To Have Been of Earth

Photo by Michael Kucharski on Unsplash

Once Here

 … simply to be here is so much

and because what is here seems to need us,

this vanishing world that concerns us strangely—

us, the most vanishing of all.  Once

for each, only once.  Once and no more.

And we too:  just once.  Never again.  But

to have lived even once,

to have been of Earth—that cannot be taken from us.

From the Ninth Duino Elegy 

Rainer Maria Rilke

“To have been of Earth.”  Not on Earth.  Of Earth.  Of the same substance as oceans and mountains and wind-swept prairies, as violets and parading ants.  The same living substance as the ground beneath our feet. 

To have been one with this world.  This whole, amazing world. 

What deeper privilege could there be?

If we could only recognize that privilege, remember it, feel it—even in the smallest way—we would live every day of our lives, astonished. 

Nothing brings the need for astonished living closer than the death of someone who once formed the core of your daily life.  Except, perhaps, a small health scare, the kind that reminds you how utterly vulnerable you are.  How, in an instant, you could not be here at all.

A few years ago, I was accosted at gunpoint for several eternal seconds.  I came away from that encounter with one solid conviction.  I do not want to die suddenly, without a chance to prepare.  I want this partly, of course, for the people who care about me, to protect them, to ease them into loss.  But even more, I want it for myself.  I want to know when my life is drawing to a close.  I want to feel my way into that moment, feel my way into whatever may lie on the other side. 

I have read enough descriptions of near-death experiences—we all have—to have a clear image of the tunnel, the light, the loved ones beckoning.  I can’t discount such descriptions, though they do leave me wondering if there might be a simple explanation, that the left brain shuts down first, leaving the right brain, the holder of awe, to take over.  Whether that end-of-life euphoria represents something real, something that can be counted on, doesn’t matter.  I don’t know where I was before I was born, but it was either a good place or no place at all, and I trust that the same will be true when I leave.  This brief incarnation between two eternities has been profoundly blessed.  It has also, of course, been confused and confusing, heartrending, just plain hard. 

And devastatingly beautiful.

What brings me to these musings?  A few days ago, out on my morning walk—these old limbs carry me from two to five miles a day, every day—I noticed a tightness in my calf.  A slight soreness.  A pull.  Hmmm, I thought, and dismissed it.  My legs, while still strong, still capable of a brisk gate, are prone to aches and pains these days.  As is the rest of this very useful body.

The next day the discomfort was still there.  And the next.  That was when, in the midst of my walk, I remembered something I hadn’t thought about for a long time.  My father’s sore leg.  It lasted for weeks, but Dad didn’t like doctors.  Didn’t believe in them.  Then came the evening he came in from working with his beloved roses, settled into his favorite chair.  And died.  The blood clot had broken free. Nothing for my mother to do but make the necessary phone calls.  The undertaker.  My brother.  Me.

Could that be what I’m experiencing? I asked the sweet summer air.  A blood clot?  And the answer came back instantly.  Of course not!  You’re healthy. My father was healthy, I replied.  Until he wasn’t.  Still … I set the thought aside.  But in the evening, I googled “blood clot in the calf.”  The description that popped up spoke of a darkening of the skin.  I looked down at my leg—no darkening—and dismissed the concern again.

The next morning, tromping after my eager young dog, I noticed that soreness, that tightening, that pull once more.  I looked down at my calf again—just checking—and there it was, the darkening the article had mentioned.  For an instant, I might have been facing that gun again! 

Was it possible?  Of course not!

But still …

A quick trip to an urgency room, an ultrasound scan, a clean bill of health.  If the symptoms get worse, I’m to return, but it’s unlikely they will.  So here I am, still above the ground.  So here I am, filled with gratitude.

Filled with life!

to have lived even once,

to have been of Earth—that cannot be taken from us.

Would that I could remember this blessed gift, feel it, every minute that’s left to me!