Ipo's Last Run

You should know by now, there is no birth, there is not death. Nisargadatta

I wake up before Ipo this morning, just as the sun is coming up. A few minutes later I hear his soft cry from under the bed. He's been sleeping under the bed since he was a puppy, no doubt to be safe from his big brother Luke. Now Ipo has grown so much he barely fits underneath and I have to pull him out by his hind legs. He loves to be slid along the tile floor, then lie on his back to be petted him from his exposed throat down to his soft tummy.

Every morning is totally new and fresh for him. He greets the day fully alive and pulsing with energy. Once I put his food down he eats it like it is the most extraordinary meal of his life. As soon as I finish eating, he’s raring to go — no more quiet morning meditations with a puppy in the house (though I did get to finish the paper today — no mean feat). He’s pulling on my shirt sleeve, ready for play. I take him out and throw the Frisbee down the hill. He’s off like a shot, trying to grab it with his teeth before it stops rolling. Up and down he goes, proudly bringing it back to me each time.

Play over, he has his morning nap under my desk while I write; his fur is soft and warm under my feet. Unlike many dogs, he relates more to humans than animals. He loves to snuggle on the couch next to Linda, with his warm body against her; she loves him as if he were her own child.

How far this little puppy has come in just a week, when he was chewing up everything in sight. In the last few days he has stopped whining in the morning, stopped chewing our shoes, stopped dumping everything out of the trash can. He is finally growing up into a beautiful dog.

Yesterday at the beach, he didn’t roll on anyone’s towel — a real first. Unlike most Australian Shepherds, he loves to swim. When I swim he eagerly jumps in with me, ever so proud to be with his “dad.” He swims out dog-paddle style with the waves lapping at his face, and after fifty feet or so turns around and heads for shore. Afterwards he has a good chase along the beach, play-fighting with his brother Luke. Luke, the alpha dog, trips him up and send him flying; Ipo is more than happy to be rolled. In between chasing his brother and being chased, Ipo runs up to anyone he meets on the beach for a pet or an acknowledgment — something he’s done since he was a little puppy (attracting entire families, who cry out, “Look at the puppy!”). His enthusiasm is not always well received, but he’s always ready to share his love with the next person he meets.

Each afternoon we do something a little different—a walk in the forest, a shopping trip in town, a ride up to the land. He and Luke are always ready for an adventure. “Come on boys,” I say. “Let’s go for a ride!” They hop in the car. Neither of them have any idea what’s ahead. They don’t care. This is their work—guarding me while I drive around. Aussies always have to have a job to do. Luke stays in the back seat in chief guard position; Ipo lies on the passenger seat, his head on the console, as close as he can get to me. I love to pet him while I drive; there is no limit to how much love he is willing to receive.

Today we drive up to our land to check on the house construction. I let them out on the dead-end street we live on, as I’ve done hundreds of times before. There are clear sight lines and no cars in sight. Lukey and Ipo fly off down the side of the road, in total joy as they run along the grass. How few dogs ever get to feel the wind in their faces and their legs taking them as fast as they can go? This is what they are born to do.

Up ahead a pick-up truck pulls out onto the road; both the dogs are clearly visible. I slow down almost to a stop and wave for him to slow down too. At the last moment Ipo veers off towards the middle of the road. He never makes it. There is a sickening whomp. The truck stops. Ipo lies on the road squealing. I’m sure he’s just been hit in the hind leg — perhaps broken it. Someone helps me put him in the car and I take him to the vet. But it’s not a broken leg; I find out that his spine has been broken. There is no choice but to put him down.

Tonight Linda and I bury him on our land, grieving at the loss of our beautiful Ipo. In our short time together he had become a beloved part of the family. Not only did he show us unlimited joy and vitality; he showed us unconditional love. Why did he have to leave now, in the prime of his life? I wish I knew.

A few days later Linda discovers a book by Seth that Ipo had been chewing on the day he died. Two pages have been torn from it. When she looks at the pages, she discovers that they are about two parents grieving over the death of their three-year-old son. They came to Seth hoping for an explanation. He tells them that the three of them had been together in previous lives, and that their son had come back in this life to teach them to go deeper into awareness. When his job was done, it was time to go home.

It feels as if Ipo came into this life to pass on his magnificent “chi” to us. In the few days since his death, Linda has experienced a dramatic shift in her health. After living with a chronic illness for ten years, she is filled with energy. I feel as if my heart has been cracked open; I’m open and vulnerable to life in a way I haven’t been for years. The truth is that Ipo did not die; he is inviting us in every moment to join him in the limitless energy and love that he is.

Here and There

Want to wake up? You want happiness? You want freedom? Here it is: Drop your false ideas. Anthony de Mello

I have a friend who I've known for years who has lived in an ashram, gone to retreat after retreat, and done practices for twenty years. The other day we had a conversation that went something like this:

“My God, Peter, I just long for that bliss of awakening -- surely there must be something I can do to get there?”
“There?”
“Yeah—that state where there is no separation between me and God.”
“What makes you think you have to do something to get there?”
“Surely enlightenment doesn't happen by sitting here and doing nothing!"
"Why not?"
"Well, I’ve been doing practices for years; that’s got to mean something. How else can you get there?”
“You’re still assuming it’s there. That’s because teachers told you it was something to be achieved way off in the future. That’s just an idea.”
“Does that mean all those religions and practices are wrong?”
“Well, are you there yet?”
"No."
“You mean I don’t have to do anything to get there?”
“Anything you do to get there -- even the slightest step -- is a step away from what is already present.”
“If it’s not there, how could it be here?”
“Why not here?”
“Because here is not all that interesting. I want the bright lights and fireworks.”
“That’s because you’re not really here.”
“I’m here.”
“Yes -- here with your mind, your thoughts, and your beliefs. That’s not being here.”
“What’s here?”
“Here is stopping all of it -- just stopping -- even for a second. Are you willing to try?”
“Sure, what do I do?”
“You don’t do anything.”
“Nothing.”
“Yes. Just relax.”
“Let go?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, this is it?”
“Yes.”
“But where’s all the bliss and Oneness?”
“Here.”
“But that means I have to let go of the possibility that my life will get any better.”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s just this?”
“Yes -- This.”
“That’s so funny. You mean that’s it?”
“Find out for yourself!”
“But it’s so simple!”
“Too simple for the mind to grasp.”
“My God, just This! It's so familiar, so ordinary."
"And so extraordinary."
"But this awareness is always present!”
"If it's permanent and unchanging, where else could it go?"
"What a joke . . . it's been there all along." [much laughter]
"God has a great sense of humor."

The Gift of Friendship - Part II

In my last post I related the story of how Virginia, Linda, and I became friends -- and family -- and how she found out she had cancer just before we moved to Maui. She is now in hospice and may only have a few more days to live. Yesterday we both got on the phone and called her. She was a little tired and groggy, but we had a beautiful talk. Today we found out that she has slipped into unconsciousness. We had no idea it would be our last.

"Hi, dear, sweet Virginia. How are you?"
"I'm not doing too good, but I'm not in pain."
"Oh Virginia, we're so sorry."
"I don't think I'll make it to Hawaii after all."
"Well, Virginia," I say, ""Soon you'll be free to come whenever you wish."
"I'll come as a butterfly."
"We'll be looking out for you," Linda says. "You know that my mom came to my father the day after she died. It was as clear as can be."
"When Fran died, I had monarch butterflies flying all around me for weeks. The monarch was Fran's totem animal -- we had even made a film on them. It was such a clear sign that she was communicating from the Other Side."
"Well, I declare," Virginia says in her lovely Southern drawl.
"Yes, Emmanuelle once said, 'Death is like taking off a heavy overcoat.' I like to think of it as moving towards the greatest freedom we can imagine. Who you are does not die. We may think we are our bodies, but in truth, who we are is nothing but pure awareness. Most of us have to die to find out, unfortunately." I laugh.
"It's comforting to know that," Virginia laughs.
"I've actually had those experiences," Linda says. "All there is is love -- a love so vast you can't imagine."
"But I do get frightened of the unknown," Virginia says.
I say, "I do too. It's in our DNA to fear death and the unknown, but we can always change how we look at it. I remember the story of Timothy Leary calling Ram Dass when he found out his cancer was terminal. He said, 'I'm dying of cancer -- what great news -- what an adventure!'"
"You can't imagine the joy that awaits you," Linda says. "You'll be with your mom and all those who you've loved."
"And we'll be with you too -- in the blink of an eye."
"Your friendship has meant so much to me."
"It has to us too."
"We love you so much, Virginia."
"We've had some beautiful times together, haven't we?"
"Yes, we have. Remember we're always with you, even if we are 5000 miles aways."
"I'll always love you both -- from both here and in heaven."
"Goodbye, Virginia."
"Bye."

The Gift of Friendship - Part I

Friendship happens in the most unexpected ways. Ten years ago Linda and I went to an estate sale in the beautiful, rolling countryside outside Charlottesville, Virginia. It was one of those special sales that everyone hopes to find -- antique furniture from a hundred-year-old farmhouse, old tools, farm equipment, and items to numerous to mention. Crowds of people had already gathered when we arrived and the rapid fire sound of the auctioneer's voice echoed over the land. Linda and I were more interested in the old farmhouse then the sale, and walked around the house looking in the windows at the empty rooms. All the furniture had been taken out because the floors and walls were eaten by termites. Who had lived here for all those years, we wondered?
At that moment an impeccably dressed lady walks up and introduces herself. "Hello, my name's Virginia. My parents own the farm."
"I just love your farm," Linda says. "It reminds me of my farm in Oregon."
"My father and mother lived here for eighty-five years. I've just had to put them in a nursing home."
"That's so sad," I say.
Soon we are in deep conversation. It turns out that Virginia was born upstairs in the farmhouse, along with her two sisters; they didn't have water or electricity until nineteen fifty-four; she grew up here and now lives on a piece of land her father split off for her. By the end of the talk we were all feeling such a deep connection that tears were in our eyes.
Little did I know, but in six months Linda and I would be the new owners of the 130 acre farm, with its half-mile of river frontage, streams, old hardwood forest, and three springs. We gutted and renovated the old house, and when we moved on the land Virginia became a close friend -- even more, she became family.
And now, ten years later, she is in hospice, dying of cancer.
Although we came from two different worlds, we seemed to recognize something in each other. I was a "Northerner" (a Canadian no less) and the South was like another world; Virginia had never met anyone from Canada. I had travelled all over the world; Virginia had never been on an airplane and in sixty-five years had only made a few trips within a seventy-mile radius of home. I had written books; Virginia taught high school for thirty years.
When she became our neighbor, I got into the habit of dropping by to visit her and her husband Bob a few times a week. We would talk about everything, from what it was like growing up in the South, to local gossip, to our views on television shows, politics, and spirituality. All four of us had our health problems, which often became a topic of conversaton -- Bob has post-polio disease and is in a wheelchair, Linda has an auto-immune illness, Virginia had problems with her heart, and I went through prostate cancer and melanoma. Our favorite topic was always our dogs -- Linda and I had two Australian Shepherds, and I had helped Virginia buy a puppy, who meant everything to her.
Virginia was always the gracious host, fixing iced tea, baking a cake, or lending us a book she had just read. She was always what I imagined to be the perfectly mannered Southern lady. She liked to visit the farm and see how we had fixed up the farm buildings her father had built with his own hands. She loved the sheep and the goats as much as I did, and even helped dock the tails of the baby lambs.
As Linda and I got to know her better, we found out that her husband Bob had verbally (and sometimes physically) abused her over a period of forty years; they had not been intimate for years. When we met her, her self-esteem was so shattered it was amazing she could function at all. Bob had managed to isolate her from just about everyone -- except his two brothers, their wives, and Linda and I.
As time went on Linda and I affirmed who she was and helped her put the pieces of her life back together. We convinced her to see a therapist and encouraged her to move out of the house. After a roller coaster of emotional ups and downs lasxting several years, she finally managed to leave her husband and start a new life .
For the first time ever, she stepped into her true self, entertaining friends at the independent living center where she lived, making day trips with the senior center, and going out to movies.
Just as she was beginning to live life in all its fullness, she found out she had cancer. Unfortunately this was also the time Linda and I moved to Maui but we kept up through e-mails, photos, and phone calls.
We hoped one day she would come and visit us in Hawaii. Then last week she called to say that the cancer had spread throughout her body and she may just have a few weeks to live.