This
was written to me by someone who loves me deeply, some years ago-but it
needs to be posted once more -as so many are reading my blog; some may have missed it. This is a special, a truly learning experience, as it diminishes the fear of death which most of us have.
Thank you darling, my other self....and for all
else-. Nothing ever experienced is ever lost, all is treasured-love exists through eternity-at times we just seem to forget for a moment. Love ceases never!
My dearest Baroness-darling;
You
are truly a wondrous joy to wake up to! And you need not worry. I am
as healthy as a horse. When I was operated on my entire team of doctors
was pretty much convinced of my immanent demise. Except for the chief
of staff and my surgeon, who didn’t believe it for a minute.
During
that time I was fathoms deep within a mythical drama and more concerned
with the business at hand than with anything as utterly superfluous as
what was going on
all around me— The business at hand was dying. And
having done it once, I can say with the absolute certitude and
conviction of direct experience that I am even less afraid of going
through it again than I was then.
Indeed,
dying is very much a part of life. You
deal with it like you deal with anything else that happens to you.
Overall, I am decidedly proud of myself for how I handled it. I was
dying extremely well, and with consummate grace. It was a powerful,
peaceful and profoundly beautiful experience. I went into it with
surrender, lucidity, awareness and without regrets. I had no concerns,
physical, mental, emotional or spiritual. I was in a state of absolute
concentration. The process engaged me completely. I
made out my will, selected an executor for my estate, and comforted my
beautiful little circle of family and friends who had disconsolately
gathered around me.
In
those days I did a life review. I looked back upon my life and counted
it fulfilled. I had lived a good life and was altogether pleased with
how it had all turned out for me. My life had been rich with tremendous
blessings and with deeply lived experiences. Nothing had been left
undone. My life had not only been beautiful but perfect down to the
last detail. I was completely unafraid. Dying was an inseparable part
of that life that I had been given to live. It
was in no way a termination, nor yet a transition, but simply a
continuation of my life, although at an intensity of spiritual focus
impossible to capture in words.
I
was given to surrender to my life. I was given to embrace it
completely and in a state of radical trust. I was given to realize that
I had done what I had set out to do—what I had been put on earth to
accomplish. I was at peace. I new that I was loved—unconditionally—and
that by the very process of dying itself. And
I saw that it (death) was truly an angel and that I was resting in her
arms, enfolded by her lovely wings…protected and completely safe.
And
then I died. I had talked it over with the nurses, and with my
parents: I would only accept palliative care. And I would die at
home. And but as you said, my angel had other ideas. I had made myself
a promise years ago and was about to make good on it.
Well, what can I say? Dying is not something you ever get over. Those
people that have actually died only to return, and I am now one of
them, live with this experience for the rest of their lives, even should
they forget everything else. Not everyone has a classical NDE, of course. And by classical
I mean an experience of dying which generally begins with an egress
from the physical body into the environs of a long, dark tunnel at the
terminal end of which is perceived to exist a beautiful, golden light.
As
you
no doubt know yourself from the literature, it is reputedly better than
any Hallmark card, what with rainbows and angels and or Jesus, spirit
guides, relatives, a life review, pearly gates, poopless pets, bad
music, flowery fields, Greek architecture, golden cities, friendly
aliens, pink panda bears, devas, quartz crystals, burbling brooks, apple
trees or whatever else.
Not
for me. I had none of that. Indeed, I would have instantly dismissed
all such window-dressing as outright morphine induced hallucinations.
Which only goes to prove that you get what you pay for. I did not go
anywhere. There was no tunnel either. As far as I know, Suzie, I did
not die into my astral body at all. In fact, I had no bodily experience
whatsoever, let alone the memory of ever having had a body to begin
with. It was very much like going into narcosis. There was no
transition of any kind. I was in my hospital bed.
Then I
wasn’t there at all, in that hospital bed in downtown Phoenix, nor had I
ever been there since before time began. Instead,
I was acutely aware of myself as being within a psychological space of
literally infinite extent yet of intensely concentrated awareness
throughout, and although
there were no objects within this space, neither could I say that it was
any more empty than it was full. The terms simply did not apply.
The
space did not, however, contain itself. Of that much I was certain, at
the time, although I now no longer have even the slightest ghost of a
notion as to what that actually meant to me. Light there was, to be
sure, which is to say that it was not dark. The space itself was
light and if I had to give it a color I would say light blue, although
the coloration of the space was more the idea of color than any color
What held
my undivided attention was my immediate relationship to this space.
Within it I felt completely and exquisitely safe. That,
and I knew and understood myself to be absolutely and unconditionally
free--not only free of pain, worry, concern or care, but free of even
the very concept of freedom itself. The sense of sheer exhilaration that
this engendered…the sense of ecstatic omnipotence…was nothing short of
exquisite.
Being
completely above and beyond the
biochemical soup of the mind-stream, not so much as a single trace of
human thought could disturbed my awareness of the
absolute soundlessness. I did not think. Or perhaps it would be more
accurate to say that within the infinite expanse of myself I apprehended
thought from the inside. At any rate, not so much as a single
conceptual truth held even the slightest validity.
I
knew this without knowing. In
other words, I had no memory whatever of a state of consciousness
wherein there could be experienced that which we call cognition, let
alone conceptual truth. And yet, I was well aware of my actual
condition, namely that I was dead, although this was of little interest
to me for some reason. The potent immediacy and clarity of my awareness
held me enthralled.
I
experienced myself as embedded within this beautiful space as though I
were a cell deep within an organism. I experienced myself as distinct
from this space, and yet I was inseparable from it in ways I could not
even begin to describe. I was supported by the space,
which was and yet was not myself, and I could say that terms such as
benevolence or malevolence simply did not apply to it (or to my
individuality as I then experienced it). It understood
feelings abstractly, much as we would understand a mathematical formula
if we could ever get to the essence of numbers themselves.
As regards
death…from the standpoint of consciousness (not from the standpoint of
consciousness expressing itself as a particular physical organism) I
can only say that it (the infinite space) understood death in much the
same way as we ourselves, generally, can be said to understand such
biological processes as digestion and elimination. In
other words, we take such things for granted and don’t give such
profound mysteries a second thought so long as said mysterious processes
are doing what they are supposed to be doing.
Whether
I
was going to live or die, or rather, as to whether or not I would live
again or remain dead was a matter of complete indifference to the
consciousness within
which I swam. That was, evidently my own business.
Besides, as far as the light was concerned, the actual state and
condition of my biological expression was a mere technicality, unlike my
consciousness, which was a deciding factor throughout the experience,
but not in any way that I could ever understand let alone translate into
so crude an invention as language. At any rate, the space decided that
the illness that had taken my life had served its purpose and that I
was now well. I mean this literally.
There
was no time element involved, let alone a reversal of the
condition—whatever it may have been-- that had killed me. The trajectory
of the illness was, quite simply, stopped at a point prior to my
decision (to accept this one particular death as definitive for myself).
And I do mean, simply. There was nothing in the least bit
portentous let alone dramatic or spiritual about what was, for the
Space, as basic and elementary a mechanical operation as breathing is to
us. And yet, there was nothing impersonal about my return
either.
The unfathomably immense awareness, as well as the intimate
presence of the Space within which I found myself, would not let any
harm come to me—ever. It had my best interests at heart, if such a
phraseology could
even be applied to it in the first place. The space was
immutably supportive of me in every conceivable way, although, if
pressed, I would have to say that it was not focused on my life
specifically--was in fact only as aware of my existence as I am of the
continuity of my dreaming self while not actually dreaming.
I
wonder if all of this sounds rather bland and boring to you!? Nothing
could be further from the truth though. Dying was about the least boring
thing I have ever done, and I only wish I could dictate notes on the
entire process the next time I begin to undergo it. So much is lost. So many nuances of the experience escape us. And
but then, there was my resurrection, which was actually no such thing,
because the very word itself implies a staged process from one condition
or state of being toward another. This did not happen.
I was dead. I was not dead. I was gravely
ill. I was not. Just like that. For all I know I simply
altered my focus of intent, and nothing more. At any rate, it is
completely beyond the capacity of the English language to describe
simultaneity. My
intent was to be conscious within, and as, that particular physical
body with which I was then associated both spatial and chronologically.
With the intent, the actuality thereof. I could as well have created
for myself a duplicate body as re-enter my old one. In fact, the
non-experience of coming back to life was exactly like that of dying. If
there had been a
transition between being alive and being quite dead then I missed it.
There was,
and of this I am certain, no discontinuity in my consciousness, let
alone in my awareness. In other words, the appearance of demise is an
appearance only. There seems to be a cessation of life. Naturally,
the body ceases responding to stimulation of any kind, but this I now
know from personal experience—there is no lapse in awareness for the
deceased. Hyper-lucidity would be more to the point. There
is, however, a trickling down of cognitions and perceptions—not unlike
after-images, or echoes—as the experience is partially assimilated into
another frame of reference.
Well,
I will not insist upon having died. On the other hand, there is the
unshakable certitude regarding the veracity of the event itself. There
is something about dying that is profoundly convincing, hmm? Nothing,
and I do mean absolutely nothing, will ever convince you that you didn’t
go where you actually went. Indeed,
it is far easier to doubt in ones own existence than it is to doubt the
possibility of the continuity of consciousness after the death of the
physical body once you have actually gone and bought the tee-shirt, if not the farm, so to speak only to return.
Qualitatively,
the state of consciousness of the recently deceased is as definitive
and as distinctive as being hit by a bus. It’s like Zen though. No
matter how you try, you cannot describe it. Not like this stops you
from trying though. See,
we are so fine-tuned to the particular qualities of consciousness
characterized by that strange attractor of that continuum referred to as
human life that we are as aware of any alterations in it as we are
aware of any deviations in that matrix constituting species
recognition.
Being
dead is as different from being alive as being awake is from dreaming,
and as dreaming itself is from induced hallucinations, and as these are
from trance vision, and as visions
are from sitting on a cactus whistling to the wind. Despite
my having been on morphine at the time, and hallucinating like it were
going out of fashion, I was not hallucinating when my heart stopped
beating, nor was I hallucinating when it began to beat again some time
later. As I said, I can’t prove that. Proof is in the pudding.
And where does this leave us? That you makes me deliriously happy.
All my love and hugs and prayers and kisses,
Oliver
