Our Last Words

Last Words

Years ago, while in graduate school, I took a sexuality course at the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey (UMDNJ), co-taught by Drs. Raymond Rosen and Sandra Lieblum. Dr. Rosen provided the rigor and dry humor that sex can have at times; whereas, Dr. Lieblum engaged us with her brilliance and energy, instilling fun and passion, while disseminating information around the topic of sex.

I would like to focus on Dr. Lieblum. Two of my favorite memories of her were the annual Sex Week she hosted at the medical school, and her conceptualizing a rather stimulating disorder, Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome (PSAS).

Sex Week was a weeklong conference on and about everything attractive and repulsive regarding sexuality. It was informative and disquieting. It left me exhilarated and, most certainly, sheepishly intrigued.

Regarding PSAS, I leave you this link:

http://sexuality.about.com/od/glossary/g/psas.htm

Sadly, in May 2009, Dr. Lieblum was in a serious bicycle accident, which contributed to her untimely death in 2010. A friend of mine, who was very close to Dr.Lieblum, informed me that in Dr. Lieblum’s last months of life she lost her ability to sensibly, orally communicate; she responded to questions by reciting past lectures from her years of teaching and speaking at conferences. No longer was she able to answer a question directly, and the frustration was horrifically clear upon her face.

Dr. Lieblum played a significant role in honing my human sexuality interests. Needless to say, I was rather unsettled by the information of her deterioration.

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I own a book entitled, Japanese Death Poems. It is a compilation of poems written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the verge of death. To be present in the moment of our final transition is an enviable treasure that many of us are not afforded nor comfortable embracing. In the book, there is a poem by the Japanese Monk, Goku Kyonen, followed by a description of his final moments:

          The truth embodied in the Buddhas
               Of the future, present, past;
          The teaching we received from the
               Fathers of our faith
          Can all be found at the tip of my stick.

“When Goku felt his death was near, he ordered all his monk-disciples to gather around him. He sat at the pulpit, raised his stick, gave the floor a single tap with it, and said the poem above. When he finished he raised the stick again, tapped the floor once more and cried, ‘See! See!’ Then, sitting upright, he died.”

Wow! I am tremendously envious of his conscious dying. Imagine being that present during our time of transition!

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The passing of Dr. Lieblum and the Japanese Death Poems book shook me. I’ve been pondering my concluding moments, my final gesture, and my last words. What will they be? Will I be cognizant of all that surrounds me? Will words be vaporous, or will they still take shape on my tongue, in my brain? Or worse still, will I be just a slab of babbling, discomforting flesh?

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I once heard a speech delivered by the ever-engaging, renowned, international spiritual advisor/humanitarian, Tony Campolo. At the close of his address, he referenced some words he had once heard: “When you were born everyone was happy and you were the only one crying. The question is – when you die will you be the only one happy while everyone else is crying?”

If I have my druthers, in that final moment, I imagine myself as a broken record, a conscious, but mumbling, perfection; giggling uncontrollably, chanting to no one and everyone. My incantation construed with the vocabulary so oft spoken in both my professional career and personal life: I am beautiful; you are beautiful! And in those closing seconds, I’ll post my final, boyish smirk, winking at all who surround me, delivering a nod, and letting everyone know that which is unspeakably known:

It is finished.

The Plea in the Graffiti

I read this plea on a street wall in my town.
Whoever you are, you are more beautiful than cheap, more powerful than your pain, and one day, all of this yuck, festering in your pores like clogged oil, may one day be the nacre you use to create the pearls out of your pain.

Most profound moment of the Week, October 20-24, 2014

Most profound moment of the week.


I was in a lengthy discussion with a student who had Asperger's Syndrome. He was deeply affected by my show, and at one point commented, "You say some very interesting things. The best way to describe your show is to say that you are intellectually emotional."

Funniest Moment of the Week, October 20-24, 2014

Funniest moment of the week.

I was at a conference in New York, where this woman approached me and said the following: "As a fellow light reader, I just need to tell you that your aura is a bright yellow light." Then she looked over to the stage, saw that the stage was lit in a yellowish hue, then looked back at me, smiled, and said, "Or maybe it was the lights. Anyway, you were good."

Thankfulness, Part Eight

Thankfulness -- Part Eight -- Along this Highway

Along this Highway

A couple of years ago, while driving back from Massachusetts, I stopped at a rest area for food and a break. As I was eating, I noticed a man sitting next to me whose physical appearance could best be described as a traveled warrior. I was cautious, avoiding any lingering eye contact, though, I was struck by the irony in my behavior. In my life work, I encourage people to smile and say hello to those they do not know, because it is a simple gesture that potentially contains profound effects. Yet, something, perhaps instinctual, was holding me back from pursuing this creed. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I obeyed it. Still, I was left with an unsettling debate between my conscience and my behavior. My conscience was lovingly chiding me, "Be careful of becoming a phony."

Within a few minutes of me sitting down, the man next to me, spoke up. I don't remember his exact first words, but I felt an immediate release from my leery position. We ended up speaking for about 20 minutes. He just started opening up about his life.

He drove tractor trailer trucks for a living, and had seen most of the US in his travels. Because of my frequent travel schedule, we compared and shared stories about highways and hidden gems. He relayed to me about the toll that such travel placed on him and his family. At the time of our meeting, he revealed that he only saw his family three to four times a year. He was married for the second time, and had two children from that marriage. He took a deep breath, then he self-disclosed further.

His first marriage was a disaster. He confessed that he was extremely violent and volatile towards both his first wife and their three children. He admitted that during that relationship he was a nasty man who would often viciously beat and break the bones of those he "loved". He regretted ever being that man, and continued to live with remorse for the pain he inflicted and the lives he ruined. His ex-wife and their children no longer spoke to him.

In his second marriage, he worked hard to change the man he was. He learned calming techniques and communication skills. And by his own admission, he never placed his hands violently on either his second wife or their children.

(On a side note, I realized that my initial hesitancy had much to do with instinctively identifying his violent past. As a survivor of a violent childhood, I often see elements of my father in men who struggle with their rage as well.)

At some point, he asked me what I did for a living. I tried to explain the creation I bring to the stage. I am uncertain about the words I used in my description, but I do remember telling him that I try to help people to realize the brevity of their lives.

I saw the man perk up, and I saw his eyes start to glisten. Immediately, I thought about some lyrics from a Bill Morrissey song called, ‘Barstow’: "I can see his eyes, and they shine like brake lights. And I am grateful, I cannot see mine."

He spoke with a distance that I can only describe as a levy barely suitable to hold at bay any further emotions. He shrugged, then said, "I understand little about what you actually do, but I agree that our lives are short." He paused, then took a deeper plunge. "Last year I was driving my rig in Ohio. It was late, and I was talking to a buddy of mine who was also a truck driver. He was driving through some icy mountains in West Virginia, and we were keeping each other awake on our CBs. At one point, he says to me, 'Holy S***!' I said, 'What?' He then said, 'I just hit an ice patch and my truck just flew off this mountain. Tell my wife and children that I love them.' I heard a loud sound, then nothing. So, yeah, you never know when it’s your time. I agree with you on that one."

I was moved, honored, and somewhat surprised by this man's confessional. It was refreshingly brave and possessed a vulnerability that is not often experienced in our brief, passerby interactions. In truth, many of us do not experience it in most of our relationships, regardless of the level of intimacy. I felt alive and deeply connected to him. I knew I would never see him again, but I was glad that I got to see and meet him.

What I do know now is our communion enabled me to see the person, not the abuser; I saw the fragile man who shared conversation and connection with me. He allowed me to be part priest, part therapist, and fully human.

I drove home that day with my eyes wide open, my heart full, and a gratefulness that most often only gets revealed through death. So, I thank you, my friend, wherever you are, wherever you may travel, for giving to me the gift of kinship, for breaking the barrier of strangers, and making me more alive.