And the Bridge is Love: Remembering My Sister Maryanne

"We ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning." --Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey

Two years ago, just as I was preparing to leave for my Sunday morning African dance class, I received a phone call that shattered my life forever. My beloved older sister Maryanne had died, suddenly and with no real warning. I was unable to sit by her bedside and hold her hand as she passed away; I had no chance to say a final goodbye. I will never grow old with her. Though Maryanne had been ill for many years with a particularly virulent case of lupus, I never believed my strong older sister could die. A magical thinker and a little sister to the end, I felt she had some secret formula to cheat death. And yet, in the end, she too traveled into the mystery beyond this life.

I would give anything I have to hear my sister's voice again for one second, to sit with her for five minutes, to laugh over a joke, share a recipe with her, or reminisce about our childhood. I lost, at the moment of her death, the person who knew and loved me best in this world. Her loss does not get better for me with time in the sense that an illness might get better or an unpleasant memory might fade; I have only learned to bear this particular sorrow somewhat more lightly.

My sister was a warrior spirit who fought a virulent, highly unusual case of lupus and went through unbelievable physical sufferings that most people do not experience in their lifetimes. Her medical treatments amounted to torture, endured in the never-ending hope of wellness and good health. Yet her journey through illness ultimately yielded a deepening of her spirit. When I was diagnosed with lupus in 1993 (my own illness in virtual remission now), she gave me books by Dr. Bernie Siegel and Louise Hay; in turn, she had learned of these authors through young men with AIDS with whom she had worked. She taught me about life's marvelous uncertainty and that today, this blessed 24 hours, is all anyone really has. Later in her journey, she gave me books by Thich Nhat Hahn and Pema Chodron; a few years before she died, we promised each other we would send a sign of a dragonfly to let each other know there was an afterlife and our prayers were heard. Dragonflies fill my life now, real ones and painted and embroidered on gifts people give me. They give me hope, but never assuage the scar on my heart that is for her.

Losing a sibling is one of life's most painful excoriations. I use it now to let people know that holding a grudge or putting a wall up between those we love is dangerous and toxic to the spirit; I did so with my sister for some time and have vowed to spend the rest of my life in reparation for this. We, as human beings, are gifted with an incredible capacity to exercise folly, thinking that we have endless time and that others we love do, too--and so we can shut them out, shun them to "let them know how we feel" and "teach them a lesson," put ourselves first always, live a life fully self-centered, and bask in satisfied emotional gluttony and a hollow sense of power, thinking, "Wow, I really showed THEM how I feel!" Out of a need for control, out of fear and selfishness, out of a childish sense of not knowing better, we put up walls of cruelty and self-righteous anger which only create an endless cycle of hurt on both sides.

But the truth is, this thinking is the foundation for a lifetime of regret should that loved one suddenly be removed from one's life, forever. By such behavior, we only reveal our pettiness and smallness. To drop a grudge, to erase the "laundry list" of grievances against a person, to simply hold one's arms out again and embrace others in all their beauty and frail humanity, to treat others as we wish to be treated, is truly all we can do for one each other in a world where we are all imperfect. It is a mark of maturity and "walking the talk" of loving compassion. Love demands much of people, including humility, to yield its greatest gifts. I am glad beyond belief that I reconciled with my sister in the year before she died. But for the rest of my life, I will regret the times when I felt justified in acting otherwise.

I would like to tell people who read this who are holding a grudge to consider reaching out to the other person, even if you have to eat a bit of humble pie to do it. There's something truly satisfying, even wonderful, in being the person who turns around and says, "I'm sorry and I love you." I know because I did it with her, and it salves my regrets, a little. Take my word that the light pours in when we find it in ourselves to do that. At the very least, hold someone with whom you have conflict a little more compassionately in your heart today, in her honor.

And though my sadness at losing her never ends, neither does my love for her, forever.

I leave you with one of her poems. She was a beautiful writer.

Remedy

Cotton swathing
grey light
through flimsy window sieve
purdah of illness.

In a half-remembered room
great grandmother holds a bowl
pale water, deep green oil
Swirling
over the head of the afflicted
Speaking
of "malocchio", evil eye
Breaking
curses with lucid hope and wisdom

It's a simple remedy now
to unsheath your memory
rip my curtain
arise and walk
bathe in the daylight

Light
is the mother's gift
We have always known
no one room can hold
our precious lives

--Maryanne McMillan

Returning to the Breath

I realized the other day that I could do two things with my recent illness: crawl into a shell and hide, and contemplate the horrors of what I went through, blame everyone for their lack of support and fear, hate myself for the same reasons, and otherwise become an unpleasant person no-one wanted to be around, and waste my time by imagining more horror and illness.

My other choice was to use my experience for some sort of betterment. Yes, I am still afraid at times. I am far more aware of mortality than I ever was. But I need to simply incorporate these lessons into my self. There might be a time when I will use what I've learned in the course of service to another. There are gifts to be had even from this experience. It is again the experience of facing my own annihilation, my dissolving into the universe and the life beyond this one. I am grateful for such an extraordinary chance and reminder that it is folly to try and pursue the path of comfort, that life shakes me back into the idea that I cannot run from the fear of groundlessness--that I can sit with uncertainty and be present and fine with it. My illnesses have given me a great gift: the knowledge of impermanence, that I have a limited time on this earth. Falling headlong into worries about the future or living forever in the past erase the present moment, which is all I really have.

One thing, over and over, I have been hearing is "mindfulness meditation," from close friends to my therapist. I passed by the Zen Center in Santa Cruz recently, realizing I have thought of this place from time to time, even walked by it occasionally for the past 26 years, but never walked inside.

Somehow today was the day I changed my path.

Of course I was afraid--afraid of not "doing it right," of my cell phone going off even though I silenced it--I carried my whole bag of junk inside, my big purse with cell phone and wallet, Ipod, journal, pens, Chico bag for groceries, pen case, all the junk of my life--what a metaphor!. The monk overseeing the meditation was so warm and welcoming; he truly "saw' me, I think. Not a dour person in sight; everyone seemed calm and yet happy. One fellow--I dub him "the old salt" because I just know there's a boat lurking somewhere in his life--mentioned to another person that Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind was a good book to have when starting zazen, and always coming back to the breath was a good thing.

The meditation center is simple and deeply beautiful in its simplicity. One does not have to sit on a cushion; I sat on a chair. The monk told me that they faced the wall in this practice. I sat in my chair, keeping my spine straight, and put my hands in the "universal mudra," both palms up, left resting on right, thumbs touching, forming an oval. I faced a white wall and a window with white paper on it.

What came up for me? I focused on my breath. Panic arose; the panic of the small child I once was, made to sit for many hours facing a wall in a dark room, as punishment, creating a lifelong fear of the dark. I assured my "inner child" she was in a place of safety and peace. I recognized the panic, I felt it; I did not attach to it; the memory fell away. I realized the panic I often fear is a customary panic put in place during my childhood, and that this panic will attach to situations in my adult life--a tremendous breakthrough for me. I felt a deep constriction at the bottom of my lungs and realized the panic also takes root there; I felt the panic and the place where it rests in my body, and let it go. At the moment I let go, my lungs did also, and I experienced wonderful deep, unconstricted breaths. I heard a bird singing outside; a child laughing and running down the sidewalk; and slowly I came to a deep center of peace, returning always to the breath. And then the bell rang and it was over. It seemed five minutes, but it had been forty-five.

I walked back into the world with a delicate sense of what it means to have a "center." Everything looked so alive--a rose seemed the only rose in the world when I looked at it. It was as simple as the breath, as simple as being alive in that very minute.

I told the monk afterwards that I had been walking by the Zen center for 26 years on and off without going in, and somehow today was the day. He said, "I wonder why today was the right one." I said, "I don't know. It just was." A koan for this beginner? I don't know. But certainly a deep and real truth.