In Every Form of Death, We Birth Something New

This week, my Aunt Bette passed away, just a month after celebrating her ninety-seventh birthday. Bette was an extraordinary soul, born during the vibrant 1920s and brimming with an adventurous spirit. In the 1950s and 1960s, she earned her pilot’s license, embarked on a two-year sailing journey to Spain with her husband, and even took her sisters, including my mother, on daring voyages from Ft. Lauderdale to Bimini multiple times. I still laugh at the idea of a group of septuagenarians and octogenarians being stopped by a Coast Guard crew in their thirties and the astonishment they must have felt encountering these fearless women in their seventies at sea.

While my aunt was in hospice, she initially put up a strong fight to hold on, which I found quite intriguing. It’s fascinating how, when observing individuals facing this situation, we often resist the journey to that serene place. Yet, at some point, something shifts and we find the courage to surrender and let go. 

In death, as in life, we're constantly giving birth to something new. Embracing emptiness and moving beyond resistance is a journey toward the divine.

Both Aunt Bette and my mother have been profound influences on me. From Bette, I've inherited a daring spirit—I now find myself swimming with whales in the ocean, channeling her energy. My mother, a Jungian analyst, instilled in me a passion for exploring the mind-body connection.

I recently gave a talk at the Jung Institute on divine femininity and consciousness, a topic my mother would have loved. Dementia may have stolen that part of her, but her legacy lives on in my pursuits. During my talk, I delved into Marion Woodman's teachings on "conscious femininity," which emphasize the value of vulnerability, compassion, and intuition.

Reflecting on my own journey, I see the powerful female figures who have navigated uncharted waters to redefine paradigms. Aunt Bette soared in the skies and sailed the seas; I've found my path through breathwork. Breathing allows me to confront pain, embracing and transmuting it. It requires a surrender to the unknown, much like dying. When I commit to the breath, it opens a door within, enabling me to step into my full being and live more adventurously.

I have been deeply fortunate to be inspired by a remarkable mother and her three incredible sisters, each of whom left an indelible mark on my heart. These women collectively conveyed a profound message about the importance of caring for and loving one another, regardless of the challenges life presented.

Growing up and finding their voices during the transformative decades spanning the 20s to the 80s, they experienced a unique journey as women. I am eternally thankful for the invaluable life lessons I gleaned from each of them, a legacy of unconditional love and resilience that continues to inspire me to this day. As they've moved on, I carry their wisdom forward, passing it on to the next generation, and holding onto the enduring bond of sisterhood that they so beautifully exemplified.

Marion Woodman aptly stated, “Once we get used to listening to our dreams, our whole body responds like a musical instrument.”

In a recent dream, I connected energetically with Aunt Bette. We sailed on calm waters until the winds changed, mirroring the uncertainties of life. Yet, in the face of fear, I protected a little girl—which I believe symbolized my inner self. Navigating rough waters, we encountered barriers, but eventually, we sailed toward an open horizon, a space suffused with divine love. I woke with profound peace.

John Shedd's words echo in my mind: “A ship in harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

Aunt Bette, like the ships, ventured beyond the harbor. She listened to her dreams, teaching me to do the same. Her absence leaves a void, but her lessons endure.