In my work with social justice advocates across the world, I’ve noticed that those who are most passionate and committed approach challenges with a heart of compassion. Which is why I loved writing about Maggie Doyne for Huffington Post this week. Maggie is a 27-year-old woman from NJ who first set off to see the […]
A couple of years ago I blogged regularly about my Year to Live project. The 365 day experiment profoundly changed the way I think about life, even to this day. Every once in a while, something fantastic and year-to-live-y grabs my attention and makes me want to jump up and share it with you.
This month marks a year since my one year to live project came to an end. And a year since my close childhood friend Marisa died of metastatic breast cancer…. I have some good news to share. I’ve just come back from Marisa’s brother & sister-in-law’s baby shower. Marisa would have been an amazing aunt to this little one, and I like to imagine her smiling at all of us.
What I did not write about was the all-too-real end-of-life journey of my earliest childhood friend Marisa, who was courageously facing metastatic cancer while I went about my hypothetical journey.
For the past 85 years, my family has been handing down the skeletal remains of someone we call Felix. While this may sound sinister or downright peculiar, let me assure you that Felix holds a cherished position in our family. He’s a silent but reliable teacher and a master at imparting lessons of impermanence…
I wanted to ask if she might like to have lunch someday. I felt nervous and 17 again. Thankfully she beat me to it. That’s how I came to be seated in the dining room of her orderly, yet cheerful, northern NJ condo.
When the volunteer coordinator called me, she said she had a woman who was “too mean to die” and that she trusted that I was the right person for her. With that introduction, I left with an open heart and open mind, intending not to judge, but send loving energy to her. She was the most miserable, unlikable, complaining, woman I have met!
My friend Ibrahima does not know which day or year he was born. He came into this world in Guinea, West Africa, where his native language N’Ko had no written form until very recently. To obtain a passport, he had to approximate how old he was and select a day that felt right to him.