I realized the other day that I do not believe in untimely death. And it turns out this was a death weekend.

My friend Sam’s words come to mind, shared with me by his beloved partner Ken (paraphrasing here):

“When it’s our time to die, we die, and when it isn’t, we don’t. So we can all relax.” Sam spent 11 of his adolescent and early adult years as a Buddhist monk, eventually leaving to help support a sick family member. The wise, measured monk has always remained in him.

I understand why we feel people die at the wrong times. Because for those of us still here, it can feel absolutely wrong. This is an honest reflection of our own experience – our grief, expectations, and very real loss of their physical presence.

But what if for the one “gone,” it can’t be “too soon” or “untimely”? What if the exit is always as timely as the entrance, and it’s only the feelings of those still in bodies that make it seem otherwise? What if your afterlife birth chart is much like your birth chart, and the time and day you go sets you up perfectly for what is next?

I had just been sharing as much with friends at lunch on Saturday after an epic whale swim, not yet knowing of the passing of two people dear to me. Rob and Ihor both left their bodies on Love day, February 14. And I think that says a lot about them.

One was a former spouse, and the other a dear friend. One lived in Oregon, the other in Kauai. Oddly enough, they met each other more than once. And they both offered life-saving measures to beloveds of mine. Literally.

Rob was the one who did CPR on my son Michael for 8 long minutes after we found him hanging with no pulse and no breath. Eight minutes is a long time to do CPR. During that time, Rob let Michael have it. “Don’t you die on your mother, you little shit! You WILL NOT DIE on your mother!” Michael ultimately lived (never mind his chances were “grim” as the ER doc said, since his brain had been without oxygen for 10 minutes prior to the CPR).

After the EMT’s eventually arrived and intubated him, as they carried his body away on a stretcher to the ambulance, one of them turned to Rob and said, “You saved his life.” That he did, and I am forever grateful, for this and countless other of his acts of generosity, love, and absolute joy. Thank you, infinitely, Rob. My heart is so sad just as I am so happy for your graduation.

Ihor was a wholistic veterinarian married to my friend Jane. A legend in his field, Ihor is the one who mapped the acupuncture and acupressure points for dogs and cats, writing the standard textbook. 

He also practiced Chinese herbal medicine with his four-legged patients, and my dear cat Aribel was one of them. When she had a nasty fungal infection in her lungs that resulted in all kinds of scar tissue and a nearly hopeless chronic condition, Ihor prepared and shipped a custom herbal tonic that we gave her twice a day for a year. 

It was the clear time on island, without vog. When Kilauea fired back up, Aribel left within a couple of weeks. Her little body just couldn’t take it. Ihor told us we gave her that year of life, but really it was because of him.

I can tell you I felt Aribel’s death was untimely, and that she was gone too soon. She was also only 5 years old, soul family, and our bond was deep.

But when she showed herself to me on the inner, she was huge and so proud! She let me know her soul learned and expanded massively more than what she had set out for herself in this lifetime. She showed me she was complete as Aribel, no matter the heart-wrenching timing for me.

Rob and Ihor lived relatively long lives, and I know everyone who loves them will feel differently about their passing. My heart is with them all.

This past week Rob’s singing voice came into my head out of nowhere, more than once (he was a wonderful classical tenor, always one of my favorite voices to hear). He sang a song set to the words below, and it just came wafting in and out through the week. I think he was letting me know. The song is by John W. Work III, and is called Soliloquy, text by Myrtle Vorst Sheppard:

If death be only half as sweet as life,
I will not fear. I’ll shed no tear,
Nor will I ask my friends to weep;
But quietly go, like melting snow
Upon a mountain’s steep gray height.

Or wafted gently on a breeze
I’ll drift among the trees
Like lovers’ laughter
Echoing down a lane.

Or I will follow, willingly,
The soft spring rain
Around the river’s bend.

If death be only half as sweet as life,
I will not fear to go.
I love life so!

I hear his strong and beautiful tenor ringing in my heart: “ I love life so… I love life so.” For me it is all life rather than “life and death”… birth, death, everything before, after and in between… all life. I love life, too, Rob, all of it. And I love you.

Sing on, beautiful souls. You lived and loved well, and I am so much the richer for having known and loved you both.