Steve Taylor's February Newsletter |
Dear I hope all is well with you. My main event over the past month was the passing of my mother, Christine Taylor, two weeks
ago. She was ill for a long time, so it wasn’t unexpected, although the end came quickly. I think I’m only just beginning to process the reality of her passing - the world seems like a different place at the moment, as if it’s shifted slightly on its axis.
I feel grateful to my mum for giving me so much love and support through my life - she was such a fantastic mother and grandmother. Her funeral was a beautiful celebratory occasion, with so much good will and gratitude. I
found it very touching that as the funeral car passed by, on the way to the cemetery, several pedestrians stopped to make the sign of the cross, or to bow their heads in respect.
I had an unusual experience after her death. I spent a lot of time in hospital with her while she was dying, but wasn’t there when she actually passed. I sat with her body for a couple of hours afterwards, both with my brother and alone. When I was alone with my mum’s body, the room started to glow
with white light, like moonlight. Objects - including my mum’s body - started to glow with the light. Everything started to merge, as if the boundaries between objects were fading away. The white light was like water flowing through and submerging the room. Everything looked strange, very unfamiliar. As the white light glowed brighter, physical forms became more indistinct, losing their solidity. As I observed the light, there was a feeling of stillness and spaciousness inside me. I felt like I
was being cleaned out, or emptied.
It seemed like a kind of portal, a threshold to a different dimension. The white radiance seemed to be a fundamental quality, a kind of spiritual essence. It reminded me of the quote from the poet Shelley, “Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, stains the white radiance of eternity.” Then a nurse knocked on the door and came into the room, and I returned to a normal state of consciousness.
I love the photo below of my mum
with me and my brother when we were babies. (I’m the youngest one.) Life must have been quite hard with two young babies (she was only 20 when my brother was born, and I came along a year later), but I think she really loved being a mother, as the photo shows.
Psychology
Today Article As a result of the above, I don’t have much to report this month. I haven’t done much writing or any talks. My only publication
is an article for my Psychology Today blog, about the transformation of purpose that some people undergo after intense turmoil and encounters with death. It’s based on my most recent book Extraordinary Awakenings. You can read the article here. Upcoming Book - DisConnected I’m very happy to live quietly for a while, especially as my upcoming book, DisConnected, is due out on April 28th, and there are already some events and interviews lined up. There is an online launch event for the book on May 8th, which I’ll
let you know about later. There is a preview of the book here Contemplating Mortality On the subject of death, I’ve always felt it’s important to contemplate our mortality. There is nothing morbid or depressing about this - on the contrary, it’s liberating and transformative. (In Extraordinary
Awakenings, I tell lots of stories of people whose lives were transformed by encounters with death.) In the Satipatthana Sutta, the Buddha advises his monks that whenever they come across a dead body, they should sit down to meditate, telling themselves, “Verily, also my own body is of the same nature; such it will become and will not escape it.” Through contemplating death in this way, a monk “lives detached, and clings to nothing in the world.”
It may not be possible for us to meditate next to dead bodies, but one practice that I think is very
worthwhile is to visit cemeteries. As well as being beautiful peaceful places, we can take the opportunity to sit down and contemplate our situation as human beings living temporary and fragile lives. A year or so ago, I wrote the following poem after visiting a local cemetery:
In the Cemetery
I walked through a cemetery this morning
in the clear winter sunshine, the grass
crisp and white.
I paused by old weathered gravestones
straining to read the faded names and dates
then found a corner of smooth pristine stones
with inscriptions painfully clear and fresh.
The cemetery was silent and still
but as I walked I heard voices
from different decades and centuries
whispering through the icy air.
Softly but urgently, the dead seemed to say: “If only we had realized that life
is so fragile
we would have savored each passing moment.
If only we had realized that life is so brief
we would have seized every opportunity.
If only we had realized that life is so precious
we would have stopped complaining and worrying
and lived with joy and love.
If only we had known the meaning of life
while we were still alive -
then we would have truly lived.”
There was no regret or disappointment.
The voices were tender, like loving
grandparents
sharing the wisdom of their experience. "So don’t be forgetful, as we were,” I heard them whisper.
“Wake in celebration every morning
go to sleep in gratitude every night
and appreciate each moment in between.
Don’t live at the surface of your mind
amidst resentment and regret and fear -
live from the deep space of your soul
sharing your light and love. We realized too late; we spent our lives asleep.
But there’s still
time for you to wake up.” As I walked from the gravestones, I looked up.
The sunlight streamed and charged through my body.
The endless blue sky filled me with space and stillness.
With each breath of cold air, I felt refreshed
gloriously awake and alive. All best wishes and blessings, Steve
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