<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191</id><updated>2012-02-16T12:39:56.956-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Picturing Death Project</title><subtitle type='html'>The Picturing Death Project, a reflective, participatory project</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>32</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6765386328707377234</id><published>2011-05-17T13:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:05:02.589-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 1</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;People with near-death experience state that they have seen a tunnel with a bright light at the end. This could just be due to lack of oxygen to the brain. Being raised a Lutheran all of my life, I like to think that I am going to heaven. It is described in the Bible as having pearl gates and streets paved with gold, but this could be a metaphor. Since some of the greatest writers use wonderful metaphors and the Bible is inspired by God, He would use beautiful metaphors. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I think heaven is perfect, there is no prejudice. You can read people’s minds, and so understand their perspective and ideas so you will understand their actions so no get angry with them.  The great philosophical (I can’t spell) questions like what is the sound of one hand clapping and what happens after you die will be answered because you can read everyones’ minds and they can read read yours so all discussions and understanding can happen instantly so everyone will have a great epiphany. there will be no pain because pain is caused by misunderstandings and mistakes due to inadequate knowledge, and since you can read everyone’s minds instantly and vice versa, you will know everything, so everything will be perfect. And this one thing that is most out of man’s (or woman’s to be PC, even though I mean mankind) understanding but strongly in our hearts, God will be there with us, everything will be A.O.K. And anything we couldn’t figure out, we just ask the big Guy, and He would tell somebody. And everybody would instantly know in the twinkling of an eye and a trumpet blast. We would finally be able to access that 90% of the knowledge that is stuck in brains that we can’t access because our brain doesn’t have the right wrinkle.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have had someone close to me die, but I seem to keep myself distant from it. I don’t particularly like funerals. When I was real little my brothers best friend died. The truck rolled on loose gravel. He was 10. I remember when they said Charlie died. I said to myself, “Not that Charlie.” We went to the visitation and yes, it was that Charlie. His neck was covered in thick make-up to hide where the shards of glass had cut. My Grandma died around last Thanksgiving. I didn’t want to go to her funeral. We never saw her as much as we should have, she would come out in her apron and bandana on her head and give us a great big hug. She cooked great meals for us while we were there and always wanted me to draw, oh how she loved the drawings. Now she is simply not there. I worked in a nursing home for 5 years, and that’s how it goes. They get sick so you don’t set there place at the table and then they’re not there so you don’t set there place at the table and eventually the memories fade and you forget that phrase that they repeated continuously and how the liked their toast.  My Grandpa (on the other side of the family) died when he was 82. I don’t remember how old he was. I didn’t know hem that well. He just sat there and didn’t say much and let us pick out one wooden toy, the duck with the rubber flaps on the wheels that flap, flap, flapped as you pushed it. He had a fake eye, but I don’t know which one.  My  mom told me he was always the first one up and out in the field. The neighbors tried to beat him out, always getting up earlier and earlier, but couldn’t do it. One day they got up extra early and went out to the fields with lanterns  and that was the only time they beat him out to the field, and they were never able to again. When he retired, he continued waking up at  4 in the morning, and he wet to the doctor to see what was wrong. The doctor told him he had “old farmer’s disease” and he wanted to know how to cure it. He was just too used to getting up early to change.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I wish I knew this serious, hard working man. Those are my own experiences with death. And this, too, shall pass.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I do not think that the knowledge that I am going to die adds anything to my life. I plan for the future, not considering it may not be. I try to put as much enjoyment into the bustle of life as I can without being extravagant. I do not think I would change anything in my life if I knew the date I was going to die, except maybe warn the. “ Yeah, I’m not showing up to work next week, I’m going to be dead.” I would try to pay my debts. The thought of owing anyone erks me. As does being a burden on others, needing their help. Death does not scare me. Growing old worries me. i don’t want to not be able to move, to think on my own. Should I settle down, buy land, have kids? Travel, adventure, see the world? How could I afford either one of these? Responsibility? The uncertainty of life worries me more than the uncertainty of death does.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have things I want to accomplish in life. Some I’ve done. I own a house. Some I haven’t. I’ve never been off this continent. But the fact that I am going to die does not add meaning to either of these. I do not regret things I have done and do not regret not yet having done all of my goals. If I did all my goals, then death would have meaning. I would just be waiting for it. But I will always have projects to do. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death, oh where is thy sting?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It is a good day to die.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have no hopes or fears of death. I have hopes and fears of possibilities of my life, but these will no longer matter when I’m dead. that is due to my faith. When I die, I’ll go to heaven, if my faith is correct. If it is not, either there will be nothing (that doesn’t seem so bad, nothing to hope or fear there) or I will be reincarnated (I’ve been good due to the faith I do have, if that’s true, I’ll be reincarnated as something good. Nothing to hope or fear there). So either way, I’m set. If the question is meaning method of death, I don’t really have that either. Pain is temporary. And most people close to death are so badly injured, they are in shock and don’t feel any pain. The one thing I would fear is the effect on my mom (I am a momma’s boy). I would hate to cause her pain. I would also hate for her to die, she is my rock and someone I can talk to about my day. It would be lonely without her. One time she got in a bad car accident and fractured some vertebrae. She had a long neck brace on and had a bruise on one eye. Visiting her in that hospital room made me nauseous and light headed. I had to sit down, a little ways away. I hate hospitals. What I hoe for is a quick burial. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I want to be buried right away, right where I die in a simple, old-fashioned wooden casket. Then, call everyone I know and tell them I’m gone. They can get together and drink and have a good time and tell stories of how crazy I was. My mom said I couldn’t do this because if I don’t have a funeral, everyone will think it’s a joke and won’t believe I’m dead. I’m never going to die, I’m just going to show up missing.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My mom also says people need closure. She was driving a pastor’s son home from basketball practice and got rear-ended, and he died. He was in 7th or 8th grade. She cried a lot at the funeral, but it helped. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death is not a pretty thing. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6765386328707377234?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6765386328707377234/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-1.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6765386328707377234'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6765386328707377234'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-1.html' title='Journal Entry 1'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1041334931754360622</id><published>2011-05-17T13:01:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:10:24.717-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 2 (Robin)</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;There was a time when I thought that I would simply be assumed into the goodness of God. That God was all of existence and so whatever was good about my life would become one w/God's goodness and the individual "me" would simply cease to be differentiated. But I am awed by peoples' experiences of having a sense that "dad" or "Walter" are somehow still themselves, still conscious and ever attending to this existence. So, what is it like for them now, and me to come?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe I will be in relationship with others. I am aware that I have casual interactions with it seems hundreds of people. I enjoy meeting new people but being somewhat reserved, I cling to a few close friends. In this sense, I think after death will be similar. I will connect with a few close people, but somehow be in tune with the whole celestial choir. Perhaps I feel I will have a sense of belonging and arrival that I don't experience fully here. Is it the "I shall not rest (fully) until I rest in thee" experience? I think so. If I am in a place, I imagine my sensation will be like the days I feel most ALIVE! Bright sun, combo of nature and culture, water, trees, mountains. I doubt that the place will be a place, but my sensation will be uplifting, free.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I continue to remember the very positive spirit of my grandfather, on my dad's side. I also appreciate my grandmother. It would be good to connect with them. In  my work, I have been in a relationship (BRIEFLY) with people who I feel may have felt let down by me (such EGO!). Perhaps if would be hard to "see" them again, although it would also be a chance to make up for whatever we lack.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It's hard to begin here because I've been around death after it wasn't personal, or close. It is possible to imagine death without engaging it, at least to some degree. However, very often I do think of someone close while I'm sitting at the funeral of someone I don't really know well.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am not a good predictor of death. I don't really see death in someone's eyes or hear it in their breath. I am startled when I witness someone "alive" and then a brief time later realize they are dead.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I was very sad when my mother took my dog to the pound and had him put to sleep. I felt anger of course, and I felt guilty for not taking better care of him. But I also missed my companion and felt a void in my daily routine. Most of the time, I feel that the person will be okay.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I haven't connected to too many suicides, I may feel different about that. My job keeps me focused on those left behind.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My sister-in-law just related an experience to me about her father who recently died and he seemed to "INTERVENE' in a situation in her life. She of course related in a humorous way but clearly wanted me to understand that she truly felt that he was present to the situation in an active way.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;THE NUCLEAR AGE-I've wondered if growing up under the mushroom cloud has had any affect on me. Do I hold life more "loosely" than my predecessors because I could be vaporized at any time? From some far away place?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I think of my death in somewhat heroic terms. I am connected spiritually to those who struggle against injustice. The powers do not give up power freely, so the expectation is that there will be violence. I understand that God chooses instruments of Her will at certain times, and those instruments are after called to martyrdom. So, death is a companion to my spiritual reflection.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My children have pushed me in 2 directions-they are very VITAL and ALIVE, and so they take me far away from death. But, I also relate to them in terms of the cycle of life, in that the torch is passed to them from my parents and from me.Their growing means my aging and my movement towards death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;DEATH on the horizon means I can't do anything about it, so why be overly concerned.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;However, I jog and exercise in order to make the most of my life. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I may be like others in that it's old age that is worrisome, as much as death. I'm not eager to lose my ability to take care of myself or my family. This is a judgment on my part, but in many cases it is borne out of the comments of those involved.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I'd like to think that I am a good person by choice, but death is a motivation...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;KEEP THE LIGHT ON. Death is a sneaky fellow, lurking behind what seems like a friendly face, a familiar place. Let the beacon of the "normal" life cycle stay lit so as to fend off the intruder when he is unexpected.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;LET THE SHOW BEGIN-all the usual characters should be cast for this big show. Wife, kids, grand kids, some friends-old and new. And from the other side, let the master of ceremonies be mom and dad, who were there at the beginning now bring down the curtain as well.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Can there be music? Can I sing a hymn to death, that final act?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have to get on the dragon's back, hoist myself up, give myself freely to this ride. Soon I will be flying, gone from the familiar, through dark toward who knows what-But the dragon will turn into a white PEGASUS, carrying me to the light, on into formation with all the other HIGH flying people of God.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;FEAR-PAIN, TERROR, SUFFERING, EXPOSURE TO PAIN OF LOVED ONES. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;HOPE-SURROUNDED BY LOVED ONES (FROM BOTH SIDES).&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Cosmos, beauty, journey. What type of substance there will be I can’t fathom but that there will be beauty and love that it is a good place I feel 95% sure.At other times that 5% uncertainty arises and the images of Hell and Damnation, of paying for earthly wrongs and sins looms up and I am not at all pleased with the idea of facing a Judgment. I greatly prefer my images of warm whole love and peace. I selfishly desire to be able to peek back at earth, my loved ones and continue to flow the stories of their lives. Will I meet any Soul/Spirit/Being/Force I will recognize as my father Ralph Fothergill, my Grandparents.? Will I know or see others close to me who have gone before me into this mystery?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have comforted others at their death by sharing my firm belief that it is love an goodness they are passing to. Am I right? Most of the time I fell strongly secure that I am.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Your paintings, Deborah, are very deep and rich. Their warm colors give me that sense of peace and security that I am right. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Lorraine Steppien the first time I was attending physician-calm, cool, confident. I had worked through 6 weeks of her hospitalization to keep her alive, to communicate clearly to her as her body fell apart one vital organ system at a time. I had paused several times to speak of death with her to inform her about hospice care. I tried to show her her was a choice; there was some say in how she would die. but she wouldn't embrace it. She kept telling me to carry on, to keep her alive. Through 2 limb amputations, through kidney failure, through painful drug reaction skin rashes. the morning finally came when she hardly roused as I walked into her room. I held Lorraine’s hand, I looked into her eyes and our struggle against death had been so long and so intense, that even at that moment I couldn’t believe it had come. I walked out of the room explaining to the resident all the things we needed to do and I believed at that moment could do to improve Lorraine’s breathing. 2 hours later the resident called me at my office and told me Lorraine had died. “I didn’t get to say good bye I didn’t get to kiss her!” Then slowly the images became clear of all the evidence that morning that this was, at last, death. I had missed it.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My father did not die peacefully. He had Brain Cancer and lost his ability to communicate with us several weeks before he died. His last few weeks he had periods of extreme agitation. Groaning, tossing and turning, striking out-in anger? At us? At God? At some hallucination? I will never know. We tried all the hospice tricks, I was on the telephone with my mother almost daily. Adequate pain relief, tranquilizers. When and how do we intervene in this experience of dying?How could we ease his suffering? Early on prayer and the presence of his friends and music helped but at the end it did not.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Some where around the time of my father’s death I began to feel so deeply the gift that is life. The births of my children also touched that deep place. We are not here on this planet because of our own decision to be here. There is a mysterious gift that is given and earth receives with each birth. I praise that mystery that giver of the gift of life more and more now. I open each day with raise from my bed before I even open my eyes. Praise to God, Sophia, Creator, Mystery&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Good health. I am supposed to be an expert. A crusader in the fight against age, decay, death. I am a physician. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;How can I help people broaden their definition of life? Go for quality instead of quantity. Yes, you smoke, that is your choice. You know it will shorten your life span most probably but what does that really mean to you? Did your father live to be 95 years old and hate the last 20 years of it?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I know many physicians who as they age begin to neglect risk factors for heart disease. Seeing from their experiences that a quick death in the middle of a pleasurable activity. Heart attack while golfing, eating a huge and excellent meal, making love...is not at all a bad way to die.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Yes we are all going to die so what shall we do right now with our life? It is a gift. I begin with thanks and praise. It is a journey full of mystery. I embrace it the best I can. Trying no to get too hung up on the salvaging of material being. I like my gray hair. It feels good to become mature in my body, my mind, my spirit. It may all be remarkably transformed tomorrow. I could die at any moment!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I think I have always avoided this question. Of course it frightens me a great deal. My parents are in their mid-80’s now and I look at them, ow they are facing death. I am desperately saddened, moved and fascinated by their lives now. Very different approaches. Polar opposites. I see the values of each of their set of beliefs and actions surrounding death. I can’t begin to consider my own response, so I look at my father and my mother, seeing what they do.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My father is a scientist. Work was-and is-his life. His approach is to think up projects-books, articles-to complete. He always has a new idea, a fountain of energy and focus. He is not looking at death, he is looking at life, and what there is that he can do. I think, but am not sure, that I admire this. It is life-affirming. It is also very easy for me to get caught up in his projects.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My mother, the daughter of a minister, is very concerned about propriety. What amazes and delights me is that she is a wild gardener.That is, her garden is  not at all proper. It is overflowing, overwhelming all boundaries. My mother can't stop planting. Her “garden” has grown into a two acre mass of color and texture. She has tended this ground for 40 years. Huge trees which she planted long ago, now overarch pathways and shade small ponds and a gazebo. Her garden in my mother’s erotic secret.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;In the last five years, my mother has grown increasingly religious and conservative.She disapproves of more and more, and is very upset with the current societal state of things.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I haven’t experienced the death of a person close to me. I have experienced the death of many animals. Some were my pets, but not all. One of the deaths was caused by me. I was hunting with my father in Africa. I was eight, so it seems it couldn’t have been me that killed the Thompson’s Gazelle. But I did know how to shoot. My dad probably shot it, but I honestly don’t remember who held the rifle.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;We were in a land rover with several other scientists-all men. I remember the gazelle going down in a cloud of dust. I remember jumping out and helping to slit open the belly. My arms were covered in blood. I was mesmerized, exhilarated. I looked at my father. He was clearly shocked at my appearance-spattered with blood, blood streaming from my fingers. I was frozen in space by that look. I had “joined the hunt” but that isn’t what I was supposed to do. I looked at the eyes of the gazelle, no longer shining and wet but opaque with death. Flies were everywhere. I had kill something very beautiful. Something very beautiful was dead in me. Or maybe I was aware of something very horrible. I couldn't think about this event again until I was 32 in a therapist’s office.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;These questions about death make me squirm. I feel my answers are evasive, slippery fish. I’m not able to hold. I’m not as scared of my own death as I am of the death of those whom I love. I’d rather die myself than live without them. A cowardly response/&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I’m getting married-in two weeks-very late in life. I’ve wondered why now/ I was not unhappy being single, though I have long searched for a relationship. It does have something to do with time passing, of less time in front of me than behind. Perhaps fear of dying alone. Or fear of not knowing someone in all their beauty and pain. Of not being known and perhaps even loved in spite of my dreadful limitations. Perhaps I’m also marry now-and so properly, too we haven’t even lived together first!-because my parents will die soon. and that makes me feel very lonely. I didn’t want to die not knowing someone very well. I’m looking forward to the joys and struggles of my life with X.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I’m also aware that I might not have much longer to produce work. I still don’t feel I’ve “hit my stride’. And I love what I do and I want to put everything into it.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have been traveling in the subarctic North Atlantic-following the Mid-Atlantic fault line through Iceland and where it fractures off to Greenland and towards the Faroe Islands. I have been hiking into volcanic calderas and over pitted lava fields. Because of the high latitude, there is ice surrounding and interacting with the molten pressures from the center of the earth. I look at these primal manifestations of beginnings and endings, in the face of all this, attains a proper perspective. It is natural and not even personal in this setting. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I want to follow icebergs from the west coast of Greenland down from the Gulf Stream painting these glacial fossils as they split, crack and melt into the sea.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1041334931754360622?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1041334931754360622/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-robin.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1041334931754360622'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1041334931754360622'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-robin.html' title='Journal Entry 2 (Robin)'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-630575644077565372</id><published>2011-05-17T13:01:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:15:24.356-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 20</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have idea, but my faith tells me I join the heavenly host. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I'd  love to give Mom and Dad a hug and shake hands with Mr. Lincoln.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to be able to come back on assignment to help folks.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-630575644077565372?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/630575644077565372/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-205.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/630575644077565372'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/630575644077565372'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-205.html' title='Journal Entry 20'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6253428260553074333</id><published>2011-05-17T13:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:16:13.077-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 96</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I hope that I die in complete peace with all my loved ones surrounding me. I hope that I have accomplished all of the goals I have set out for myself and I hope I have lived a long prosperous life. The only fear I have is not in death itself but in dying. I do not want to die a slow agonizing death. I do not want my loved ones to see me in pain and i do not want to deal with pain myself. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6253428260553074333?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6253428260553074333/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-159.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6253428260553074333'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6253428260553074333'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-159.html' title='Journal Entry 96'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-3157057362956010744</id><published>2011-05-17T12:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:17:40.787-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 115</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Imagine&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;First tear of the downpour, turned torrent floods clean the streets of debris.  A breeze at last, one that is not more  humid than water.  Distant sirens sing harmony with the swollen kettle.  At last it’s cool enough for tea.  Camelia petals flutter in my home and the the call.  Gut wrenching, soul crushing, she’s dead.  In that perfection to my perception, she died.  Where to now, well no where, for her, she has found eternity.  But that is insignificant, it is what happens to us.  the ceremony , the grief,  a loss like no other.  Unconditional love proven false.  How could I exist beyond her? So on the couch, I occupy space, for days, months, a year maybe, while she has been incinerated and place in a lovely jeweled jar.  When I went to visit her empty home I forgot to look at that jar, it made no sense.  In death, others deny her true reincarnation,  Kept isolated some where on a mountain.side useless to all her surroundings, what is her purpose? It was nothing to do with humanity and then again, everything does.  We are star dust, don’t forget it. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Only she is stuck in a porcelain black hole.  Antimatter certainly.  At least for those who have found sleep in a common grave, they lend great service to worms. And god - well god is dead.  &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;two concentric circles. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.  experinced&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;July 5th 2001, I had called him on the fourth, morphine freshly injected non-sensical slurs.  He said he loved me and that the fourth of July would make a lovely  memory - un beau Souvenire.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;On the 7th a phone call from Ricka, a wild redheaded flemish woman who seemed to pride herself on the tufts of flame orange hair which had a tendency to startle the average American.  He died early the morning of the 5th.  He didn’t want his children to know.  The funeral is tommorrow at 11 am.  I was invited to late, physically impossible to travel that far and still have my time to weep.  So instead I finished unsettled business and at the first available moment caught a flight.  A fine distraction on the side, something my father would have approved of.  On arrival, Phillipe sat me down at dinner, it was outside with the backdrop of the Cevenes Mountains, a millionstars, with gas station wine at our disposal.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;He took his own life - your father is the bravest man I have ever known.  Dignity to the last second.  So with the help of a doctor - her address is still in my bag- he began the suicide.  Morphine - then he gave himself an enema  so as not to leave any uncomfortable, or unpleasant situations post mortem.  Then the dose which should have killed him.  Well that did NOT WORK!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;So Phillpe called the docotr and she came back with more death drugs.  My father still stumbling finally rested in bed.  His last words to all who were with him - Bon  c’est fini, le spectacle est fini.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3. what meaning&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am an insect, or nothing more than a lowly ameoba.  To live, to experience, it all as if tommorow is hypothetical.  Thrills, love, heartache, wild times, forgigiveness, all or nothing.  If I could only rationalize children - but there are too many - and we are not alone here let us not forget.  We feed off the skeletons of the dead, the wisdom, the fuel, evolution for crying-out-loud- so none..  I die, so be it, you die, I will mourn but not too much since that would be silly.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Pain killers may have blurred or slurred intent, but may be there is no better dream-like state. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Floating through my days, sleeping so soundly at night,  All or nothing, everything is here for YOU, the one reading this now.  Ask, swindle, plead, be a good neighbor and the world is at your disposal.  Magic only exists if you have the balls and ambition to grab it - kiss me, kiss me deadly - with your bad blood, and I will be a black and white flicker reflected on the orb of your eye.  I donate all my stupid trinkets to charity - by Gis and by St. Charity - a lack and fie for shame.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.hopes and fears&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I hope I will have found that plate-smashing love I have wanted forever.  I can only aspire to &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;die with the kind of dignity my father had.  Fear is not an issue, or not in death itself-  but in the end of life will I have finished? It’s not a real fear of course, my life is full now, I could be quite &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;content if that was it , die semi annonymous it’s ok, Maybe I fear an after life, when it end I hope thats it!  No dreams.  No god, no salvation or damnation.  I hope we are the physical, even our thought are the physical, neurons, dendrites working to orchestrate it all.   We end - our purpose?  CHILDREN- but No, we have no purpose now deviant behavior has replaced our drive, our lust.  I FEAR I want children anyway.  Baby art, the currators would raise it.  Erase my life after I’m done, remember me as entity # 1,564 - that will make me happy.  Or maybe I fucked up and I am all wrong.  I fear that a bit, but only a bit. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-3157057362956010744?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/3157057362956010744/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-158.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3157057362956010744'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3157057362956010744'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-158.html' title='Journal Entry 115'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-3828474507515169462</id><published>2011-05-17T12:58:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:21:39.623-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 122</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1. What do you imagine?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Although sometimes I think I am on the brink.  Oh no s‘cuse me for rhyming . I have almost died, and at the edge of life and death, remember feeling a bit nervous because of my complete lack of knowledge regarding what does happen.  And so I look back to the question and see “ What do you imagine happens?”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;     The imagination is a blender.  She said, “ Maybe you need to blend everything up?”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;     Nothing is after I die.  Nothing, but for fun, comfort, piece of mind, quiet of soul, satisfaction, and full of tummy.....I make things up like what I’m doing here.  I say nothing to quiet, or too quiet to write about, and its okay, and it doesn’t matter.  I’m not writing this for me, but for you.....pray you are of sound composure, and healthy mind and soul.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;On a circle and the cycle of life, reincarnation, past life regression.  Death as the beginning of a new cycle around.  Death as the end of an old no real point it does begin round.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2. Have you experienced?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Drowning&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;She was so sweet and dependant on me, to me, for me.  She needed me, was my baby and it was an unexpected joy of a consolation prize after the abortion.  Slept with me, walked with me, ate sometimes hated me. To begin all I would get in return were marks and scratches on my hands and arms.  For months.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;       Then I left, and when I came back home she was in a boot.  A big black boot. I called her name, “ Kimm. Kimmie.”  And she called back and we were in love. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;       I am still in love and still conlent and can never forget how that morning went.  He and I had argued the night before slamming doors and pounding the floor.  He had been gone for weeks.  When he came back she saw that it was him that made me angry.  By morning we were friends again.  By morning Kimmie was sink frozen, and sunk in rigamortis at the bottom of the fish tank.  Oh. fuck oh shit I pulled her out and flailed on the floor with my cold wet dead rodent cluthced to my chest trying to make her warm again.  &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I put her in her pouch and then a nice cigar box with flowers all around and carried it with me all day. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt; I sat in my parents living room with my box on my lap. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt; He dug the hole in the cold in the dark and starved himself for two days.  He felt bad. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3. What meaning?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It means that the few things humans have been doing, factually, since before I can remember being told.  okay. right all together now. ‘This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius.” Brotherly love.”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;One would, united, under the sun, and the moon.  Mhmmmhm that’s right and to think you thought that “pledge allegience” poem said we was all under god.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;    It meant that I should be happy and smile and make others smile and live nicely, and go slow, and relax.  Time is a luxury like a gold and platinum diamond set Movida, or Rolex? It means I should work hard and feel satisfied.  It means I should forgive myself for watching “Charmed”  with my cousin.  Many in an attempt to satisfy and make her happy.  Even thought I can’t stand the show, or television and most movies for that matter.  Because it made her happy and if she’s happy I’m happy.  But, I only did it once, watched, “Charmed”, that is.  And I’ll never do it again.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;She thinks she’s a witch, and it makes her feel something I’m not sure what.  But it makes me feel like vomit.  Not a big deal really, I don’t think about it too much.  Except for now.  “Charmed” the television series starring Rose Mcgowan. She’s that actress who dated Marilyn Manson.  They were cute together.  There’s a good meaning to life, ummm what was it, for death.  Gossip, family, friends, scandal, makeup (which I say was the death of the female). Makeup, sex, coffee, dancing, smiling, laughing,  Kind of like Hedonism in Jamaica.  I used to have bright yellow t-shirt  when I was eight or nine.  I didn’t know what it meant but I thought it was such a cool t-shirt.  &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4. Hopes and Fears&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I want to drowned in deep blue clear water.  Empty no plants, coral, or animals.  The Dead Sea. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-3828474507515169462?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/3828474507515169462/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-155.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3828474507515169462'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3828474507515169462'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-155.html' title='Journal Entry 122'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6414221034672745486</id><published>2011-05-17T12:58:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:23:18.343-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 125</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;We’ve all heard the stories of the people who had near death experiences and claim they saw a dark tunnel with a bright light at the end, but then what happens?? Is that really what happens to everyone, or is that just a re-play of being born, as if to start another beginning.  I don’t know....The whole fantasy of Heaven and Hell seems more like a fairy tale. Ending to life rather than a reality; as well the reincarnation ending.  So maybe we do ust turn to dirt...There is no story about where we came from before being conceived, so perhaps we just return back to that &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;“nothing” place.  I think everyone’s need to find an answer to this question, is simply derived from fear of the unknown...so admitting that there is no answer to this question, is admitting that there is no need to be afraid of what comes after death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2. Death of a loved one, or yourself&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I’ve been fortunate (to date) in that I’ve not lost anyone very close to me.  People I know have died, but no one Ive had a close relationship with.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I imagine, (I hope) I’ll die an old woman, asleep in my bed, surrounded by photos of grandkids and great-grandkids (Like the old woman in ‘Titanic’).  There is a history of long life in my family.  My great grandmother ( who’s my namesake) died at 102 (she was 100 at my birth).&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My grandparents are in their upper 80’s and still kicken! I’ve been blessed with good healthy genes, there’s been no serious illness on either sides of my family.  Im also not the adventurous type.  So all that’s really left is a ‘freak accident’ or dying of ‘old age’.  so hopefully I’ll live up to my namesake and live to 102.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.  what meaning &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;When I was around five, I would run crying into my parents room because I was afraid of death, or maybe it was just an excuse to sleep in their room,  I don’t know.  But since then, I haven’t been really afraid that I was going to die, until after the attacks of September 11th.. But unlike most people who were afraid of dying from another attack, I was more afraid of our government’s stupidity to retaliate and provoke a much larger, devastating attack.  I was afraid of another draft and losing my little brother or boyfriend., or even being drafted myself.  But other than that, I haven’t really given much thought about dying.  I guess I should do more of that “live everyday to the fullest” - “Carpe-Diem” stuff, I just haven’t gotten around to that yet I guess...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4. I hope by the time I die, I’ m surrounded by huge, loving family, and I’ve acccomplished everything I set out to do.  I just want a family more than anything else, more than success, money, or Fame.  I just want to die with unconditional love. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I fear that I’ll die without those things.  Alone, un-loved, unsuccessful, and too young.  I fear dying alone more than I fear dying a long painful, gruesome death.  Dying unloved , is dying uncomplete, without contentment, without support.  That’s what I fear about death. (And maybe eaten alive by cockroaches)  :)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6414221034672745486?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6414221034672745486/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-115.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6414221034672745486'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6414221034672745486'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-115.html' title='Journal Entry 125'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-3082916907552514689</id><published>2011-05-17T12:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:23:59.788-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 155</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;I try not to imagine what happens to me after I die. I do, however, imagine what happens to those I have loved I see my grandmother sitting in light, my grandfather in dark, Gudrun smiling, hair done, lipstick on. Mother just there, waiting.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;When my cat Figaro was dying, I said to him “Don’t get lost in the universe. Come back for me.” I would like him there when I go, and I imagine Mother and Gudrun will be too. I’ll meet up with my grandparents later.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;Maybe we’ll all meet at the cottage with the other ghosts who live there. We come back i the spring and are their guests. I imagine they live there in Winter, the sun low on the lake, the cottage smells. They make dinner there, smoke, play games at the table. They lay low when we get there in the spring. They are hospitable, concerned, non-interfering. We’ll join them sooner or later, they know that and don’t fret at how long that will take. Granny visits, and Grif and Scott, Martha and John. Figaro catches ghost mice who don’t mind it at all.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;Larry will be going there soon, and waiting for Susan in back of the red tree in the cemetery.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;When my grandmother died, I was sitting in the room with Susan. We were talking, then I noticed Grandma’s breathing change. I looked at Susan and sid, “she’s going.” We went to her had, we held her hands. She had been spouting gibberish earlier in the evening. My  father became afraid. told the nurse at the NH he wanted an ambulance called. My grandmother had colon cancer, had dropped 150 #’s. The nurse knew what the transfer would entail, how uncomfortable my grandmother would be in CPR, how unnecessary that would be. She said to my father, no, don’t do that, like a quiet prayer and I said, let’s stay here and he got it. He took my mother and Auntie Mary, Pat and Tomina, Grandma’s sister, out to dinner. Susan and I were alone when she started to change from living to dead. My mother who had been drinking, started keening loudly, “oh lord, have mercy on this miserable sinner.” My father held his mother’s feet. I put my anger at my mother on the back burner, and watched my grandmother breath in, breath out. Then just  stopped in time. Oh, she’s died, I thought. How easy that looked. How unafraid she has made me. She taught me something else. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;I can’t say I’ve been afraid of dying since then. It was just another thing that she taught me how to do like sing to my children and bake Irish soda bread. Tell a good story. Laugh real loud, gossip with dedication. Be sly, figure a way around a problem, use your head. Be comfortable lying if you have to.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-3082916907552514689?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/3082916907552514689/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-122.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3082916907552514689'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3082916907552514689'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-122.html' title='Journal Entry 155'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1422141367790774422</id><published>2011-05-17T12:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:25:00.153-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 158</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"&gt;You do not feel a physical dimension to yourself but a presence with another person. Yo try to stay connected to those individuals you are closest to (when you are alive). I’m not sure how long this connection lasts or what happens if and when the connection stops. I don’t think that it necessarily goes on forever. Perhaps that connection transforms into something that gets absorbed by others who are still living. I am also not sure what determines how long the person who has died remains present. Some people who have died have an ability to send messages to those living. This happens near the time of death. Perhaps those who receive the message are ones who are receptive to receiving it.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica; min-height: 22.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have experienced the death of my father who was very close to me. I’m not sure what typed of a death he had as he was not responsive for the last 2 days. HE seemed to be afraid and so we never left his side. He probably did not want to die. I don’t think he was ready because he always fought back with any life threatening condition he had and he did not want them to die. He  was a great dad. My sister was especially close to him. We tried to do what was best but were not sure what that was as we received no guidance from the nurses or physicians. I still wonder if we did the right thing for him but now think that we did what we thought was best. And that was to sit by him continuously, holding his hand. When he finally died, it was so hard to believe that  he was hone. We just held him and waited for a long time until we told the nurse. Then it seemed like he was gone and the body (his body) was no longer the place where he was. He seemed to be somewhere else and I did not have to be with his body to be with him. In fact, at the wake, I did not connect his body with the person he was. It was like just a symbol of him, but not really him so the wake was not difficult at all. Rather, what reminded me of him was, for example, music that we played. That brought tears to my eyes and made me realize how much I missed him. I can now write this and smile but for the first 5-7 years or so, it would have made me cry.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1422141367790774422?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1422141367790774422/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-125.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1422141367790774422'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1422141367790774422'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-125.html' title='Journal Entry 158'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-3308430004796271637</id><published>2011-05-17T12:52:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:25:47.465-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 159</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have always believed that those or my loved ones who have gone on before me are waiting for me. I don’t know where this place is but I believe it is a destination to a type of terminal where I will remain with my loved ones until judgment day. I think that while I am in this terminal I am allowed to have a life review. This life review provides me with an opportunity to reflect on how I could have done things differently in my life. This review gives me an opportunity to consider the next journey I will take. I often think that the journey is just the beginning but it is the destination that is already written. I think that my death will take me to whatever destination has been predetermined by God or whatever supreme being or higher power. I think that all the pain and suffering I have experienced in life is revealed to me and the why behind it is also made clear to me. I believe that it is only the beginning and that the end is unknown. I also think that there is a vast wilderness through which one travels because life is a journey and that there are certain aspects of a journey must take after death. Life and death are cyclical and one is a mirror reflection of the other. Sometimes this reflection is positive and sometimes it is negative but it is a given and must have an opportunity to to reveal itself as it was meant to be. As one wise man says Death is only the beginning. What that beginning is at best unknown and unfinished.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The death of my mother was sudden and unexpected. One evening while snapping beans with two of my sisters, my mom had what is known as TIA. She was taken to a community hospital where she later had a stroke. It was very difficult to see my mother’s body ravaged by a stroke because I always viewed her as a very strong and commanding individual. Two days prior to my mother’s discharge from the hospital, she died. None of us could accept what happened because when we arrived at the hospital to view my mom’s body it appeared as if she was sleeping. The staff had prepared a body well there were no signs of any tubes, body fluids or other hospital items. My family is baptist and felt very comforted by the chaplain who was available. He was of the catholic faith but he knew what to say and how to say it. Because he provided me with strength, it was easiest for me to provide my sisters with support as they arrived. The most memorable part of the whole experience was the old adage that as one soul dies another is born. The day that my mom died was also the day that my sister gave birth to my niece. This was a time of joy and pain. So as I stated earlier in the day there can be no love without loss and no loss without love. This experience of my mom’s death occurred at such a young age which further emphasized to me that we should enjoy each day given to us because we are not promised a tomorrow. My mom’s death is always with me, during times of stress and sadness I wish that I could reach out to her but I do feel that she is always with me looking over me and says it will be okay. I often hear her voice saying it will be okay. My mom’s death was the most trouble to experience in my life. I did not truly realize how much I loved her until she was gone.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-3308430004796271637?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/3308430004796271637/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-171.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3308430004796271637'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3308430004796271637'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-171.html' title='Journal Entry 159'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-4687172606648607522</id><published>2011-05-17T12:51:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:32:38.762-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 171</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;No matter what it is peaceful...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Despite how one may die.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death can be a relief&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It should not be feared of,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;There is no pain when you are dead&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe and hope this life is short in&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;comparison of death and life after &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe life exists because of death,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;They are coexisting&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Everything in life prepares one for death,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;every bit of life gets one closer to death,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It’s ok.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I do believe people go different ways&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;when they die, there are the ones that &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;go to “Heaven”, the ones who got to “Hell”&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;and the ones who are “lost”.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Who knows, all three places could be fun.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It’s a time of reflection, to look back and &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;see what life meant, was it worth it? why?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;What did one do for the meaning of life?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;How did one affect life, the world?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Was there a reason, even if small, to live?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Will I be able to communicate w/people full of life? &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am separate from the living? Will I still be recognized?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;For how long?: &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Or maybe none of this will matter to me.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;When are you considered dead?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;When is one considered Dead?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Is it merely a physical term or more than that.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I’d like to believe Death is a broader term,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;One is dead, or should I say a body is dead&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;When the body is hollow and lifeless&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;How does it get hollow?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Are some people more hollow than others?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;in a sense I think so.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I’ve experienced many deaths of all definitions&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Many aquaintences w/people I’ve noticed &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;they could be dead, no life, no spirit left in them&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;for whatever reasons&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Friends, family members looking fabulous &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;on the outside, but decaying away inside...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Lifeless...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The greatest goal in life is to remain full of life until&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;your death, rather than face physical death being lifeless, &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;spiritless.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;This way of dying is the true fear for myself.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Numerous deaths by cancer, &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I’ve accepted that it is reality for me&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by suicidal shooting,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by not waking up,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by the body randomly giving up,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by disease,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by old age,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by accident,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by bombing,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death by plane crash,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Which way is the best way?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I don’t think it matters one bit.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;No worries, life goes on after death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Life , every bit of it, is a reminder of Death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death is a reminder of life.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;To answer this question would be to write down&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;my whole life experience so far. Every deciesion in life is contributed to &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;your death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Being happy and fulfilled to the end is &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;how I try to look at life, but all of the decisions &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;along the way can be be distracting .&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death gives everyone a reason to live, and to live&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;contently , but it should’t be a selfish thing like some may say to you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Question, why you are living?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Despite the technicalites one who is alive,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;is living and there is a reason for that life.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;If  that were not so, Life would be pointless, an done who thins that is missing out on life.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to be happy, or hope to have been happy,&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to have experienced as much as possible&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;good or bad&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to be fulfilled, whatever that means&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;it’s different for each person&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to be loved or to have loved as much as possible&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to be rememered often.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope to leave a dent somewhere in this life w/someone or something&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I fear I will not be comfortable w/ the fact of &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;unknowing death an dwhat it brings.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Other than that, I’m not afraid of death or &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;What it brings, but fearful of how I might die. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-4687172606648607522?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/4687172606648607522/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-96.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4687172606648607522'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4687172606648607522'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-96.html' title='Journal Entry 171'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6251800927254846979</id><published>2011-05-17T12:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T13:27:51.998-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 205</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe that actually dying may be similar to the many near death experiences that are documented. I believe for myself that my spirit will leave my body with my last breath. I think and hope I will be able to feel the love of my family that is still alive yet be surrounded by the love of those I anxiously await to be reunited with. ONce I read in a book that I was reading to help me cope with my father’s death that “the soul lives where it loved.” that line has stayed with me and I believe that my soul/spirit will live with those I love who may be alive and deceased. I imagine being the wind blowing through my daughter’s hair.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have experienced the deaths of several close family members all at home with hospice care. The first and probably the one that had the greatest impact on me was that of my father. He had always been a stout, happy, easy going man. As he approached death he had withered so much although his barrel chested frame still remained. His face was drawn and complexion gray. As he exhaled for the last time it was a long drawn out breath. You could almost tell that it was the last molecule of oxygen leaving his body. His physical appearance began to change immediately, his mouth gaping open. My mother continued to attempt to get him to breath by opening and closing his mouth with her hands and instructing him to breath. I felt his spirit in the room and really saw his body as an empty shell. In my mind and heart I knew that he was no longer with his physical shell. He was free.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"&gt;When I cared for my father-in-law in his home and hospice, he had throat caner, he had a tracheotomy and a feeding tube. He didn’t want either one. When he took his last breath it almost appeared to me that as he exhaled his spirit left his body. He too transformed before my eyes. Yet this transformation was very obvious that besides his spirit leaving, all the physical pain left also. He was at peace totally.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6251800927254846979?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6251800927254846979/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-20.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6251800927254846979'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6251800927254846979'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-20.html' title='Journal Entry 205'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6401504976513430640</id><published>2011-05-17T12:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T12:43:15.302-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 697</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I imagine there will be a passage process where the density of my body, perhaps unprocessed emotions, habituated thought processes and forms will, in effect, untangle, disravel or somehow be known by my conscious being. I imagine there will be a revelatory process where I will see and 'fee' where I have been and where I am now. I imagine my death will be a perfect expression of where I need to be at that moment. I imagine there will be familiarity there.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I experienced my father's death. As he hovered in between worlds, he responded to his sisters and my communications. I felt to guide him to leave his body and meet those awaiting him would help him let go. I talked to him with the love I felt but with the humor he understood. And, even though he was not 'primarily' conscious his responses let me know he was aware of what was going on. After his final breathe I sat with him and looked at his fully nude body, at every aspect of his body - the man I had so much pain and trouble with yet the father I loved deeply. I left his hospital room and went into the bathroom in the hallway. Then I broke down and weeped for him, for all I yearned for, all I needed, for all the pain. An illumination came into the room, a sense of calm and compassion and I literally felt a hand on my right shoulder. A peace settled over me. Somewhere in that touch I felt my dad. There have been other occasions where I have discerned his 'message' to me.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My own death has come in pictures. I felt as if I was walking and sleeping with death before. I believe death is ever our companion but it's closeness signals a possibility of occurrence. I get the impression I may die in an accident. If I die slowly I would like to make it a conscious affair, a sacred time. If I am adventuresome enough I may choose a very 'untraditional' death. In writing this I feel a  great respect for death. Perhaps I can befriend DEATH and dance with it.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It puts a limit to time and space and movement as I know it. If I wait until tomorrow perhaps it will not be. More focus on the fullness of now. NOW - what potential have I not explored? Yet mastership requires the patience and endurance of time which then speaks to me about an eternality to life, that death is not the end. I feel that being born has a purpose inherent within the awareness of being a conscious completely imbued creative character. Death has to be an integral part of Birth. Perhaps the door we enter through is similar to the door we exit from. When I feel out the possibilities of death I 'fear' I may not fulfill the purpose of my birth. I see and feel my body take shape based on how I have dealt with the challenges of my daily life. I want to express my aging gracefully. I want to face my death courageously. I want to do it willingly. I hope I can become more conscious in the process of my dieing.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My greatest hope is that I will be free to die as I choose. I hope I am unencumbered with the medical model of death and our current cultural model of 'the embalming' and funeral process. I hope where I go I do not leave any complicated mess for my relatives or friends to care for. I hope I can make the change now, the engagement in LIFE more intensely; the engagement of DEATH and 'letting go' more fully to create a death that is a celebration, a touching revelation to those I have known. In saying this, my greatest fears are that I will die a mediocre death, mired in pain, loss of control and with affairs unattended to. This will reveal the 'less than perfect' aspects of myself I try to hide but are now committed to face. To face the 'less than perfect' or 'less than loving' aspects of myself and life or to me facing my death. I hope to die to the unresolved, the deeply hurt, the one who feels unworthy of love;  I hope to face these fears, these harsh ugly terrible ogres and release them with mercy and awareness. This to me is facing my death. This is the dance.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6401504976513430640?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6401504976513430640/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-697.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6401504976513430640'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6401504976513430640'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-697.html' title='Journal Entry 697'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-2432737170753057256</id><published>2011-05-17T11:55:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:56:34.693-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 696</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I imagine that I will be greeted by jesus and all of my loved ones who have already passed away. We will live in heaven floating on clouds watching our other loved one who have not yet passed, in their times of need being close o their hearts as I know my loved ones have done for me as I live. I will be a angel for others that need someone if in the case they don't have anyone they know who has passed away yet. Jesus we talk to me about how he viewed my life and how to be a great angel for others. I will speak with my loved ones that I have missed and grieve for the ones I won't be able to directly communicate with until they also come to heaven.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My niece as well as both my grandpas have passed away. My niece has affected me the most even though I didn't see her often. I loved her and now she is my angel she gives me signs to know she is watching me. I love her for that. She was only two year old such a short life but she had a impact on so many people in my family and others. I regret so few times I spent with her. But every time I see a ladybug or a light flash went no one touched it I know she is there.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;*miss you Molly*&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Also I feel I have experienced my own death through my use of drugs and to this day I thank god for letting me be reborn. I look at life differently and in knowing that my life could have ended makes me enjoy life more.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My nephew also was close to death when he was born and every chance I get I go see him and look in his big eyes and thank god for giving me this gift. I would have understood if he had to go but I'm so glad god let him stay with us. Love you so much Matthew. As I held him in my arms at the hospital I just knew he would choose to stay with us if that was god's choice and he is now doing so well, he is a happy child.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I never really gave death much thought until I thought I may die from drugs or kill myself so I could stop using. Now hoping I will die of old age and not by something I caused, I live my life better than before. I know what makes me happy and I try to do those things. Being around my family and my boyfriend's family makes me feel close to earth and god. I know I will die and no one knows how, I just hope I don't cause someone else too much pain or have to suffer much myself.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Your soul never ends you live in others.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My deepest hope is to be in my lovely husbands arms and pass away in my sleep knowing my children and family are able to care for themselves and will miss me but not too much to know I will live on in their hearts.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My deepest fear is that I will die before I have a family as in children and a husband and that it will be very painful and I will be alone (as in no one physically there for me). I know god and my angels will be there even if it's painful or all of a sudden and I didn't get to do everything I wanted to do.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-2432737170753057256?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/2432737170753057256/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-696.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/2432737170753057256'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/2432737170753057256'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-696.html' title='Journal Entry 696'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-4388105063792731567</id><published>2011-05-17T11:55:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:55:38.540-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 691</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;When I think about death, I realize that I don't like thinking about it - who does? But then I also know that my beliefs about it have changed over the years as I have matured + grown in unexpected ways. I have never particularly feared death itself, but the process of dying. I have a friend who is dying in bits + pieces of a chronic, uncurable disease that is slowly robbing of her ability to live fully. Little by little, she is losing pieces of herself until soon she will be housebound. I would not like to live like that, but I don't think I would surrender + die willingly either. I just don't understand death at all - how can something, whether it's a person, an animal, or even a bug, be alive + full of the spirit of creation one moment, and dead + motionless the next? What is the distinction between one state + the next? How can people not be awed + overwhelmed by the essence of life + not respect it as it deserves. If we as a species were more reverent of life, perhaps we would not be so fearful of death. It is, after all, only the next stage - we do not cease to exist, but come to exist in a different form of energy. I do not believe in a Christian Heaven or Hell, not do I believe that after life is an endless void. I also don't believe is reincarnations without choice. I believe in the existence of a soul - part of creation - which exists now on earth because we chose to be here, to do our life's work. When it is done, we rejoin our Creator, and if we choose, we return to life to continue our work, or to learn whatever lessons we did not learn on a previous journey. Or we stay joined with our Creator as a conscious spirit.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My mother died of cancer 3 weeks ago. For her, I am so grateful that she quit fighting and allowed herself to move on. She loved butterflies, her entire little apartment was full of them. I can clearly see my mom fluttering along like a beautiful butterfly - free from pain at last. She had lessons to teach even at the end of her life. My older sister died in 1994, also of cancer. My mom had kept in touch with my sisters best friend Nancy ever since my sister died. When I called Nancy to tell her of my mom's death, she was surprised that she had lost her battle with cancer. My mom never told Nancy she had cancer. For over a year after her diagnosis, during phone conversations + correspondence, she never passed on her bad news. Nancy had been unexpectedly windowed in a tragic accident + my mom was more concerned about Nancy's well-being than her own. My last lesson from my mom dead at 86 years of age.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The only real concern I have is how much time do I have left? There is so much more I have to learn + do + see, I haven't even began my own life's purpose yet. So far, I have become an adult, helped my son to become an amazing adult, but I haven't done what I came here in this life to do. I only hope I have enough time to figure it out  + accomplish my task. Otherwise, I guess I'll just have to come back again + start over.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;After my son moved to another state, I felt very alone + isolated. In the loneliest hours of the night, I would picture my funeral + nobody came. That would be a great tragedy - not that I died alone, but that I died unmourned - meaning that I hadn't touched anyone else, or helped anyone else, or made a difference in someone else's life, so that my death mattered. I remember reading a memorial a friend of mine wrote about his aunt. She was poor and lived alone in a small town for many years. When she died he went to clean out her little apartment + found that all of her possessions fit into the trunk + back seat of his car. But when he went to her funeral service, the church was packed by all the people whose lives she had touched is small, simple ways. I hope that I live well enough that that is how I end my life - not to be mourned, but to be remembered with joy by people I knew.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-4388105063792731567?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/4388105063792731567/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-691.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4388105063792731567'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4388105063792731567'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-691.html' title='Journal Entry 691'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1236418350359676705</id><published>2011-05-17T11:54:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:54:59.667-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 684</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death of someone close to me, my father, my happy, silly, father when I was fifteen! Why did you leave us? I still want to sail with you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My grandfathers one so big, one so tall, kind and gentle, gruff and martial. I still want to eat oranges with you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My grandmothers - one tiny, one fat, one proper, one laughing. I still want to eat soup with you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My babies. I still want to hold you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I remember the day, the day before Thanksgiving. I was putting a ham into the oven cradling the phone on my shoulder. You have cancer the phone said. Come to the hospital on Monday. We need to do a complete hysterectomy NOW!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Just then my guest arrived. Thank you God. Ginny's soft warm hug, Jacks reassurances, Hank's concern. My baby's total indifference, cookie, cookie?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I don't think I remember anything for I felt nothing, nothing but loss. No more babies, in fact I felt no more woman. No more, no more, just emptiness. I cried over baby food commercials, I cried when I saw a pregnant woman. I cried and cried and cried some more.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Then one day I woke up. I smelled a rose. I brushed my daughter's hair. I ate ice cream. The world is a beautiful place and I'm going to enjoy it.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Thank you!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Deepest, deepest fear. loss, loss, loss. Loss of control, loss of control, loss of love. But is death loss of love? Or is it the return to Perfect Love? Oh one who loves perfectly, please don't remove control of my body and replace it with pain, or if that is not possible please send someone who will love me with no control or constraints when I have lost control of all.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My deepest hope is that Death will come as quietly, as peacefully, as comfortably as I sink into sleep with my comforter, my comforter, holding my hand and drifting away. Silently, peacefully, serenely.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1236418350359676705?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1236418350359676705/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-684.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1236418350359676705'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1236418350359676705'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-684.html' title='Journal Entry 684'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6017502083368224407</id><published>2011-05-17T11:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:54:21.391-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 683</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have already experienced the sensation many people describe they see in near death experiences.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I was in a tunnel. It was like being inside of a long needle. At the end of the tunnel was a bright white light.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I went through the other side of the light. It was very, very peaceful there.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I didn't want to leave, but I knew I had to go back. I had to return back to the otherside. I talked with God. He told me I  was to discover 3 things. He told me what the 3 things were. They were very simple. I  wanted to remember what I was supposed to discover when I returned back to the other side. I was surrounded by a fence.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Then I returned.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I couldn't remember what I was supposed to discover, so I am sill on a journey of discovery.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;When I was 4 years old, I fell down some basement stairs and cracked my skull open on a cement floor. My family drove me to the hospital. When I was at Bronson Hospital they told my mother, I was too sick to be there and they sent me home. The  next day my doctor came to the house to see me. That was the first time I met Dr. Talanda. Years later he told one he always used that example in lectures he gave. How someone so young could survive a serious head injury, while many others, older do not.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I always communicate anything and everything to someone I choose to in a given amount of time.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Communicate fully, like this is my last chance.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Communicate love to everyone.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I do what I can, when I can to make the difference.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Say I love you, before the other person.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Always try and be the first one to say "I love you!"&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Always take the risk. If you are not making mistakes, you are just dead anyway.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am afraid of the dark.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6017502083368224407?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6017502083368224407/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-683.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6017502083368224407'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6017502083368224407'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-683.html' title='Journal Entry 683'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-2592292053617210951</id><published>2011-05-17T11:52:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:53:27.275-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 682</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe after I die that I will have no more sorrow, no tears, no fears, no worries, no sickness, no bad memories, no hate, no more questions.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe there will be much light - vivid colors, esquite beings, family, friends (won't that be great!) I believe somehow old hates/hurts will be healed love will radiate to and from each being like light rainbowed through a prizm. I will be part of a large chorus and sing praises for time upon time. I will dance + worship and never grow tired.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;i will be a new being. I will know and be known. I will have my questions answered and "it" will all make sense.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I believe that when I die there will be at least one, but maybe more, to help me to the other side.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;i imagine I am happy and at peace.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have experienced my death few times. I have only thought of my own death a few times. I am starting to think about my death more as I age, with my work, as I experience the death of loved ones.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My first close experience to death. I was 7-8 at my uncle's lightening hit - a car as as I reached out to touch it. i remember being somewhat scared but mostly embarrassed because we were in a strange neighborhood and my dad was out in my uncle's yard in only his boxers on.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I also remember hiding from mom in a neighbor's yard. I fell asleep  for a few hours and when I got home my mother was beside herself in fear and agitation. "I thought someone had kidnapped you - raped you - killed you." I don't remember the exact words just that it seemed life threatens.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My best experiences in death was when I gave my heart to Jesus. I really was opened. I cryed until the alter was dripping wet. But i was so happy. I truly became a new person that day. The old me had died forever.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death adds meaning to my life - gives urgency to life esp to spiritual aspects of life. If I lived forever I could put off (even more than I already do) my spiritual growth - that inner awakening. My approaching death gives me hope - helps me bear hardships, gives structure, and is a catalist for my seeking transformation.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-2592292053617210951?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/2592292053617210951/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-682.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/2592292053617210951'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/2592292053617210951'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-682.html' title='Journal Entry 682'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1539748591307265834</id><published>2011-05-17T11:52:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:52:45.074-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 681</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Cold - dark - silent!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Question - is this real?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;What comes next?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Has the sky really opened up? Will the sunshine appear again?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Will I see my Lord? Am I worthy?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;This dark tunnel - there's light at the end of it.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;What will I see at the end of it?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Dottie was always such a "bouncy" - vivacious person + often spoke in sort of "off the top of her head." But then she was slipping away. I held her hand as I watched over her. As those last deaths came I kissed her on the forehead, told her I loved her. And now I frequently visit her at the Cathedral garden. dottie, Tom, Craig + now Miriam. Our years of friendship were short - life is short - and those years pass before me as I stare at the plaques that identify each of you -  and I weep - May peace be with you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Time passes quickly - life is short. It is not until well past middle age that one faces this fact. All of a sudden I am an elderly woman + am being treated as such. I am counting my years ahead as less than I've lived in past. I'm trying to adjust to this but it's hard to accept. Showing my love + my love for my Lord surely will help me accept end of life gracefully. Without love there is nothing.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Peacefully - with my Lord at the end of the tunnel of death.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1539748591307265834?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1539748591307265834/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-681.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1539748591307265834'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1539748591307265834'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-681.html' title='Journal Entry 681'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1954251677857760253</id><published>2011-05-17T11:51:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:51:47.867-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 680</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;As a toddler - grannie Packer + grandpa May&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;As a child - Dearly loved pets, + parents' friend (less close to me less real)&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;People were old when they died - it was a long-in-the-future event. The status quo would reign over us for a long long time.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;As a young woman, the first wave came. I was far away and my presence was seen as non-essential and difficult.I believe I should have been there. Missed my first opportunities.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The process of accepting the reality of my approaching death emphasizes the importance + preciousness of each day - sometimes each hour and how I choose to use this time. Sometimes that reality shows itself as impatience - and I don't want to be "impatience." So I am driven to continue my work on figuring out the shape of who I wish to become - believing that I've been given this time limit as a gift - else the process might be forever postponed. Still, the loss of my our life, somehow might seem easier that to accept than loss of those closest to me.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I wish to be aware of the process, to experience the process - gently. I hope to experience richness in the closure and find a new beginning or a knowing as I slip back into the greatest source from which I came.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1954251677857760253?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1954251677857760253/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-680.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1954251677857760253'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1954251677857760253'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-680.html' title='Journal Entry 680'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-4014830049609432736</id><published>2011-05-17T11:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:51:02.993-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 679</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am not my body. The body dies. I imagine that the eternal me goes home to God. In a nutshell I will go home to God from whence I came. That loving presence that stands with me here in this moment will receive me home again. I am going home to God one fine day.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;On the mountain top, I choked. No breath came. For a short while I struggled, looking for help from my husband who did not realize the trouble I was in. A strange calm was going over me. I remember thinking this may be it. We may not make it. "Who was this we"? I was not alone. Maybe that is the calm. Somehow it was alright not making it, but I wanted to make it. The force of that wanting didn't come to me till the Indian guide had lifted me off my feet and pressed my chest so that the meat pressed down and air filled my starving lungs. Life, life, oh to be alive. It was the first breath of life that I've had in a long time. October 4, 2002 was a melancholy day, a Friday. Nothing really to look forward to. While I was waiting for the technician to finish my eye glass order, I watched the rain. It was pouring, wetting the earth down and showing no signs of stopping, a forever rain. I thought maybe this is all there is? I left and drove home but before I could arrive I made a bad turn. The light was yellow, the truck was stopping - thank God. I just wanted to get home. So I turned in front of the truck, my memory of the accident includes only two fragments. Oh no, I'm so sorry I can't get out of your way. I didn't feel the collision of hear it. My memory is silent. Then the light post was falling. Lastly, I remember being in a small space with very kind beings very near me. Death has been close.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That maybe the main reason why I am here at least personal reason. I am still haunted some by this melancholy, the disconnect. It has lessoned its grip on me as I have come to come to know with more certainty that my time is short. I am using up my time here and I have more growing to do. I want my consciousness to grow to the place where I am aligned most the time with God. I want to go home to God here and now. I want this to be the fine day that I am at home with God. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;There is a little poem that I know that is my map.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;a hole in a flute&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;that the Christ's breath moves through -&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Listen to this music.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I want to be the hole this moment and and hear the music now. I want to be the hole when I am with Russ at a time he is down, I want to hear the music when I am anxious - or remember to listen. I want my relationship with God to be so practiced and ordinary that everyday is a fine day. this is the work i have yet to complete. This is the meaning that death brings to my life at this time.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My deepest fear is that pain, confusion, not remembering God will overtake me and I'll be cut off from the eternal and lost to love's safe embrace. We die as we live, I've been told. My hope is that my closeness to God so ordinary, I will be safe in her embrace. I want to be present for my own passing. I want to be present to say good bye to all my dear ones. I want to show them that death is not the enemy but a hallway to heaven. I want to have experienced heaven on earth so that I'll see it at the end of the hallway as I step across the threshold. I want my dear ones to know it is ok, so that they might live with more love and less fear. I want to be a portal for love now, so that I will be then.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;a hole in a flute&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;that the Christ;' breath moves through -&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;listen to my music&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;poem by a Muslim mystic&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-4014830049609432736?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/4014830049609432736/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-679.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4014830049609432736'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4014830049609432736'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-679.html' title='Journal Entry 679'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1164649417137349571</id><published>2011-05-17T11:49:00.003-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:50:18.078-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 676</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Once upon a time, I believed in a Heaven and a Hell, that I would be good and go to the good place and live eternity peacefully and happily. I no longer believe in an afterlife later on, and my thoughts were that death was a permanent and for when the physical body shut down and the mentalities faded away. I imagined that the consciousness that was a person  dissipated into the darkness and disappeared forever. This frightened me, for I did not want to disappear and fade to nothing. And then there came a time when I came to appreciate life and I decided that there was a greater whole to everything, a spiritual connection that links together life and death and everything in between. The soul of a human is too strong to fade away and when the physical body dies, the spirit lingers on. The spirit would linger on as part of the collective spirituality, not necessarily ascending to some heavenly realm, but subject to be part of the whole. What happens after that is the choice of the energy or the will of the natural cycle, whether to stay behind in corporeal form and watch over loved ones or become something more, something else, perhaps live the reincarnation cycle.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My own death came at a single moment two years ago, when I was thrown back by the force of a car crashing into mine, when my arms, and chest, and stomach burned like fire making it hard to breathe. When I felt the blood between my fingers, warm and wet, when I felt pain so deep I drowned in it, when I felt the weight of my own severed thumb against my palm. But all this was nothing, a prelude, for I experienced my death in the moment my head lulled to the side against my seat and I took in the sight of the two figures next to me lim and still as rag dolls. My death came in that moment as I screamed again and again until my throat was raw and hoarse, while the pain was too intense to reach out, while my head ached from the blood roaring in ears. As hand grabbed for me, fought to release my seat belt, I kept on crying out, their names, pleas for them to answer me. As no response ever came, that is when I felt my soul's death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;It gives me reason to reach out to others and make connections, to treasure what I have and never want for too much more, all because I know my time in the physical body is limited, that after death I have to let go of everything familiar and surrender to something unknown. So all I can as is treasure what is familiar and wait.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The only thing I can hope for after my death is that I find the peace I would never quite find in life. My fear is that I'll never find it.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1164649417137349571?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1164649417137349571/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-676.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1164649417137349571'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1164649417137349571'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-676.html' title='Journal Entry 676'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-9191606046957019469</id><published>2011-05-17T11:49:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:49:37.871-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 675</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I go to a happy and bright light where I am greeted with my friends and family members who passed away - I am very happy and don't feel like I am alone. I am at peace. I don't miss the material things in earth. I am in the presence of god and everything is beautiful and beautiful music all around me. also beautiful colors are everywhere.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have recently experienced the death of my mother "aug-05" I was in complete shock the first 2 months. I miss her very much but I know she is in a much better place now. No suffering or pain. It seemed like a bad nightmare while I was grieving I just felt very alone. But I know her love is always there for me and mine for her. I lover her forever.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I just feel that I will be in a better place than here on earth. I will be very peaceful and happy. I won't be sad, no pain at all. But until that time happens I will be happy with what comes my way. I cannot change everything or even try to.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My only fears are that I feel bad for everyone still here on earth. But know that someday everyone sill be together in heaven with God and Jesus.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;* When my mother died, I was crying very badly for few days before the visitation at the funeral home. I prayed and felt bad I did not look much like her. Then at the first visitation the first visitor out of nowhere told me I looked just like her. I looked at him and told him "thank you." He answered my prayers for me. I felt so loved and at peace.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-9191606046957019469?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/9191606046957019469/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-675.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/9191606046957019469'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/9191606046957019469'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-675.html' title='Journal Entry 675'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1410040519546250537</id><published>2011-05-17T11:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:48:56.869-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 670</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;To imagine what happens after my death makes me smile. I see colors brighter, new colors new spectrums of visual delights. I can go anywhere just by desire to go. I see my forever friends and family. God and Jesus are open to me - my questions, my need to be nurtured and loved. I will be spirit with a form of some kind. I will be changed. I will be at peace.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My Grandfather's death was welcomed by me. We had never been close. My mother, his only child, was never close to him. There were many old hurts - wounds still festering beneath our relationship.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Despite this I ended up being his care - over for the last 7 of his 97 years of life. Many wounds were healed, some trust was built. He loved my two children and in his way he loved me - But he never said "I LOVE You" - He never said "Thank You"&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;After 7 years of caregiving, having two two children in the same period, I was ready to move on when granddaddy died.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;As we were going to the hospital we both knew I was his favorite. The last time he would use his beloved land&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;He was not ready to die. He wanted to be 100. But I was ready to move on.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hope for my death. My hopes concern my dying process. The days weeks months before my death, I hope I am at peace. I cannot say now what will bring me that peace.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I hope that I am comfortable and well cared for - cared for with respect and love. Who will cry over my empty cocoon when I have burst forth on the other side - not a butterfly but tens of thousands of butterflies and tens of thousand times better than a butterfly.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Fears. My hope is that I will have no fears, no unfinished business. But how do you live life to its fullest and know enough to have all your lose ends taken care of.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1410040519546250537?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1410040519546250537/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-670.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1410040519546250537'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1410040519546250537'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-670.html' title='Journal Entry 670'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-3658349692363417817</id><published>2011-05-17T11:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:47:28.996-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 668</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;From warmth, flexibility, pink, or grey skin the sparkle is no more, expression painted on or not... there is no more. Memories tacked on a bulletin board to observe, but yet glancing over to me wow, hum... not the same. I am no longer in the room, I am gone. I see you, but you do not see "me". My time is elsewhere... waiting out there somewhere... Do I understand? Well, yes. Now I will know if dying hurts or not, was it easy or hard. My body will be carried out that is for sure... I am only human.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;As I watched my father in ICU he so frail (huge in life) hooked up to tubes, wires, wires, tubes, machines running, making sounds and hums I will never forget... I know he is not going to die I think to myself; my family all there with that hope also. Dr's talked as if he had a good chance. See, as a child, teenager, wife, mother, widow, new bride I feared my father. Therefore he could not die, no not yet. He still needed to be my daddy, dad; my father... where we could get together void of all that tension. Yes, I loved my dad, he loved me... he coded 3 nights in a row before he Really Really (in disbelief) did die. I wanted that chance to be his daughter, that chance for him to be my father. Too late... Please no...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My life if it should end now? I will have been blessed. Even as I sit here thinking about... "I am going to die"... one day I would be ok with it, what choice do I have. I do know my life thus far has been a short one; (I am 51). I say this so for sure because every time I learn something new I think to myself wow I will carry this new knowledge with me and apply it. I know I do not want to die now, but with the newness of everything I learn; I trick myself into thinking I've just started living... yes I still say if I should die tonight I will have been blessed with what ALL has been offered to me.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I picture me having that hope to not have those fears and to allow myself to let go. To have the "courage to" not fight death as I imagine me right now, if it should die.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-3658349692363417817?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/3658349692363417817/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-668.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3658349692363417817'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/3658349692363417817'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-668.html' title='Journal Entry 668'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-1130875849930810185</id><published>2011-05-17T11:45:00.002-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:46:20.700-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 667</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I feel I will be free - free like the wind - I will rise up through many layers of beautiful things - a beautiful flower garden, filled with wild flowers and their sweet smells. I will pass by a tingling brook stop ??? do feel the calmness it brings - the calmness that continues to grow, the farther I ascend up to heavenly father - When I confront my heavenly father I suddenly realize there is no more pain, suffering, crying - just serenity, peace and love.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I lost both parents within 14 months of each other-. Mother's was expected - kidney disease which eventually ravaged her heart, bones, which led to kidney dialysis. She became thin unable to eat just scraps of food which led to her decision to stop dialysis. I flew to Mass to be with her, taking care of her with the help of hospice. Once the coma came, it was a calm and quiet death. Me reading poems to her with soft music in the background.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My father's was unexpected - age of 71 looking 55. He was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia/. Found out in late Sept, died the following Feb. This was very hard on me no a pleasant quiet death - again I took care of him thru hospice but the dynamics were quite different. I felt I had failed him because he suffered so and I promised him that he wouldn't. But circumstances arouse that caused him to struggle until his last breath.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I want all my family around me with loving not sad faces. I want the room filled with honesty so if something needed to be said, now would be the time. I would hope there would be no tears of sadness but of joy knowing that the end was near and there would be no more pain or suffering. I would love my family to be reminiscing over joyous times we all had together and I would be lying there with my eyes closed listening either consciously or unconsciously to stories, smiling on the outside or inside. My only fear would be to die alone - maybe one of the strongest reasons I went into hospice volunteering, so I could be there for that one person that might be dying alone.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-1130875849930810185?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/1130875849930810185/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-667.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1130875849930810185'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/1130875849930810185'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-667.html' title='Journal Entry 667'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-7001071596785970597</id><published>2011-05-17T11:45:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:45:23.613-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 643</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Upon my death, I will float up above my body &amp;amp; looking down decide whether to return to the seed husk of my body or to continue upward like a vine stretching to the sunlight.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Native cultures believe the deceased spends a year after death traveling to friends &amp;amp; family collecting their troubles and sorrows, taking them to the Great Spirit.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Others feel that the one who has died is almost present for @ 4 months during which time they may be perceived by family &amp;amp; friends.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I very much like these ideas. I imagine being close my family &amp;amp; friend, bringing love &amp;amp; comfort to them.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;After I cross over into the tunnel of light I'd expect to be met - at this point, by my mother &amp;amp;/or grandmother or my dad. In a recent dream, my mother drove up to our house &amp;amp; as I walked her to the front door many others followed creating a jam at our front door. As we went into the house it because her house with many rooms, a huge meal laid out on the dining room table &amp;amp; with her friends all around. Many women all greeting us with pleasure. I thought of the Biblical saying &amp;amp; transliterated to. In my mother's mansion there are many rooms.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;After talking to my sister who was at the hospital with my mother in Cleveland, i gathered up my 7 month old first born &amp;amp; walked around our rural house keening. I didn't plan or think of what I was doing. I just knew mummy was dying, my baby comforted me &amp;amp; I wailed loudly, never fearing the neighbors would hear nor what they would think. I did not know she had died at about that time &amp;amp; when I finally got to Cleveland, my sisters met me at the airport &amp;amp; we went to the restaurant for a meal, they said our dad would be there soon. I remember asking him "why are you here &amp;amp; not with mummy?" I figured she had died shortly after I had circled our hill top farm house, wailing &amp;amp; weeping.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Later that summer Elizabeth Kubler Ross conducted a workshop at Nazareth college &amp;amp; I went to hear her speak. I handed my baby over to college students to watch &amp;amp; was greatly cheered by Ross' discussion &amp;amp; her work in death &amp;amp; dying in the 5 stages of grief.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I have since read most of Michael Newton's books &amp;amp; find his cosmology of after life so warm &amp;amp; comforting. I seem to know instinctively his view based on the stories of his patients to be appropriate to my own view  of life after death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Funny how the Catholic church now says "no purgatory" as I have always found it inconsistent.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;After my father died, we rode to the cemetery in a huge car. It was chilly but we rolled the windows down &amp;amp; sang songs we all remembered from childhood &amp;amp; told stories of the animal drive to trust us all (???) I hope her laughter &amp;amp; songs did not shock out driver.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;As I grow older, I have a sense of privilege and feel I owe a debt to humanity. I seek a task a project that allows me to give back to others. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I look forward to complete understanding of the mysteries of this life &amp;amp; many of those of the afterlife.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I expect to return again to complete anything I have not finished in this life - as my current life has allowed me to right wrongs of my previous existence.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I fear pain. It would be a great lie to say otherwise. And dementia &amp;amp; a lingering death.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My hope is for a death of dignity &amp;amp; joy for those I leave behind.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I hope my friends &amp;amp; family gather for a very fine wake - in fact my children will be so instructed! Good food, good drink &amp;amp; lots of marvelous stories to celebrate my passing.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I expect to attend as a guest &amp;amp; enjoy those who attend.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-7001071596785970597?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/7001071596785970597/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-643.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/7001071596785970597'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/7001071596785970597'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-643.html' title='Journal Entry 643'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-8259225666557041396</id><published>2011-05-17T11:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:44:36.949-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 642</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;You never do really die. Sure, your body is gone, but your spirit transcends to a new level and you are just there instead of here. You are met by your loved ones who have gone on before you.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My 15 year old daughter committed suicide on Dec 4, 2005.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Well basically life here on the earth is a gift to each of us. We are all here to learn and gain knowledge. "All the trials &amp;amp; tribulations, the great losses... are gifts to you." Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;"Death does not exist."&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;"Part of everyone's path on the earth is to keep out hope &amp;amp; faith in spite of tragedy &amp;amp; disbelief."&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-George Anderson&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I am not afraid to die. I hope to be reunited with those who've gone on before me and know that when it is my time to go, that I will . I have faith &amp;amp; I know that my loved ones are in very good care.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;"Faith is believing in something when common sense tells you not to"&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Miracle on 34th Street&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-8259225666557041396?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/8259225666557041396/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-642.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/8259225666557041396'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/8259225666557041396'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-642.html' title='Journal Entry 642'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-2286803785686727538</id><published>2011-05-17T11:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:43:43.697-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 638</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;(Mostly, I try not to think about it.)&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My religion &amp;amp; faith tell me I must die to move into eternal life w/ God. I wonder if that happens right away or am I going to be in some state of suspended animation until the end of the world &amp;amp; then all the dead "wake up" in heaven. And, do we know we are waiting or are we totally unaware of how long in earthly time we were 'asleep'?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Very fortunate that all my immediate family, including parents in their mid-80's are still alive and well. When relatives died, it was sad, but since we saw them only briefly on trips to NYC once a year or so, it didn't have a major impact. It was like they were still there &amp;amp; we just hadn't been to visit for a long time.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Several friends have died. The closest friend died 18 years ago this month. It was difficult from many perspective. I was devastated but no one really knew how impt he was to me, so it was difficult to find support. And there wasn't a funeral, so I never saw him dead, buried or even his ashes. He died in an accident, near his house in another state. His family cremated him &amp;amp; spread his ashes quietly in the Grand Canyon. I have been there several times &amp;amp; tried to feel some closure knowing his ashes are nearby.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My soon-to-be-brother-in-law died three years after my friend on the same weekend in April, also in a car accident at the same time of day. For years I was spooked by the idea of any loved ones driving anywhere on that weekend.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-Not enough&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-Bury my head in sand&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-way too much denial&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-Try to change my thoughts to something less scary for fear that thinking about it will cause it to happen.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-Get depressed reeling how much time I have wasted in my life &amp;amp; how much more I want to be able to do&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-Hoping this exercise in focusing on my mortality will help me "get moving" to do the things I think about but lack the motivation to accomplish&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Hopes-&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I die gently, without suffering.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I am surrounded by loved ones when I die.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I can let go, believing that I am going on to something wonderful&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I feel a sense of accomplishment &amp;amp; can acknowledge that it is time to move on&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Fears&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I'll be alone when I die.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I won't have done "enough" to feel my life had purpose&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That God will ask me why I hadn't properly used the gifts he gave me&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I will suffer &amp;amp; won't be able to "rise above it"&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;-That I will feel like I let people (loved ones) down, by not taking better care of myself&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-2286803785686727538?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/2286803785686727538/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-638.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/2286803785686727538'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/2286803785686727538'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-638.html' title='Journal Entry 638'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-6263845010315171843</id><published>2011-05-17T11:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:42:44.690-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 637</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;You go into a beautiful light &amp;amp; all your friends and relatives are there to help you go to heaven. There is no pain, fear or regrets. Beautiful colors &amp;amp; music never seen before!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I lost my only baby who was only 7 weeks to miscarriage. I just found out I was pregnant and was 42 years old.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I had endometreosis and did not think I could ever get pregnant. I will never forget the happiness I had when I found out the weekend before 9-11 - then I had problems &amp;amp; had to go to E.R. I lost my little precious baby!! All  I felt was complete sadness and wished it was not happening!!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Even though baby was 7 weeks I loved baby as if she was maine always!!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I will see my baby again for sure and all my relatives that I love.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My only fear would to not see my baby, or relatives or friends. I know they will be there.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-6263845010315171843?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/6263845010315171843/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-637.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6263845010315171843'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/6263845010315171843'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-637.html' title='Journal Entry 637'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-5872617791936020497</id><published>2011-05-17T11:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:41:40.548-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 634</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;1.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Several years ago, I passed out right after getting out of bed in the morning. It was probably due to postural hypotension but as I gradually became aware of myself again - of being - but I could still remember the utter absence of everything - of awareness, of thought, of surroundings, of self.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;For me, death seems a bit like that experience of absence. I imagine death as a period of darkness, followed by a gradual dawning of awareness of... of something else. What that other environment will be like, I don't know. Really, the only thing I find myself hoping for is the ability to cope, and, if one has choice, to make the right decision.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The concepts of heaven and hell seem rather childish to me, not to mention limited in scope. I find it difficult to imagine meeting "God," at least any "God" that fits the mental image of God created by most religionists. I think the gradual awareness of an intelligence  other than mine/human would be a better understanding of god. I really don't fear death or dying, though this process of dying fills me with some trepidation. I hope it will be quick.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;2.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My favorite aunt died a few years ago. I was unable to attend the funeral and perhaps this is why I haven't really thought of her as dead. I still see her in dreams very much as shed had been alive.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;What I have learned form the death of others is how important it is to lead a life that makes you happy and fulfills you. People speak of wanting to have a good reputation or a legacy of a body of work, but that is not what endures.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;What we truly leave behind in others is what they have picked up about us almost subconsciously. People rarely speak ill of the dead, and almost always forgive, but the truth is they rarely forget that which they have never consciously known. The mother of a friend of mine died many years ago, and though I had only known her when I was a child all I remember of her is anger.  She was always very pleasant to me and I never saw her angry at anyone, in fact I remember being envious of my friend for having such a cool, even tempered mother.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;But now, when I look back and remember her all I think about is an impression of roiling frustration and anger and disappointment in her. I had the opportunity to meet my friend again as an adult and it turned out that my own impression of his mother was in fact more accurate than the impression she had tried to convey to the world.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;So I have no doubt that the impression we leave in the hearts of others is of far more enduring substance than the impression we leave in their minds. And by "heart" I don't mean the heart that is sentimental and loving, but the innermost organ that silently perceives the truth.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My own brush with death came when I had a cancer scare a few years ago. All I remember is the feeling of being incomplete, of things left undone, of experiences not had.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Oddly enough once the scare was over, I felt no need to go out and have those experiences and fulfill myself. Rather it led to a desire to be less attached to the world &amp;amp; let go. To do my duties and move on so that there is nothing that pulls me back when I die.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I don't believe in reincarnation, but I do believe one can make oneself perfectly miserable in the next life as in this, by wanting unimportant things.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;3.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I hardly gave death much thought till I hit my 40's. Now I am more aware of the ephemeral nature of our existence, of how quickly time passes.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The realization of death makes me realize how important are the things we focus on and fill our time with, but even the realization is a double edged sword, for this pardon is that even the least important thing should be done with one's whole heart and substance. To do less, to be inconstant, to allow one's attention to be elsewhere creates a division in oneself that never has a happy result.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My deepest hope for my death are that I pass peacefully, and quietly in happy surroundings.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My most honest fear is living my last years unhappy so that death comes as a relief. I honestly don't want death to be a release from suffering - such a concept actually demeans the mystery of the transition.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I would like death to be an adventure rather than a relief, and like all adventures, would like to anticipate it with curiosity, eagerness and vitality and excitement.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-5872617791936020497?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/5872617791936020497/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-634.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/5872617791936020497'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/5872617791936020497'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-634.html' title='Journal Entry 634'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4565285216465375191.post-4448771868400619408</id><published>2011-05-17T11:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T11:40:51.624-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Journal Entry 065</title><content type='html'>&lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;The fact that I going to die gives spiritual meaning to my life.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;If there was no death, there would be no hope for a complete transformation. No hope for higher meaning, existence without physical or emotional pain - Can there be growth without discomfort - Pain propels us to seek but does not itself transform.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death gives life more value.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death gives me gratefulness for today.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Death gives me a deeper ability to love.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;wood/pain fuel&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;air/spicil &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;Heat/pain energy&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;awareness &amp;amp; ability = knowledge&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;with knowledge you draw closer to or further from Heat (Pain?)&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;4.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My instincts tell me that my death will be from within. Diabetes, and or Heart Attack, or may Alzheimer's Disease. Like others I don't want to be a burden on my family for long. However I would like the chance to say goodbye, make peace if needed. Help make plans for Charlie if he is still alive.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My deepest hopes for my death would be to die in a peaceful sunny, breezy place by water a room like this but maybe on a lake or river - the beach would be best. I would like loved ones to come and go, not too many at one time but maybe a lot would be OK. Maybe the most important thing would be love. The love and shared love between the people I love.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;I hope I am comfortable but alert. If not alert - comfortable. I hope I can say I love you, Thank you, Forgive me, I forgive you and Good Bye (I'll see you later to all the people I love.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;My fears:&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I would go before Charlie&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I would longer and be too big of a burden&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I would suffer physically for a long time&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I would have many regrets&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I will die before I am ready to die&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I will not be prepared to let go of life with peace&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"&gt;That I will not feel at peace with God or not have fulfilled his purpose in my life&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4565285216465375191-4448771868400619408?l=picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/feeds/4448771868400619408/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-065.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4448771868400619408'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4565285216465375191/posts/default/4448771868400619408'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://picturingdeathproject.blogspot.com/2011/05/journal-entry-065.html' title='Journal Entry 065'/><author><name>Deborah Boardman</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03249781618451506458</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WL20og30SM8/TdAIkIV7EiI/AAAAAAAAAKI/8z8bTMbY5Mg/s220/WEBDB1.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
