Being among the dying is being in a sacred space, a space that must be treated with a reverence. Once letting go of the fear of death itself, there is an understanding that the ground itself is holy.
Recently I got on an airplane heading from my home near Toronto to the place I grew up outside of Vancouver. I had my eldest son and youngest daughter in tow. My eldest son, age 19, the same age that I was when I left home, was there as my support, my wingman, and my baby as my shield. I was venturing to see my estranged family whom I hadn’t seen in three and a half years. I got the call from my younger sister that my father was dying and that it was time to say goodbye. I did the trip with trepidation but knew that if I didn’t go…
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