Lorraine Ham           

    ...In a sense, I think that death is not what happens when you drop the body, death is how we respond to life with our heart closed and our continual resistance to the unpleasant.  In a sense, many have died long before they leave their bodies, while others seem, in a manner of speaking, to outlive death, to remain conscious and aware as they navigate the waters of their true being.
                                                   Stephen Levine - Meetings at the Edge

The death of my maternal grandfather when I was eight years old was to have a profound effect on my life, though of course I didn't realise it at the time.  I knew without being told that he had died. The memories of that day are still very clear to me.
   He and I were special to each other.  I didn't cry, but remember the anger I felt.  Anger at everyone - the doctors and nurses, my parents and family, the system that stopped me from visiting him because of my age, and the nature of his illness.  My visiting was limited to standing in the hospital garden and waving through the window.
  I was angry and devastated by my loss and "their" attitudes.  I couldn't bear to hear anyone speaking of him.  Yet I knew he hadn't really gone.
  There is no blame.  We all do what we think or feel is right at the time.  Now, with adult knowledge and  understanding, I realise my family felt they were protecting me, sheltering me from the grief and sorrow of saying good-bye.  I realise why I wasn't taken to see his body, why no one spoke to me about the funeral and why I wasn't allowed to attend it.
  I was aware of his spiritual presence and help for many years to come.  This awareness stayed within me.  It helped me grow stronger on a deep inner level.
 
I come from two very different cultures and can respond to both, sometimes as though each resonates with a different part of myself.
  My father was Maori.  He came to England after serving in the second world war, married my English mother, and returned to his native New Zealand over twenty years later with the youngest two of their four children.  We are of the Ngapuhi tribe from the North of North Island.  It was in Whangarei, in the North, that they settled.
  Even in his last illness he showed his charismatic personality.  He had a quiet inner strength.  His nurse called him the Maori Warrior.  There is a lot in that statement.  There were few races more warlike than the Maori of old.  The histories of the tribes are full of stories of their warfare.  Despite their ferocity the Maori were also courageous and chivalrous opponents.  History contains many examples of consideration and respect.  I never knew my father to be ferocious, though in battle - be it in war or on the rugby field - I dare say there are men who would disagree.
  In the time we shared together before he became too ill for long discussions, I discovered a deeply spiritual man.  His views on death and dying were the same as mine and both of our feelings about the earth and the sky and all of nature were no more than the old Maori teachings.  We learned more about each other in those few months than we had learned in a lifetime.  For that I shall be eternally grateful.
 
The Maori treat death and dying with great respect.  They recognise that we are more than just a physical body and acknowledge the spirit within.  Therefore dying is the process by which the body prepares to finish and the spirit prepares for its transition.  In the Western culture, much of what we have deep within us has been forgotten.  In opening our awareness to all aspects of our being and recognising we are more than just a body, we come to understand that life and death are a cycle.
  Without an end there can be no beginning and without a beginning, no end.  So when we open ourselves to this idea, we realise that what appears physically to be the end is really the beginning, the start of another stage in our evolution.  When we acknowledge the spirit within, the life-force, that tiny infinite spark of light, energy, we are contacting our true selves.  With this comes a feeling of great comfort, peace and understanding.  Death is only of the physical body, the shell, the vehicle in which we live.  The spirit, the essence of life transcends this physical finale.

With this in mind I recount two experiences.
  The first occurred while I was in New Zealand three years ago helping to nurse my father through his illness.
  My sister has a brain damaged daughter, Annalisa.  Although she doesn't speak, she is acutely aware and sensitive to atmospheres and people.  Late one afternoon I arrived at my sister's house to find Annalisa had been brought home from school in a state of extreme anxiety and upset.  Nothing we did could appease her.  I held her close.  Never have I experienced such a sorrow in a child.  She was completely wracked by it. The hours that followed were very distressing. She would neither eat nor drink but wandered crying and sobbing around the house. She slept fitfully for a only few moments before waking again to continue her merciless wandering to and fro.
  My father-in-law and I attended a meeting that evening. On our return we were told of the tragic death of Stevie, my cousin's 17 year old daughter. Stevie died tragically. At school summer camp she slipped over a cliff onto rocks in the sea where she met her end.  Her death coincided precisely with the time Annalisa became distressed.
   Stevie's body was brought home that night. In the Maori tradition, she was taken to the carved Maori meeting house in Ngongotaha called the Marae (equivalent to a church in our culture).
  It took several hours to drive to Ngongotaha from Whangarei and in contrast with England the roads were very quiet. We arrived beneath a blue, black velvet sky filled with bright shining stars and a stillness that was breathtaking.  We walked in silence, our feelings heightened by the atmosphere of the whole area.  The only sounds were the crickets' chirping.  The Marae was well lit.  As we made our way through the carved wooden gateway the singing began.  Soft guitars and the voices of children filled the night air with Maori songs of love and farewell.
  We were welcomed into the Marae by our uncle and joined the many family members and friends in a very emotional, moving experience of love and sorrow, joy and pain. In a total sharing we all became one in our grief.
  The children were Stevie's school friends. They stood united in the centre of the room, surrounded by people who joined them in song. They performed the Maori action songs, gently acting our their stories.
  Maoris believe that the spirit stays around the body for a while.
  Stevie's body lay in a casket surrounded by mattresses on which we sat.  People came and went, each talking with her, telling how they felt, tying up loose ends and completing unfinished business. They brought little momentos, photographs, bits and pieces which they put inside the casket. There was her school scarf and her soft ball outfit. It wasn't all sorrowful. There was laughter too, funny stories of childhood pranks and mischief. The laughter and tears went on into the night.
  The collective grieving, singing, laughter and crying is an expression of love, that most powerful of energies. These energies fill the soul, giving it the power and energy to assist it on its long journey home.
  According to legend the spirit then goes to the Northern most tip of New Zealand, Cape Reinga.  It goes into and through the Pohutukawa tree which grows out of the cliff, down through the roots and under the sea before it emerges, cleansed, to rise in purity before going home.
  And so it was that we shared in this very special gathering. The following day, everyone washed and ate before the funeral took place. The casket was closed and taken outside onto the veranda where her immediate family sat. The rest of the family were seated at the right side of the Marae where the elders were. Seating was arranged at the other side for friends and visitors.  The grounds were filled with many of the pupils and teachers from Stevie's school.
  Visiting Maraes began to arrive.  There is strict protocol to follow.  Everyone was dressed very somberly,many  wearing greenstone Tikis passed down through generations.  They approached the gateway and exchanged a greeting. A selected member of the host Marae answered.  Each offered a welcome, followed by a slow walk down the pathway.  A woman chanted in the lead. and as the procession reached the Marae, several exchanges were made.  Some were chanted, others sung.  Each was about the relationship between the two Maraes and their people, united at this important ceremony to assist the spirit on its way home.
  And the children sang songs of love and farewell  -  'until we meet again'  -  their voices like angels', many of them smiling with tears streaming down their cheeks.
  The day was hot and the ceremony lasted a long time, until eventually all had been said and doneand we left for the cemetery where Stevie's body was finally laid to rest.  It is a Maori custom to wash the hands before leaving an unfamiliar burial ground and water is provided near all the exits.  This is to prevent any negative or earthbound spirits from attaching themselves to a visitor.
  In the West so much of this emotion is often left unexpressed and suppression of feelings can later lead toillness or dis-ease.
  Three weeks later to the day, my father peacefully left his body.  I feel he left before his body had completely finished its pulsing.  He was at home as he wished to be with all his family.  He and my mother had decided many months before that when the time came they each would be cremated.  However, as my father's illness steadily worsened he changed his mind.  We have our own family burial ground near the old homestead, where generations of our family have been buried.  My mother had a deep fear of burial and it required great strength and understanding for her to assure him that his change of heart was acceptable to her and that she would abide by his decision.
  There was gentle music playing in the room - Maori love songs and all his old favourites.  It was very peaceful.  Everyone was tired.  We were all together when he moved our of his body and became free once more.  We spoke to him, sang and hopefully helped his transition to be smooth and as easy as possible.  His doctor, who is Malaysian, was also with us.  He gave us hugs and thanked us for sharing this special time with him.  When he left, we all settled down beside dad.  Mother lay beside him and then me.  The others settled in chairs and on mattresses on the floor and we rested through what was left of the night.
  The next morning my 11 year old daughter asked if granddad had died.  She was a little scared to go into his room, never having seen a dead body before.  She stood at the door and looked in.  We talked about her grandfather and his love for her.  I told her that everything was alright and if she wanted to go in and see him that was fine.  She could talk to him because his spirit was still there.  She could have a little chat or whatever.  If she chose not to that was alright, too.  I left her and before long she was standing at his side stroking back his hair.  She told him all the things I wish I'd been able to tell my grandfather.  Over the days that followed she was to help five other people by her understanding of his continuation as a spiritual being.  They listened as she told them how he was now free from his body and free of pain, that he was fine and we should be happy, not sad.
  People came and went.  From 7.30 that morning, freshly baked scones and cakes arrived, plates of food.  Endless cups of tea and coffee were prepared by family and friends.  Everything was taken care of.  All we had to do was be there.
  We stayed beside my father's body in turn, as his many, many friends came to pay their respects.
  We had a family service in church on the evening of the second day.  People came from all over. At this service the casket is taken to the front of the church as at a funeral.  Prayers are offered and hymns are sung in English and Maori.  People took turns addressing my father, saying what part he had played in their lives and what they had learned from him.
  The following day was the funeral.  My father had been a captain in the 28th Maori Battalion which served in the Second World War.  Many of the old soldiers had died but those who were left all came.  They carefully draped the New Zealand flag over his casket before it was taken into church.
  After the service we made the journey to our family burial ground at Pakotai.  According to traditional custom the grave is dug by the men of the family early in the morning of the funeral so there is no time for evil spirits to enter.
  Our men lifted the casket from the car and the soldiers stood to attention.  Everything was so quiet and peaceful.  This area is surrounded by fields and mountains.  A river runs through the valley nearby.  The only sounds are those of the birds and occasionally the bellowing of a cow.
  The last post was played and the old soldiers stood together to sing their Battalion hymn.  Their voices were not very strong but as those rich Maori words rang out to the mountains and beyond, their strength and valour, their love of God, their country and their fellow man shone like a beacon from each one of those Maori Warriors.
  We were silently handed poppies and in turn we gently let them fall down onto the casket - a blanket of poppies, memories, love.  It was all there.
  My father was strong but the most gentle of men.  I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that if a soul needs filling with love to help it on its journey home then he travelled first class all the way.  And for those of us he left behind, he left a wealth of memories.

And so I've come full circle in my experience of death and dying.  The Maori ceremonies were so different from those I have encountered in England.  Annalisa had woken memories for me.  She had known just as I had when death occurred.  Although her physical abilities are limited she still has that inner knowing which many of us have lost.
  On that level we are totally limitless.

Epilogue:  Through my healing work and spiritual journey, I have become aware of the importance of 'clearing out the closets' or working through my own issues.  This summer provided me with yet another opportunity to work on myself.  Since my father's passing, I have had numerous bouts of feeling unwell which could often be related to the feelings I had sensed when he was ill.  sometimes the pain left me exhausted.
  During July of this year I felt ill.  My symptoms were extreme discomfort in the lower abdomen and especially to the left side around my ovary.  There was an indescribable type of pain throughout the bone of the pelvic girdle and into the left hip which I also felt in the coccyx and the lower to mid spine.  It was difficult to sit, stand and lie so my sleep pattern was disturbed too.  I was aware of pressure inside my body and could sense a 'lump'.  This feeling was there all the time, night and day.
  On examination my doctor felt a mass around the left ovary and as she was concerned, arranged for an urgent scan five days later.  Her diagnosis confirmed what I already felt I knew and although it could have been a number of things, it was still a shock.
  I went home and for the following two hours indulged myself in 'what if?' thoughts and fears.  Realising the tremendous amount of energy going into all that worry, I decided to make it work for me instead of against me and began immediately to meditate and heal myself, investing between three and five hours daily.  There was no formal routine to the self healing sessions.  It was all completely intuitive and some of it quite new to me.  It was a remarkable time.  I had had some amazing spiritual experiences in my life but this was all quite extraordinary.
  There was a point when I knew things had changed.  The so-called mass had gone.  I could 'see' this with my inner eyes as it happened.  The pain went and although there was still a little discomfort, I began to feel completelydifferent.  Three days later, when the scan was done, there was nothing.  They repeated the scan and still couldn't find anything.  I was very pleased but not surprised.
  As we were driving away from the hospital, my husband, Bob, innocently and unintentionally triggered and helped release what I believe was the cause of my illness.  On a number of occasions I had described my pain as 'bone pain - just like dad's'.  All along it had felt like his type of pain.
  The trigger was, "It's only been three years since your father died.  Look how long it took you to get over your granddad."
  My reaction was quite unexpected - for both of us!  I recognised what had occurred and let it happen.  Bob was upset but very supportive.  For the first time in all these years I was crying for my granddad, acknowledging the grief that had been suppressed.  I had never even said good-bye to him.
  The whole experience was exhausting and liberating.  It took two or three days for me to come to terms with the fact that it had been so deeply hidden.  I had dealt with it on a superficial level but obviously there had been much more underneath.
  This all seems rather a dramatic way of allowing stuck emotions to surface but for me this was possibly the only way I would ever have reached a point where I could release it.
  It felt right to continue with the healing but it changed yet again.  The emotional body needed healing.  The spiritual connection between my grandfather and me needed healing and releasing and there was more work to be done with the family.  It sounds long, drawn out and complicated but it wasn't.  It all came very clearly and simply.
  Since then I have seen a consultant who assured me through examination and investigation through a tube inserted in by abdomen that everything is clear.  All he found were a few little adhesions on the left ovary.
  It doesn't matter what reasons we come up with regarding the original diagnosis.  It was a symptom of a much deeper cause and came at a time when I was ready to work through the emotional trauma and release the blockage.
  I experienced the grief of my father's dying and death but was at peace with it.  It had stirred those long hidden memories connected with my grandfather and so enabled me to finally work them through.
 

You may quote from or reproduce these editorial clips if you include the following credits and email contact:
Copyright © Daniel J. Benor, M.D. 1992 Reprinted with permission of the author P.O. Box 76 Bellmawr, NJ 08099
www.WholisticHealingResearch.com   DB@WholisticHealingResearch.com 

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