Yet, self-grace. That was my process at the time. I mentioned that I’d been gradually saying my goodbyes for months as her health and mobility waned. But the truth is that as the moment became more real, I didn’t want to feel it. And busy-ness is my dimmer of choice these days.

Dimming takes countless forms. It’s not about the thing. Some of us might be trying to exercise more to get healthy while for others, working out could be a healthy escape that’s become toxic. Some of us need to be more consistent with our work obligations while for others, screens and productivity are our escape. Some of us might need to be more disciplined about organization and orderliness, while others clean compulsively, to avoid the tough stuff. Ahem.

The invitation is to notice.

I was asked throughout my book tour: “How do you know when you’re using a dimmer?” The answer lies in the why. Smoking a joint with friends on a mountaintop is very different than getting stoned alone after a hard day. Loving care of our home is different than compulsive cleaning and organizing to avoid stillness. Delighting in an ice cream cone with a child is different than passively eating an entire pint with Netflix.

I’m inviting myself into deeper awareness here.

Are there areas in life where I can slow down? Be more conscious? Be more intentional? Present?

I bought a coffee at our local café yesterday, walked it back to my office, and can sadly (and honestly) say I don’t recall drinking it. My attention was on a Zoom meeting, charging my phone, opening mail, and readying for an errand in the city.

The invitation is to be where we are. With who we’re with (or ourselves). Notice.

When I was working with Dr. Bill (the therapist I share a bit about in my book), he gave me a homework assignment: Go home. Make a cup of tea. Sit on the sofa. Drink it—while not doing anything else. Because activity and productivity are among my toughest dimmers (and so easily concealed / justified / accepted), this is still among my toughest tasks.

The invitation is to be present for all of it, something as mundane as a cup of tea or as profound as losing a loved one. Being here, now.

Is there something we can do with full presence today? Have a conversation. Take a walk. Drink a glass of water. Enjoy a meal. When we start the year in retreat, we often have meals in silence. The simple can become spectacular of we allow it. It’s a practice.

Thank you for the Love.

TGIF :: When the Hardest Place to be is Present

Comments