Lucy, as I will call her, set down twelve small stones that she had picked up on a beach in Martha’s Vineyard the previous weekend. She arranged these stones on a green cloth that she spread on the floor in front of us. Next to these objects she placed a small vase that held a single rose. Within the circle of stones she put a candle and touched fire to its wick.
This simple but beautiful arrangement amounted to a still life design, suited for contemplation. The flame, however, did not stand still but moved in response to the slight currents of air circulating through the room. That flame is what fixed my attention at certain points during our small group’s discussion and the meditation that followed.
What came to fascinate me is how the flame gives light. As I continued to gaze at it, I moved into a new appreciation of this fire as a source of light. Beautiful as the rose is, that flower cannot give forth light like the flame. This fire, so insubstantial and yet so subtly brilliant, does deserve its choice as symbol of the spirit after all. Light-giving from its depths, the flame suggests the living soul deep down within us.
Another motif for our meditation came from a conversation that took place before we began. Lucy shared with us memories of her dearest friend, a woman who had died three weeks ago. That death came at the end of a long illness, a time when the friend had shared much with Lucy as she prepared for the final day.
Lucy was not present as her friend died but family members later told Lucy of her last words. Just before she died, the woman’s face changed expression and she was heard to say, “I get it.”
This phrase says a whole lot and also very little. What does “get” mean? Even more important, what does “it” refer to? Does anyone really know what the woman was saying?
Lucy, of course, does not pretend to know but, like others, feels stirred with wonder. The phrase suggests a sudden insight into reality. It is as if the woman, in her last moments of life on earth, sees a vision of the way everything holds together. A lifetime’s striving for understanding is rewarded at the last. Perhaps she sees the root of reality, the love that gives the world its ultimate meaning, the divine kindness that underlies all of life.
One can only imagine what this revelation would have meant to the dying woman. This vision into what Dante called “the love that moves the sun and the other stars” could have made death, for her, the doorway into a new and ecstatic way of being. She was granted a more intense appreciation of the real than she had ever experienced in her life previously.
As we pondered this death, the splendid late October light streamed in from the garden outside filling the room with subdued brilliance. One of our group rang a soft bell several times and we turned to the silence inside us. Most people sat on the floor in the lotus position, eyes closed and body still. A peace descended over us as we opened ourselves to the action of the spirit.
The spirit of the woman who had died remained a motif of the group meditation. Her vision at the last inspired in us a renewed appreciation of the mystery that lies at the heart of all creation and of our own lives. There is more to reality, it said, infinitely more than we can ever plumb.
The flame, in its own mysterious being, continued to feed my soul. So did the continuing courage of Lucy’s husband Ned (again, I have substituted another name for the real one). His serious loss of memory gives a sober dimension to our gatherings but his courage in coping with it inspires us all. On this occasion, referring to his wife, Ned says: “She is my memory.”
And she is. In giving him loving support Lucy helps us all move toward the love that undergirds our hopes. We perceive that love fitfully and need to be supported in our own weakness. As yet, we don’t “get it” but look at the flame and try to remain open to its promise.
Richard Griffin