We have not even to risk the adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us. The labyrinth is thoroughly known. We have only to follow the thread of the hero path, and where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god. And where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves. Where we had thought to travel outward, we will come to the center of our own existence. And where we had thought to be alone, we will be with all the world.
— Joseph Campbell
For the past five years or so, I have been progressively more and more driven by a life’s mission, and it has been increasingly harder to justify and make time for anything that distracts from the focus and effort this calling requires.
The mission, which defines and reveals itself as I respond to what I understand is being asked of me by life, has to do with making a meaningful contribution to the evolution of our loss, grief, and end-of-life culture that will lay a strong foundation and become sustainable for future generations. This meaningful contribution takes the form of too many organizational and planning tasks, brainstorms, meetings, areas of content development, courses and trainings and mentorships, lectures, presentations, and communications that keep me at a desk, in front of a computer, or on the field, working with clients and patients, meeting with allies and colleagues, doing outreach, speaking to groups, and training volunteers. If I am not multitasking, I am not getting it done; at least, that’s how it most often feels.
Attempting to achieve so much can be stimulating and very motivational—it’s what gets me out of bed early every morning, looking forward to the day—and watching as different things take form and manifest can be thoroughly satisfying. But, on good days, long nature walks have turned into swift dog walks around the block, and elaborate menus have turned into simple tossed salads and oven-grilled vegetables. I gradually have less time for family, friends, hobbies, vacations, or a leisurely life. My outings are all work-related; my lunches and dinners out are work meetings. I haven’t gone to the movies or the theatre since 2015. I only watch Netflix when I am bedridden with a flu or injured foot (which happens maybe once a year). It takes me a month or more to finish reading one book, when I used to read at least one book a week. And I haven’t written in a journal or labored on a piece of silver in my studio since the summer of 2017.
Perhaps I am enough of a hermit, devoted to my life’s work and uninterested in purely social pursuits, but I am still a human interested in, and in need of, love and connection with people, animals, and nature, and a creative human longing for outlets for creative expression that come so naturally to me. Even when my work allows for innumerable experiences of love, creativity, and connection, I have been unable to cultivate that which is meaningful and valuable to me outside of plowing forward for this life’s mission. And it has seemed impossible to generate or sustain a balance between work and play, between intense effort and rest, between working for the greater good of all and living for the enjoyment of this conscious, embodied human experience, full of potential, that life has granted me.
More recently, it has become more painfully evident that I live for my work, and, simply put, I seem to be unable to make time for myself. As a result, it has become my growing intention, resolution, willful mission—different than a life’s mission, which is compulsive, in my experience—to find balance between the time, attention, focus, effort I invest in the many tasks that contribute to this life’s mission and the time, attention, focus, effort I invest in rest, relaxation, regeneration, and leisurely abiding in the present moment. Ah! To be able to be in the present moment is the greatest luxury—not constantly thinking about and projecting into the future, filling up my time no matter how much I tell myself it is forbidden to assume more responsibility or add more commitments.
Picture this: It is a Friday in November around 8pm after a long week of too much work. A handful of close friends, who are also my colleagues, are gathered in the spirit of celebrating my birthday. (Propinquity and shared interests working together grants me the blessing of these meaningful friendships.) They’ve brought cakes and pastries, New Wave replaces the daily rounds of French Baroque, and I’ve opened a special bottle of Dolcetto d’Alba reserved for birthday celebration only. Other colleagues around the world who are participating in an online event I’ve spent months organizing, and which started earlier this morning, are having a crisis. I spend a good part of the evening either on the phone or on the computer, putting out fires, clarifying, solving—while my friends enjoy pastries, wine and conversation—and gradually resenting myself more and more for the position I continue to put myself in.
This evident intractable perplexity that was notably affecting the quality of my personal life now urgently needed to be addressed and transformed. Its growing intolerability was making it impossible to ignore any longer, and I set out to make this transformation manifest—to make this necessary, now urgent shift. So, in 2021, finding balance between professional and personal, between collective and individual, between work and rest and self care became the sole intention.
It has been an uphill swim through raging waters, if one could imagine such a feat; it’s a good thing I enjoy swimming—but not like this, not in these conditions, not for this long.
It is Sunday morning, October 31st, when my partner and I find ourselves reminiscing about what brought us together, about the dream that was born between us after we met. We review the ways we are not a conventional couple, so much so, that sometimes even we get confused about what we are doing together or for what. We are very much together, we share a very deep connection, and we learn so much with each other. Together we constantly grow into our best selves, but we live apart together, we don’t fulfill or require traditional roles or expectations, we are not dependent on each other, we don’t project future life projects together. We are, but is there something we need to do? What does it mean to be something together? Is there a purpose to fulfill, a life’s mission together?
All of this comes up, as it tends to do, unexpectedly on this unassuming Sunday morning, and before we could get uncomfortable with the build-up to an imposed sense of aimlessness, we are abruptly interrupted by a phone call from a friend. She shares news of her decision to make a big life change. My partner, who took the call, covers the phone’s microphone with his hand and says, “…and as a result, she’s selling her combi (VW camper).”
I should mention that the fantasy of traveling in a combi is not foreign to me. I watched 1969 in 1988, more than once. And I had been struggling with carving out time for vacation for too many years—finding time, where to go, where to stay, how to get there, and what to do with our dog managed to dissuade me from the active pursuit for time off. And if we managed to go somewhere, work was always the prompt.
But, when my partner and I met, before this life’s mission took over time and life, we coincided on the dream of gathering stories from our elders, preserving them and sharing them, actually as part of this shared interest in shifting our loss, grief, and end-of-life culture. When we spoke about it years ago, I inescapably imagined us driving across México in a white van. It was the only future life project we had ever envisioned, one which quickly took the back seat.
“What color is it?” I ask, looking for a sign.
And so, we sit close, facing each other, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, “is this an invitation fulfill our dream, to live out a life project together?” We think about and share all the possible worst-case scenarios, not because we are trying to dissuade ourselves, but because we want to clarify our intention and honor our visions and desires, because we want to know, “are we willing to truly and fully assume the responsibility that this requires?” “Are we ready to commit to a life of active pursuit of adventure with spontaneity?” and, more importantly, “am I ready to, once and for all, commit to a life of balance?”
Regardless of how much we sift through our thoughts, feelings, and sensations for doubt, reluctance, or hesitation, the unequivocal answer is “yes.”
It is Tuesday, November 30th, 4:40am. It is a cold morning in central México, and we are driving to the bus station. Nine hours of bus rides and connections await. We are headed to a forest town by a lake, where the combi has been getting new tires and a tune-up with the town’s best mechanic.
I have packed one cut pineapple, two yogurts, and three sandwiches. He brings a thermos full of coffee. We bring warm jackets. I bring gloves because my hands get cold; he brings a puffy vest and scarf. My feet are already cold, and he happens to bring an extra pair of socks. We are cozy enough.
On the last leg of the journey, the entertainment screens show a Disney movie, Onward. The loudspeakers project the sound throughout the cabin; it is impossible to read or nap, so we give in and watch the movie, which is actually very sweet. “In times of old, the world was full of wonder and magic,” says the introduction. And later, the plot reminds us that in magic, we work with what we’ve got, and somehow, what we’ve got can make miracles.
At around 2pm we arrive at our destination, and it is not hard to find the mechanic, or behold the marvellous sight of the white combi waiting for us. We are introduced, and we are oriented to the old camper’s nuances. She is a beauty and we joyfully hop on and drive to our next stop, where we will pick up her papers from the friend of our friend.
He has a bad phone signal, and he is not home, but we are able to coordinate to pick up the papers from his wife so we can get the papers, and ask for recommendations for where to have a proper lunch after nine hours of healthy snacking. There is a nice place for comida corrida just a few blocks up, so we decide to leave the combi parked there and walk. The food is especially delicious and homey, and we share a toast to our commitment and this new beginning, when the phone rings. It is our friend’s friend, who just got home.
My partner covers the microphone with his hand and says, “the camper’s registration, he found it on the sidewalk!” with a look of “how did we let that happen?” We pause. We review our steps, and we can’t understand how it could have happened. But, what are the odds that we would inadvertently lose this little piece of paper, and, 45 minutes later, the only person who knows us and has our phone numbers finds it somewhere between his house and wherever the wind blew it, a few doors down the street. We feel reassured; life’s got our back.
We had hoped to head back home at 4pm, but between a proper lunch, a toast, a coffee brew, greatly appreciating life, and filling up the gas tank, it is 6pm when we begin our journey back. “Will it be ok to go ahead with the plan and drive back for five hours in the dark?” I ask. “It’ll be no problem!” my partner replies. And so, off we go.
The combi drives nicely, and my partner takes to it as if they’d known each other for a very long time. I enjoy the panoramic lake views for the first 30 minutes, more or less, as the sun sets, sitting tall on the stiff but generous front passenger seat. We share coffee and smiles as we take to the road, and ride through windy roads amid the forest.
This is a new road with tolls that should get us home sooner, although the combi is a vehicle for going slow and appreciating the landscapes. Unlike toll roads we are used to, this one goes uphill and has many curves, there are no street lights, and my partner has to flick the fog lights on and off, on and off, as traffic comes from the other direction. But we are happy.
Until, suddenly, he flicks the fog lights on, and they go out; on and off, and on and off, and no more fog lights. And then, the headlights seem a bit too dim, and dimmer, and dimmer. I feel as my heart races and my bloodstream fills with adrenalin. I can only imagine what my partner is feeling as he is driving. I think, “we’re fine; this is like driving in a storm.” He mumbles and remarks about how not fine this is. I focus on my breath, allowing for long, slow exhales. He begins to protest more clearly and loudly; “I don’t like this! I knew we shouldn’t have driven in the dark.” My heart beats faster; adrenalin wants to run the show. “Why did you have to flick the lights on and off and on and off so much?” my mind goes, but I take a deep breath and think, “it’s good to find out about this.” I observe my thoughts as I feel my nervous system go into danger alert. I fight the temptation to make this about him flicking the lights, about me insisting we drive back tonight, and I assure myself “nothing is a mistake; there is a reason for what is happening; there is a lesson in this” as survival mode kicks in and takes my mind into automatic prayer.
Since I can remember, and all the way into high school, every morning when we got in the car to drive to school, my mother, who is very Catholic, made me pray with her. The last sentence of our car prayer has stuck with me, and it automatically kicks in when in uncertain times in cars, trains, airplanes: “Que Dios nos bendiga y nos cuide en este día, amén.”
“May God bless us and care for us on this day, amen,” automatically plays in my head over and over—even when I intentionally stopped praying to “God” when I was six years old. As I plead in my head, “Universe, please show us the way,” all of the lights of the camper go out, and all of our inner red flags go up, all at once. I feel my heart beat in my throat; I feel tingly warmth down my arms and legs; I sense fear creep up to the surface. I come back to the breath as my partner protests, “I knew we shouldn’t have driven at night. I can’t drive like this! This is not ok!”
And out of my mouth come the words, “Something is not ok, but we are ok. Right now we are ok.”
I look at my phone; it is 20:24 and there is no signal. Time slows down, there is a pause; everything suspends. With those words something else comes—a seemingly contradictory serenity that fills every cell of my body, lifts my spirit and makes me feel lighter and even joyful. I wonder if this is what it can be like to prepare to die.
Something is different in me; I am not freaking out. I feel one with my partner, as we are in this together, and this is what we, apparently, are meant to be going through right now. I think of my grandmother who was crushed by a semi truck carrying coffins, about my patients living with terminal cancer, of my mother with rheumatoid arthritis and not enough afternoon coffees with me; I think of my own death, if it is meant to be by the side of the road on this night. In an eternal moment I realize everything is always perfect exactly as it is, and that our task is to learn to recognize that right now we are ok, and even into death we are ok. No outcome is the better outcome. If we can master this serenity, this lightness, this joy, no matter what happens, we are ok.
There are trucks driving behind us that light the way, and we can see the curvy road lanes, and the narrow shoulder lined with curved guard rails and yellow curve-caution signs. It looks impossible to pull over. The trucks pass us and we are completely in the dark. It is almost the new moon, so it really is dark, and in the darkness I can almost see the glowing pulse of blood through my veins. I come back to the breath. “Right now, we are ok,” I think, as this sense of calm takes over me and my partner decisively declares, “I am pulling over right now.” “Ok, yes, pull over,” I confirm.
I look down the side of the road as he begins to pull over and a distant truck begins to softly light the way from behind us. And as if in a Disney movie, where in times of old, the world was full of wonder and magic, the guard rails end and a dirt road opens. “There’s a dirt road! Go on the dirt road!” I command with excitement. Beyond, I see one lone street lamp, and one cinder block structure, emphatically decorated with Christmas lights. With certainty, I know we are going to get permission to park there and spend the night.
It is getting cold outside. My partner tries to find an electrical short or a blown fuse without success, while I sense that even in this darkness, in this strandedness, we are not alone. I insist we should go to the cinder block place, which turns out to be a newly established and yet unmarked stop for trailer truck drivers, where coffee, snacks, meals, refreshments, and trinkets are sold. There, a nice young woman greets us, a bit on guard. We ask if there is a phone we could use, and she affirms there is no cell signal in the area. She quickly warms up to us. The nearest town is 7 km, but there is no one who could escort us there. While there is no food prepared, she offers Chamomile tea—exactly what we drink before bedtime—and we cozy up around a table, where the young woman, Susana, asks if she can join, and we share stories, anecdotes, and get to know one another. Soon her coworker Gerardo joins us, and we spend a few good hours of conversation and cups and cups of tea.
She has asked her boss, who lives in the back, and we have received permission to park under the street lamp and spend the night. When we go to move the camper, it won’t turn on. But we are able to bump-start it and park it where they indicate. There is a bathroom outside the main structure, and we are given permission to use it. And, when we can start to see the mist from our breath in the air, we get ready to settle in and have our first overnight in the camper.
We work with what we’ve got. We have 2 sandwiches left, which make up our dinner. There is a curtain pane that covers the back cushion that turns into what will become our bed; this curtain pane will be our blanket. We have jackets, scarf, an extra pair of socks, the puffy vest, and we have each other. As we cuddle up and bundle up in what already has become our home away from home, we are giddy with joy and excitement. We are living our magic miracle. We replay and retell the scene over and over and over again; it was as if another dimension opened up for us when we pulled over, and a magical oasis emerged out of nowhere. We are grateful, and we are in awe of life, overflowing with love. It takes us several hours to find the right position and set up to generate and sustain the most heat so we are warm enough to sleep, and we sleep several hours before dawn breaks.
Everything feels and looks different in the light. There is a problem with the alternator, and the motor is fine. We bump-start and drive home, about two hours away, and when we arrive, we feel fully transformed.
There are many stories we tell ourselves, and many interpretations that color and taint the facts of what actually is. Our perception can be fully loaded with judgment and incredulity, with assumptions and expectation of how things should be and how we don’t want them to be, yet what is, simply is. Through the lens of my stories, a life dedicated to a selfless mission was an abomination, yet as I allowed myself to be present with myself in it, something greater and more whole showed up. Nothing is as we would expect it, but uniquely better. Balance looks and feels different than I ever imagined.
On our left is our companion called Death, and Death asks us a question every single day, “are you using the great gift of life well?” And our companion on our right, Destiny, is asking us another question at every age, “are you doing what you’ve come here to do?
— Angeles Arrien
The answer is an unwavering “yes, and yes.”
Explore the depths of your instinctual compassionate impulse, your capacity for compassionate presence, care & accompaniment with yourself and others
COMPASSIONATE ACCOMPANIMENT & THE LABOR OF THE LIFE, DEATH & TRANSITION DOULA TRAINING
begins Monday, January 10th, 2022
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That’s a very good story, thank you for sharing!