“We were sitting on two large stones at the base of a small mountain. The teacher leaned down to the ground, picked up a rock, and handed it to me.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “A rock.”
"Now put your hand on your neck. Do you feel anything?”
“My heartbeat.”
“But the rock had no heartbeat,” he said.
“Of course not.”
“The rock exists as a rock with no heartbeat. It retains its shape, its size, its consistency, with no need of a heartbeat. But you have a heartbeat. Every moment of your existence hangs on a heartbeat. The moment it stops, your earthly existence is over. That’s the difference between a rock and your life.” – The Heartbeat of the Miracle – Unknown Author
Somewhere within five to six weeks of pregnancy, the embryo of a baby develops a flutter. A tiny electric movement that is the beating of the heart. Where does the spark for this miracle come from? Who or what hits the start button? Somewhere in the journey of a seed, water and warmth create the explosion of potential and plumps up the seed, bursting forth a shoot of life. This shoot is the beginning of life. Where does this potential reside before it is visible? Every acorn has treeness in it! What presses the explosion? When does the potential meet performance? Every idea begins as a pregnant thought, waiting for a heartbeat, to be born.
I sit today putting pen to paper looking upon the street which is a colourful array of summer coming into fall. The shift has begun. The summer flowers appear to be tired from their hard work of flowering and the orange and red of the maple tree is evidence it is ready for winter slumber. A long sleep. The changing of the season is upon us as this week our official shift from summer to fall occurs.
Today, I also am basking in the memory of yesterday. A beautiful day of social time with family and friends. Time with children and grandchildren. Time with new friends and old friends. Time with those in the springtime of their lives and those who, like the maple tree, are looking at winter’s slumber. The closing down of life, letting go of leaves, and seeing rejuvenation of a life thought lost. Who or what pulls the chain on the closing sign? Who or what lowers the final curtain? Who or what says “good night” on our final sleep?
Sitting at the bedside of my father in 2005, holding vigil, waiting for nature to decide when the last breath will be taken, watching for the last beat of the heart, pondering as life on this plain withered into silence, my mother and I clung to each movement. Dad’s breathing was laboured, and his eyes were open, yet not seeing, and his 90-year-old body showed its age. It was here I found myself wondering who would flick the switch? Even at times when people are taken off life support, machines keeping the body functioning, there is a time of waiting as nature shuts down the system and the heart and breath leaves. It was here, with my dad, I began to wonder who or what turns out the lights on our stage of life? Who decides, finally, that Elvis has left the building?
I often in my work sit quietly at the bedside and watch a chest rise and fall, the sign there is still life out there. This body in a bed may not be known to me in life however I am witness to their final hours in death. Touching the neck to feel if the heart is still beating, knowing I have no control over this natural phenomenon. Like the moment the embryo receives its heartbeat, the moment the heart stops can be just as beautiful. Where does that beat go? The breath of life moves on to another realm, an unknown suspension of space where just as somewhere in the world a newborn baby sucks in that first breath of human life, another body takes its last. Are breath and the heartbeat finite? Or is the breath lost forever in death and the first inflation of the lungs in a newborn completely new? When this magic occurs at each end of life, we are left with little explanation only a balance between joy and sorrow.
In the book “Duck, Death and the Tulip”, Duck is questioning Death, and just then “Death gave her a friendly smile.” She realizes at this moment, Death is actually nice if you forget for a moment “who” Death is. In the book, Duck begins to rejoice when she wakes up alive and Death is pleased for her. More pleased that he does not have to work that day! They go about the day enjoying each other’s company, swimming, climbing trees, and having conversations. Duck befriends Death with no fear.
Are you like Duck, do you rejoice each day you are alive, and take Death along as a friend that you know? Do you cherish the gift you are given of your beating heart for however long who or what it chooses to allow it to continue beating? Or are you wrapped up in your sorrows and your mundane tasks that each day falls into another with no regard? Does another leaf fall, seed sprout, or a child grow, and you miss it? Live each day greeting death joyfully as your friend who is waiting to accompany you when necessary and begin rejoicing by saying, “not yet” with glee. Watch for the momentary miracles around you and keep in mind one day that who or what will flick the switch on your heart, you will take your last breath, and as you do, Death will be called into work to help you journey on to the next adventure.
Cynthia Breadner is a grief specialist and bereavement counsellor, a soul care
worker and offers specialized care in Spiritually Integrated Psychotherapy with special attention as a cognitive behavioral therapy practitioner and trauma incident resolution facilitator. She volunteers at hospice, works as a LTC chaplain and is a death doula, assisting with end-of-life care for client and family. She is the mother part of the #DanCynAdventures duo and practices fitness, health and wellness. She is available remotely by safe and secure video connections, if you have any questions contact her today! [email protected] breakingstibah.com
