Gently, my darlings, gently...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

That, of course, is the opening stanza of Dylan Thomas's famous poem, "Do Not Go Gently into That Good Night". Whether viewed metaphorically, or as a literal reaction to his father's illness, the sense of the poem is fairly clear; live fully, to the very last. Do not let Death "win" without a fight. And, for what it's worth, Thomas apparently lived his own advice.

I've been thinking about life transitions a lot, lately. Partially because of my kids. My two step-daughters have moved out "for realizies," as they say, and one of them will be giving us our first grand-child a bit before the holidays. And, of course, it's back-to-school time, except this time my baby will be a senior in high school, and the two boys have, I suspect, spent the last of their extended time with us.

As my kids are entering their lives, though, I've been thinking a lot about the end of life, too. A friend's mother has been, very gradually, heading towards the end of her life for a couple of years now. My friend has documented all of this, from her mother's decision to leave her house, through the increasing health decline, to now, when hospice has been called in. My friend is also one of my former English teachers, and one of the people who made me the writer I am, so to watch her write is delightful. She has documented this stage of her mother's life beautifully, with such tenderness and care, and she has allowed all of us who've followed her writings to come along on what is an incredibly poignant journey.

My friend's writings have, of course, reminded me of my own father's passing a few years ago. Mourning, sometimes, needs to be done from a distance. Grief and mourning can sometimes co-exist, but in my experience, grief is immediate, and sometimes overpowering. Mourning, on the other hand, can take months, or years. Or a lifetime.

Being allowed vicariously into my friend's experience has allowed me to continue to mourn my father. His passing, while tremendously sad, was also in many ways a very tender time. It was a time where my siblings and I were together again. It was a time when we were forced into a role of patient watchfulness. It was a time where all we could do was care for our Dad, and for each other. We could not change the end; it would come when it did, and in the manner it would, and there was nothing we could do but wait, and watch, and love. And it's only in retrospect, through this somewhat voyeuristic remembrance, that I've fully realized what a special time that was. Not happy, necessarily, but special.

And one thing it has made me realize is that Thomas had it all wrong. We should go gently into that good night. Sometimes life's transitions need to be eased into.

When my kids were little, we had cats. As my kids began to toddle and wanted to pet the kitties, we would guide their little hands, and say, "Gently, gently." Most parents do this, even if they're not also pet-parents; it's often enough that our kids encounter cats, or dogs, or babies, or petting zoos, or whatever. And we want to teach them to go carefully, and be gentle. Going too quickly, or forcefully, would scare the animal, and might make it bite, or scratch, or just run away.

I think life-transitions are a lot like those cats. Many of us say that we want to live fully, and then die in our sleep. I realize now that I'm glad that my father did not just die in his sleep one day, with no warning. I'm eternally thankful for the time that my siblings and I had to process my Dad's passing, and that we were able to share that time together. I wish the same for my friend in her mother's time, not necessarily in the details, but in the world enough and time for her and her family to process, and watch, and care, and love.

And as my kids are moving off into the world, I don't want their leaving to be the sharp, quick, pain of a bandage being ripped off. I want them to leave me gently, and slowly. Yes, every year of packing them up and moving them out brings a slightly different level of mourning, but I need that time to process the fact that, one day soon, they'll no longer call my house, home.

So, with apologies to Mr. Thomas, I would like to suggest that we should go gentle. Go gently, and softly, towards whatever comes next. Those who are watching, and waiting, and caring, will stay to the end, and will be eased by the gentleness.