By Sandy Goodman

I have wanted to write this article (my very own view of death seen through my very own eyes with my very own rose colored glasses) for an eternity. However, every time I began writing and tried to create a piece that would be appropriate for both the newly bereaved and those who have walked the path for years, my creative juices turned to muck.

I hate to accept, much less admit, that I was intimidated. However, in hindsight . . . I was intimidated. Allow me to explain why. First of all, I was a bit anxious about the fact that my ideas on dying do not come from experience with the actual process. I have not held the hand of someone who was dying, nor have I led a recently crossed soul to the light. Many of my family members are on the other side, but they traveled there without my assistance, directions, or company. Secondly, there is the difficulty I have with writing "woo- woo" jargon. If my article was published in a new age magazine, they might complain that I write, and speak, too practically. I do not use words like transcendence, ascension, or manifestation, but have been known to utter "cowboy up" more than once. Lastly, I tend to color outside of the lines. If my opinion about death and dying was published in a mainstream, conservative magazine, the odds are good I would alienate a few readers. So after careful thought, I did what any gifted writer would do when the dreaded block appears. I procrastinated.

I was able to do that with little effort, since at that time, my part of the world was cold and bleak. There were just enough pleasant days to create a slushy mess and everywhere I looked, I saw nothing but shades of brown. Brown snow, brown trees, and brown grass. Brown does nothing for writer's block. Then, about a week ago, a change occurred when a thick blanket of fog rolled in and enveloped our little valley. The heavy mist shrouded us for days, while the earth solemnly held its breath. It became impossible to stay warm and dry, and our wide-open spaces shrunk to less than a square mile. For the first few days, the neutral grays were a welcome change but after nearly a week, I had to accept that my juices were still muck.

I was just about ready to proclaim myself an expert in procrastination, when I awoke this morning to LIGHT. Overnight, the incessant cloud had vanished as silently and swiftly as it had appeared and the fog had turned everything it touched into pure white radiance. As I stared in wonder, overcome by the masterpiece before me, a thought broke into my solitude. I clearly heard "Transition" and the words I have longed to share with you on paper, or in this case, online, came.

It is often said that death is a transition. Those of us "in the know" can accept this without much pondering. But are we to perceive death only as a transition? Or is what we need to learn a little bit more complicated than that. Perhaps death, like the fog that rolls into our world, is the catalyst for change. And like the cloud of fog, it changes everything and everyone it touches. It may appear in the blink of an eye, loud and sudden, stunning those who witness its arrival. It may wait, suspended in the distance, slowly developing until the time and conditions are right for all who wait. Regardless of the speed of its approach, death, like the fog, cannot be bargained with. It comes, and it transforms.

In 1996, my 18-year-old son grabbed a high voltage line. His heart stopped three hours later. Losing a child is a traumatic loss and there are no adequate words to describe the horror I found myself trapped in. An unfathomable darkness surrounded me, and I had only one decision to make. Would I stay and start over, or leave? I chose to stay.

I allowed myself to grieve Jason's death. I knew (perhaps it was a memory I brought with me into this lifetime) that if I did not feel the pain, grief would wait until I could. My journey soon began and I was swept along on the path toward healing. I often started over, fell into the pits along the way, and sometimes stood at forks in the road for months deciding which direction to take. I threatened to quit often and there were days when all I could do was lie alongside the road and whimper. But I survived and after nine and a half years, the path still stretches out before me.

As I let go of the pain, I found love waiting to take over. While getting through the loss of my son, I was at the same time searching for and finding him again. Jason and I began communicating, both directly and with the help of mediums, and I found what I so desperately needed to know. That death is a change in form, another stage of life.

When death touched me, it made me new again. It took all that I had, ripped every emotion, every feeling, every false belief and perception out of my heart, and forced me to begin again. Looking back, it is easy to see that Jason's death instigated a "transition" for my soul. A gift in disguise, an opportunity . . . no, not an opportunity . . . a mandate to start my life over.

The son I found on the other side of that imaginary line we draw in the universe, was not the son who threw his dirty socks in a corner or used Black Cherry Kool-Aid to turn his blonde hair red. Jason has grown, or more likely has Re-membered who he really is. His wisdom amazes me, and his "transition", has been my inspiration.

On the other hand, the new Jason has been difficult to accept. The mother in me wants to mother. I want to nurture, guide, and teach. Instead, Jason has become the parent. Once again, a "transition" in our relationship. I had to change my perception of love and realize that its strength is not determined by a biological link. Love simply is. No conditions. No exceptions.

When the emergency room physician shook his head and said "I'm sorry . . . " a fog descended and changed everything it touched. Death lunged into my tidy little life and erased all that came before. It changed Jason, our relationship, and me. It changed the ENERGY that surrounded us. As I sat with the fog, with death, and learned to understand it and appreciate its purpose, it slowly transformed everything into crystal clear light. Occasionally, the radiance of that light is so intense it nearly blinds me. Sometimes, it hurts to look into it and I turn away. But always, it radiates warmth.

And so instead of death being a transition, I believe we need to take it one step further. I believe that death causes transition. Like the fog, it rolls in and transforms the browns into brilliant white and silver, the mundane into enlightened, and fear into a knowing that even in death . . . love remains.

You can read this article and more from other writers in the Living With Loss: Hope and Healing for the Body, Mind, and Spirit magazine. www.livingwithloss.com