Yesterday Was a Hard Day

Yesterday was a hard day.

On April 15, 2008, my friend and mentor Michael Goldstein passed away. Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of his death.

I found out the next day, via email.

I sat there, stunned. Michael had been dealing with leukemia for about a year—initially, a slowly progressive type that would take a while to manifest any severe symptoms. Luckily, they had caught it early, and he seemed to be in good spirits when he told me. He mentioned he would eventually need to do chemo and the rest of the cancer treatment, but that it would be a while before that started.

Ironically, Michael had been involved with the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in RI for years, even serving as its head. He raised who knows how much money to fight the very disease that killed him.

At first, Michael simply cleaned up an already healthy diet and started to exercise more. He switched to a macrobiotic diet, and pretty soon he was looking healthier than ever—and at 67 was probably in better shape than I was. Our weekly coaching sessions became more focused, our goals more clear, our relationship deeper and more honest.

I wonder know if the knowledge of his illness—that his life now had a foreseeable end—made him put more effort into everything he did. I like to think it did, especially in light of the Year to Live Practice. Having an end date makes everything very, very clear and every moment precious.
Sometimes I find myself wandering through the day, lost in whatever mind games I’m playing with myself, lost in samsara. And then I see something, or feel something that reminds me just how precious every second of this life is.

In Buddhism, it’s said that a human birth is a rare and wonderful thing. To paraphrase, it’s as rare as a single turtle in a vast ocean rising to the surface in a random spot and putting his head through a ring just big enough for his head.

It takes thousands of lifetimes to earn a single human birth. Even the hardest life, the worst experiences of suffering, are better than being reborn as an animal—or worse, into a hell realm.
The Buddha viewed human life as the ideal state for attaining enlightenment. The combination of awareness and physicality, along with the suffering and joys available to us in this life, create ideal conditions for spiritual growth. In fact, the Buddha also said that while there were higher realms, those realms were basically too pleasant to motivate us to practice. So here we are, human, with a chance to grab that brass ring.

But I digress. Or maybe not. So much of my spiritual growth is due to Michael. So much of my clarity and self-awareness has grown out of what he taught me and the seeds he’s sown. Even now, years after going through the crucible of self-discovery Michael created in his program Powerfuliving, new lessons are being taught. As I go deeper into my own life, my own relationships, everything Michael gave me becomes more and more important.

And this loss goes deep. There is a hole in my life where he was. His wise advice, warm smile, and commitment to helping me fulfill my potential changed my life. There are so many times when I want to call him up and ask for his advice, when I could use his wisdom and insight to bring me back down to earth.

But he’s gone. And the grief is still there. Not as intense as it was, of course. But there. I suspect it will always be there. I hope it will, because grieving means you cared, that you opened yourself up enough to feel real loss. Grief means you lived honestly.

And even in grief, I learned so much. I learned to let go of what I wanted to be, or what I wished wasn’t happening, and be with it. To let grief move through me, without pushing it away or clinging to it. I learned that grief can open my heart to others, offer healing and awareness, and create new opportunities to connect with myself and others on a deep and profound level.

Most importantly, I learned to not be afraid of grief. I’ve lost a lot of people close to me in my life. I’ve had too many friends leave this earth too soon. And for the most part, I’ve carried on. Head down, pushing forward, ignoring the huge amount of suffering and grief that was in my heart. I could get through it. I could go on. And if I just ignored it long enough…it would go away.

That’s all bullshit, by the way. Grief—or any strong emotion—doesn’t disappear when we push it away from us. It sticks around, buries itself in our hearts and minds, and then shows up in 1,000 different ways. Most often it shows up as armor—the hardening of our hearts that we accept as normal and even healthy. As we get older, this is often seen as a good thing. We can “roll with the punches”. We can “tough it out”. We can shove away our experience and hope it doesn’t come back. God forbid someone should see us lose control—cry, wail for our losses, get angry at the injustice of it all. God forbid we should drop all the bullshit and be real.

And that’s really what Michael taught: how to be real. How to live honestly, with integrity, wisdom and compassion. How to be with others and how to create relationships—of all types—based on respect, awareness, careful listening and honest communication. How to be vulnerable—a word he used so often—and real. How to take risks and open ourselves to what’s right in front of us.

So often we miss it. I did. In the stress and financial worry of my day-to-day life, I assumed Michael was going to be OK. I knew in my heart he was seriously ill, but I didn’t let myself entertain the possibility that he could die. I couldn’t; it felt too big, too horrible to contemplate.

And then it happened.

So much was left unsaid between us. Even as I write this, a deep well of regret and grief boils up from inside. There were so many things I want to say; I want to tell Michael just how much his teachings have helped me, how they’ve changed my life. I want to thank him, although “thanks” just doesn’t seem like enough. I want to tell him I love him and that he gave me the greatest gift anyone can give another—the tools for creating a deeper and more meaningful life.
But I can’t. He’s gone, and these regrets are here.

So for any of you reading this: where is your unfinished business? Who do you need to say “I love you” to? Who do you need to forgive or be forgiven by? What do you need to let go of to move on?

These are the only questions worth asking, I think.

That’s all for now, folks. I’m exhausted.