Encounters with Power: Adventures and Misadventures on the Shamanic Path of Healing - José Luis Stevens 2017

The Right Way to Die
Expression—Storyteller-Artist

Clearly, my mother was as excited to see me as I was to see her, so I knew I had made the right decision to fly out to Northern California on Christmas Eve, 2005, when I got the call. She was slipping. For a ninety-nine-year-old woman suffering the discomforts of terminal spinal cancer, she had a great deal to express. I took notes and made recordings each day and evening I spent with her. Here is what we talked about.

Margarita: “Yes, I’m so ready. I want to go soon. I’m tired. It’s enough already. They are all waiting for me. Your dad, my friends, my mother, my father, my brothers. I want to see them. You are such a good son. I love you and I am very proud of you. I am finished with everything. There is nothing more to do. I’m just trouble now.”

José: “Mom, you have a right to be trouble. You’ve taken care of so many people — your mother, your brothers, Dad, my brother and me, so many people. Now you’re giving people a chance to take care of you. Maybe you won’t go until you have experienced that for a little bit.”

Margarita: “You think so? Well, that is an interesting way you put it. I guess you are right. But I’m really ready. The Lord needs to know that enough is enough. So, you think it will be soon?”

José: “Don’t be too impatient, Mom. Dying takes time. It’s a process that you have to go through. Yes, you are almost done here. I don’t think it will be long, but you know it is a mystery and no one knows for sure when you will pass over.”

Margarita: “Oh boy!” She sounded both excited and a little taken aback. Then she drifted off into a morphine-induced sleep.

My mother, Margarita Saenz España Stevens, was born in 1907 in Guadalajara, Mexico, to a well-to-do family of Spanish-Basque heritage. Her father was district attorney in that city before the Mexican Revolution. His marriage to my grandmother was arranged between two wealthy families. She was given to him at age eleven when he was already thirty. At first, she only wanted to play with dolls. Then came seven sons and two daughters. Margarita was the third child. The next girl died and then came three more boys, but one of these, José, died in childhood. Being the only girl in a Mexican family was not an easy task: four brothers to guard your every move and all the women’s work handed to you. When the Mexican Revolution came in 1910, all hell broke loose. The revolutionary war lasted for ten years until she was thirteen.

Margarita, speaking haltingly: “Revolution and war is a horrible thing. Don’t let anyone romanticize war. It is one of the worst things a human being can experience. We barely survived and many didn’t.”

José: “You’ve seen a lot. That is a hard thing to have to experience when you are so young. You are a real veteran of life.”

Margarita: “The city alternated between federal forces and rebel forces with fierce battles being waged on the streets for control of the city. I was made to lie on the floor as the bullets flew through the glass windows. I remember soldiers crawling like snakes up the street with their weapons. After the shooting stopped, the street was littered with dead bodies. Anything that moved died, including lots of civilians.

“When the rebels under Carranza and Villa wrested control of the city from the federals, they seized my father, your grandfather, and arrested him. Although he fought hard and at great sacrifice for the rights of indigenous peoples against the land grabs of the federals, he was still a court-appointed official and thus on the wrong side.”

Tearfully now: “I went to see my father in prison. He didn’t want me to see him there but I just had to go. It was a terrible place, freezing, with green moss on the walls. There were thousands of people crowded into the cells. He was such a good man and didn’t deserve to be there. More than anything I wanted him to come home. When he did, it was too late. A year in a Mexican prison is a horrific experience and although my mother fought to free him, displaying extraordinary courage by facing down the rebel generals, by the time she succeeded he was a broken man. At age twelve I nursed him for six months, but his health was destroyed and he died of infection and pneumonia, leaving our family to fend for itself.”

José: “You are no stranger to death. But you’ve outlived everyone.”

Margarita: “Oooooohhhh! I’ve seen so many people die. You don’t know how precious life is until you know what death is. My mother, Maria, your nana, was extremely tough and began to do cooking and catering to support the family. Three of the boys, your uncles, went to work, but one, age twelve, was kidnapped by the rebels and sent to fight with them against the federals. He was only twelve at the time but my mother succeeded in tracking him down and bringing him home. So tough was my mother that one day bandits broke into the house and she singlehandedly ordered them out with a broom. They backed out rather than deal with her.”

After her father died, Margarita took over managing the household. She took over her eldest brother’s care when he came down with tuberculosis even while struggling to overcome severe asthma herself. For seven years she nursed him until his death, all the while watching over a mother and another brother slowly succumbing to alcoholism. Tough as she was, my grandmother began to abuse the bottle.

The family moved to the frontier, the Imperial Valley, where there was an abundance of jobs for young engineers and city planners and dry air for Margarita’s asthma. While all her brothers went to Jesuit schools, Margarita was expected to take care of everyone else and never went beyond the fifth grade. Yet she clearly demonstrated signs of great artistic talent, painting portraits with oils whenever she could. She took trips to San Diego during the summers that were simply too hot in Mexicali. There, she did touch-up work for photographers and advertisers. When she was in her thirties, she asserted her independence by going to Los Angeles, getting her green card, and obtaining a position as an illustrator at the Los Angeles Times. It was an excellent job and she carried it until she met my dad, an American of English-Irish descent in his late forties. He had been a confirmed bachelor but within three months they were married, and soon they started a family at my mother’s comparatively late age of thirty-nine.

There followed years of childrearing, two boys to be exact, while my mother worked with my father in his stage lighting business. They became known as lighting experts in the tough Hollywood film and theater industries, but the work was hard — and not only decidedly unglamorous, but hazardous. There were high voltages, leaded black paint, high concentrations of asbestos, and mercury. I know about these things because I grew up working for my parents.

Three days later . . .

Margarita, somewhat annoyed: “So! I’m still here and I haven’t had any dreams. Nothing. And I haven’t seen an angel yet. My hands and feet are still warm. I don’t know . . . sometimes I have my doubts.”

José: “That’s normal, Mom. Everybody has doubts at times. You are being impatient. You will see. All these things will happen in good time. This process might take a week.”

Margarita: “A week! Oh, no.” A dejected look.

José: “The angel might look like a bright light.”

Margarita: “I want an angel with wings.”

José, smiling: “What color wings?”

Margarita: “Pink! Pink wings.”

José: “Like a flamingo.”

Margarita, laughing: “Yes. There is enough room in here for him. And I’m glad I have this nice big window because he can come flying right in. Do you think the trees will get in the way?”

José: “The angel might just appear in here. Doesn’t have to fly in like Superman. I don’t see the trees as a problem.” Amused, Margarita smiles and drifts off to sleep again.

In addition to supporting and caring for my grandmother, Margarita always found ways to help local people, whether it was a new immigrant family, a single mother, an elderly couple, or a poor family. This earned her much respect and friendship, especially in the Hispanic community. Through the eyes of a young child like me who wanted her all to myself, it seemed like she was always working, always helping out other people, and I resented that immensely, especially when she went through her grumpy years of menopause.

Adolescence found me out of the house every chance I could get. Basically from age seventeen on, I headed out and returned home only for brief visits. I needed to get away from Mom’s artisan chaos, her unpredictable moods, and the constant efforts to mold me or reinvent me according to Catholic doctrine. I went to Northern California and lived my own life for a long time, and only after many years did I discover that my mother had been hiding something from me: the extent of my father’s gradual deterioration from Alzheimer’s. I had chalked his behavior up to forgetfulness and Mom’s overblown worries, but I finally saw the real picture. Mom was trying to take care of someone who needed way more help than she could give.

My brother and I arranged for him to be taken to a nursing home in Northern California, and Mom moved into a retirement community next door. She was eighty-two and had already outlived three of her brothers.

My relationship with her seemed to revive then. I had moved with my family to New Mexico but visited as often as I could. Nine months later, as Mom and I held his hands, Dad died, leaving Mom with a big hole to fill. As he took his last breath, she looked at me with the most accepting and serene face I have ever seen and said simply, “He’s gone.” Lightning flashed outside, and the heavens opened up with a fierce deluge of rain. I was overcome with awe — I had never known that death could be so powerful.

I told my mother, “When it’s your time, I want to be there for you too.”

She said, “I would like that.”

After that I worried about Mom, but I needn’t have bothered. I was amazed and inspired to see her transformation at that late age. She went out and got art supplies and began to paint with oils and acrylics on canvases large and small. She even had an art exposition at the local community art center where people fought over her paintings. She transferred all the energy it had taken to care for Dad and soon became like an angel of mercy to the community in and outside of her retirement community.

She got to know the mostly Mexican staff and counseled their families about all kinds of problems. She read to people, helped people younger than she was walk to the dining area, and went out of her way to befriend the few Spanish speakers who were somewhat isolated. Over the next fourteen years she outlived scores of people by walking a mile every day and being of service to everyone. She was an exceptionally popular figure and people always wanted her company. When elderly men tried to court her, she simply said she was a one-man woman and wasn’t interested. Finally, when her eyes went and her hands shook too badly, she put her brushes away. I knew then that this was the beginning of the end of her stay on earth.

Margarita: “I look like a scarecrow. I could scare the birds if they saw me now.”

José: “Mom, there you go again. You look fine. You are a wonderful being besides. It doesn’t matter how you look. Remember when you used to take care of birds as a kid? You put splints on their broken feet and fixed their wings.”

Margarita: “Yeah, I couldn’t have dogs or cats because I had asthma so bad. But later when we had dogs, they would do everything I told them. They used to help me with your dad. I would tell them to watch him and if he was going to get into some kind of trouble to come and get me. The dogs would come and grab my sleeve and pull me when they wanted me to come. They were good dogs, those two. Life is so mysterious.”

José: “Yeah, it is, but soon you are going to find out all the answers to your questions. I am very excited for you. You are going on a great adventure.”

Margarita: “Adventure. You are the adventurous one. Well, if I find out anything, I will tell you. You think I can do that, with telepathy?”

José: “Sure, that will be easy for you. I would love it if you could answer some questions for me. You could visit me in dreams and give me information about what you find out.”

Margarita: “Can people really do that?”

José: “Yes, they can, if they want. You don’t have to, though. It’s up to you.”

Margarita: “You are full of stories. You have traveled so much. You are a smart guy, but me, I don’t know anything.”

José: “Where do you think I learned to tell stories? I grew up on your stories about Mexico. Dad told stories too. You were great storytellers. I got my sense of adventure from both of you. You know, wisdom is different from education. You didn’t get a formal education but you have become a very wise person from just living life.”

Margarita: “That’s what your dad used to say. He said I was very smart. But I’m not wise. I don’t know anything. The Lord has helped me very much.”

José: “See? That’s what I mean. You are wise enough to know that you don’t know anything. It’s the really dumb ones who think they know it all.”

Margarita, laughing: “I’m glad you’re here. You are a lot of fun and a good son. I’m very happy.”

José: “Want to hear some stories?”

Margarita: “Sure.”

I tell her stories about Guadalupe, my Huichol teacher from Mexico, and his philosophy of life. I tell her about magic healings and include tales about the Shipibo people from the Amazon, what they believe about life and death, and how they sing icaros (sacred songs) to heal each other. I tell her about shamans and medicine people. Then I have her listen to a tape of icaros from the Amazon. She is delighted.

Mom was always a devoted Catholic. For much of her life she believed in all the Catholic doctrine — heaven and hell, paying for sins, good people and bad people, and so on. We had many arguments over the criminal behavior of the church and its blatant hypocrisy, but her Catholicism was emotional and had little to do with ideas. She was also very conservative politically because my father was. We used to have huge intellectual debates about politics, and I would get so upset about what seemed to be her complete refusal to look at the facts. I couldn’t understand how she could believe in an administration that gave to the rich and deprived her of social services that she needed so badly. It wasn’t until later that I saw that her beliefs were tied to my father and his memory. Then it didn’t matter anymore.

Several days later . . .

Margarita, whispering now: “It’s a huge thing what you have done for me. You came all the way from New Mexico when I needed you. Thank you so. I love you dearly.”

José, tearfully: “I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s an honor for me to be here with you in your transition. You have done so much for me. You carried me around for nine months and made it possible for me to grow up. You gave me a good education, the foundation for my good fortune. Thank you. I love you.”

Margarita: “You did that yourself. You took advantage of what we gave you. It was the Lord who helped me. I didn’t do anything.”

José: “Mom, there is one thing you need to do before you go. You need to see clearly what a wonderful person you are. That is very, very important if you are going to make a successful transition.”

Margarita: “But I’m not a wonderful person.”

José: “Well, God made you, didn’t he? And God only makes wonderful things, right?”

Margarita, reluctantly, seeing where this was going: “Yeeessss . . .”

José: “So that makes you wonderful, doesn’t it?

Margarita: “Well, if you say so.”

José, thinking: $@&*! She didn’t let that in, as usual.

Margarita: “Well, thank you. I never saw it that way before.”

José, with relief: “You are a wonderful person. You’ve helped so many people and taken care of them. You have an eye for beauty and color. You are a very unique personality, and there has never been and will never be someone just like you. You have done Margarita perfectly. Everyone I talk to respects you and loves you. You have no enemies, and no one thinks badly of you. You’ve worked very hard and made a contribution. The world is better because you have been here. I admire you, and I am inspired by you.”

Margarita: “How do you know all of that?”

José: “I’m just telling you what I have heard and seen for myself. It seems to be so.”

Margarita, drifting off to sleep: “I’m very happy.”

An hour later . . .

Margarita: “Someone was here while you were out of the room. They fixed my covers.”

José: “I was standing right outside. I didn’t see anyone go in.”

Margarita: “Well, it was someone because they adjusted the covers around my chest and neck.”

José: “I guess you had a visitor from the other side.”

Margarita: “Hmmm.”

The next day . . .

I arrive early and outside her door offer some tobacco to Spirit for a painless transition, as I do every morning. I light her candle and burn a little Palo Santo from Peru to clear the air in her room. Then, using feathers, I ask that all negativity and fears be removed from Mom so that she is light and free to go. Lastly I anoint her with Agua Florida (perfumed water) and some frankincense from a small bottle, concentrating on asking for wisdom, love, and power to move into her heart. I rearrange the Shipibo cloth on her bed. It is covered with designs for clear visions.

Margarita, much weaker: “How long do you think it’s going to be? What if it’s another week?”

José: “You’re almost ready. Spirit must have a few things more for you to experience because you are still here. You can’t hurry it up. It will take as long as it takes.”

Margarita: “Hmmph.”

That evening . . .

Margarita, whispering: “Cathy and Frank came by tonight while you were at dinner. I’m worried about Cathy. She doesn’t seem happy. All she did was complain. I felt so depressed when she left. I wanted to talk to Frank but she monopolized the conversation just talking about herself. My heart is racing. I can’t seem to calm down.”

José, really annoyed: “That’s not right. This is your special time. You shouldn’t have to worry about anyone else at this time. That is so inappropriate and selfish. You have such little time left and it is precious. I’m going to talk to her and Frank.”

Margarita: “No. Don’t say anything. I don’t want trouble.”

José: “Trouble? I won’t stand for any more of this. Don’t worry! I’ll be diplomatic. But she needs to know that from now on she can’t use you as a sounding board. What is the matter with her? Doesn’t she get it? This is a time for you to say goodbye. As far as I’m concerned, this is a temple and what you are going through is too important. Don’t worry about her. She has to solve her own problems. She is a distraction. You have more important things to do. Just put her out of your mind, and I’ll make sure you get to talk to Frank alone.”

Margarita: “Thank you.”

I was so agitated that I had a great deal of trouble calming down. I realized that Mom always put up with way too much. She couldn’t say no to younger souls who behaved like children. When I was a kid she knew a lot about setting limits, but in her later years that seemed to fall away. This was the martyrdom side of the impatience she struggled with.

Margarita: “Salvador [her long-dead favorite brother] just offered me a cookie.”

José: “That is so nice. He’s helping you from the other side.”

Margarita: “Yes, there are others too. This is so wonderful, to have all this love and help. God is so good. I don’t know what I would have done without you helping me. The Lord arranged this. I am so lucky.” Tears.

Later . . .

Margarita: “Somebody is opening a door. I can’t quite see them. There is someone there.”

José: “Sounds like they are opening the door for you now so you can go through soon. The other side is helping.”

Margarita: “Wonderful.”

Later, after a number of visitors . . .

Margarita: “Will it be very long now?”

José: “Not long. But maybe there is a little more for you to do.”

Margarita: “Oh, what could I do anymore that is useful?”

José: “You know, Mom, I am noticing how moved everyone is when they come to visit you. It’s as if you are in a state of grace and people benefit from just being with you. They go away healed. You don’t have to do anything. I sense the presence of helpers and great beings around you helping you. All your helpers from the other side are here. I think others feel that too. That is very powerful. You are acting as a messenger and perhaps that is a last contribution.”

Margarita, eyes filled with tears: “Ohhhh. You think so. I can tell you are not kidding. You are serious. That is so wonderful. God is so good. There is so much love in the world. Dear God, forgive me for anything I have done wrong. Forgive everyone. I love you. Guide me and bless my family. Bless my son, José. He is a good son. He is helping me.”

José: Can’t speak — very moved.

Later . . .

Margarita: “Where is Frank? I haven’t talked to Frank. God says I can’t go yet, not until I talk to Frank.”

José: “He came the other day, Mom. He’s coming again tonight. He couldn’t come yesterday so he’s coming today.”

I sneak out of the room and call him on the phone, leaving him a message. “Mom’s asking for you. She’s slipping away. Better come if you want to see her.”

Later that evening after her visit with Frank. I return from dinner . . .

Margarita, struggling with the bardos (transitional states): “Oh! There are devils. They keep trying to get me. I try to get rid of them but they keep coming back. I called the police. They are coming to get rid of them. Oh, I’m so confused. I think I’m going nuts. What’s the matter with me? Is there grain all over the floor?”

José: “No grain. What you are feeling is part of the process, Mom. The Tibetans call them the bardos. They are challenges you must face. The devils are really your own fears that are confronting you. You are being tested. You must not resist them or give them any energy. They exist only in your mind. If you struggle with them, you are feeding them. It sounds like the visit with Frank was difficult. What happened?”

Margarita: “So you mean the devil wasn’t here earlier trying to ruin things in the family? Frank told me I didn’t love him. I told him I loved him but he didn’t believe me. I think he is angry I’m not leaving any money. I thought the devil was here trying to interfere.”

José: “There isn’t any actual devil, Mom. The devil is a human creation. God is everywhere and created everything. How can there be a devil?”

Margarita: “Oh. I am so glad to hear that. But Frank — he thinks I don’t love him. What can I do? Maybe I can tell his wife and she will tell him. Do you think that is a good idea?”

José: “No. I don’t think so, Mom. That will not help. I’m not sure who said what in your conversation. I’m sorry you’re upset. I don’t think he expects any money from you. He knows the situation. Dying brings up a lot of old feelings in people. But just remember, the devil is a creation of our own fears. You are thinking too much. Just make it simple. There is only being loved and loving others to the best of your ability. I think you have done the best you could. This is not a perfect world, so you can’t necessarily fix other people’s feelings. But you can adjust your own. Here, let me play you some music.”

I put some earphones on her head and play her beautiful music.

Margarita: Relieved. Calms down.

José: Pensive. Exhausted. Thinking, Some parts of dying are really hard!

The next day . . .

Margarita, eyes closed and greatly agitated: “There are water faucets open and water is running all over the floor!”

José: “That is not a problem, Mom. Everything is okay. Don’t get distracted with fears now. Remember what I told you.”

Margarita, with relief: “Oh, it’s okay. I’m glad you are here.” She spends most of the day sleeping.

The next day . . .

Now her eyes are closed almost continuously. She speaks very slowly and so low that I can hardly understand her. She struggles to make the sign of the cross.

José: “Mom, I am going to have to go tomorrow. If you want to pass while I am here, I will be here until two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Then I have to return to Santa Fe to get an MRI on my knee that has been scheduled for a long time. If you are still not ready to go and need more time, Shirley [her good friend] will be here with you. It’s whatever you need to do.”

Margarita, with a peaceful smile, successfully making the sign of the cross over me: “Okay. You take care of yourself.”

We had no other verbal contact, and as far as I know that is the last thing my mother ever said. She died peacefully at dawn about thirty-six hours later. No one was present in the room with her — a good thing. That way she could pass without distraction.

There is great power in encountering death, especially that of a parent. It was perhaps one of the most powerful events of my life. I learned so much, felt so much, put so much together. In some ways I truly matured as a man in the process. I can only hope I show up for my own death as my mom did for hers. During those few days I spent with her, I felt fully validated by her for the first time ever. Prior to that I never measured up in her eyes because she thought I was a fallen-away Catholic. But during those days what I was no longer mattered; she saw me, and I saw her without all the doctrine. The result was many blessings. I never tire of telling this story, the story of her passing and my witnessing it.

POSTSCRIPT

There is no question that confronting our own or another’s death is one of the most powerful experiences we can have. Death, of course, involves mystery and therein lies the power. Death is also a transition, an edge between one existence and another, the world of dreams, maya, and suffering on the one hand and the world of truth, love, and pure essence on the other. Edges always hold power, shamanically speaking: the edge between night and day, between one season and another, and between sleep and waking. These edges bear much fruit and bring us our strongest creative visions. That is why they are honored wherever people walk the shamanic path.

Although this experience was about death, in my mind it was also about life. Those few days I spent with my mother were the most life-affirming days I ever spent with her. It was worth a lifetime of ordinary visits with her. Therefore, death and life cannot be separated. Every day some death is happening within us, and every day more life is given birth. What a grand mystery!

EXERCISES

Look in the mirror and know that when it is time, this body will eventually die. Write your own obituary from the point of view that you were a tragic figure, perhaps coming to an untimely end. Life was stacked against you and you finally lost the battle. Write another obituary with you as the hero or heroine completing a grand, productive adventure and dying with glory. Does either one fit? Perhaps there is a third obituary that is more accurate than these two. How would you express your transition artistically?