The death room is hallowed ground. Each time I enter mom’s room, it is like entering a cavern, a sanctum, where one of the oldest rites of passage known to mankind takes place. It bears its own silence, similar to the hush of the meditation hall, but netherward, below ground, like the subterranean kiva chambers carved out by the Tewa peoples who have lived for centuries along the great river– the Rio Grande– where I live in Northern New Mexico. As I enter the chamber I feel as if I am walking down a wooden rung ladder, held fast with sinews made from animal hides, down, down, down… and there is mom asleep, in a dreamless sleep, suspended between worlds. Knowing that she is not long for this world, a wave of sorrow washes over me mixed with gratitude to see her one more time again. She has been confined to bed now for five nights and six days. As a mover all her life—a respectable doubles partner on the tennis court, an endurance walker on the beaches of Cape Cod, a 4 decades long practitioner of yoga including headstands and backbends—it is incongruous to see her now completely immobilized.
Tucked under the silvery blue bedspread, donning a flimsy hospital gown, she looks ethereal, like a ray of light coming out of the earth. It is like beholding the Christ child in the manger. Seeing her brings up in me a huge heave of sadness, a visceral churn, like driving over a big dip on a country road. The anguish in my heart is so immense that in a moment I feel I might pass out. Yet at the same time what a marvel! She is still here! Her skin seems to have become softer and more translucent making her appear like a fallen angel. I feel so incredibly blessed to see her again, to be able to take her delicate hand, stroke her wintered hair, lay a hand upon her upper sternum and feel the warm flutter of her heart. I am reminded of the day a hummingbird flew straight into our bay window and collapsed to the ground. I cradled the elegant, shimmery thing in my palm while its heart quivered and danced. I felt then, as I do now, the indescribable delicacy, the sanctity of  the pulse– the zing–the prana that sustains all life. Bearing witness to this I feel an aching, impossible joy. It is the sentiment that lies at the very foundation of every holy rite, every act of worship. It is one that will no doubt ripple through me for all my days to come.
