In the Quiet of Goodbye: Love, Presence, and the Sacredness of Farewell

Introduction

As I sit and read the poetry of Mary Oliver in the quiet embrace of the Pacific Northwest, where cedar trees stand like steadfast guardians and the ground beneath is soft with the dampness of autumn, I find myself reflecting on the profound journey of grief and loss. Last week, my father passed away after a nine-year battle with Lewy Body Dementia—a relentless illness that gradually guided his mind away from the present, leading him into a liminal space where fear-fuelled haluluinations intertwined with reality. As I navigate the tender terrain of these emotions, comforting my wife and daughter, I feel compelled to share insights on a conversation we often avoid: How do we accompany someone close to death?

This blog post is not just a reflection; it is an invitation to explore the delicate art of being present during the final days of a loved one. Inspired by the natural beauty around me and the transcendent words of Mary Oliver, I hope to weave a narrative that speaks to the heart, one that honours the quiet, sacred act of companionship in life’s closing chapter.

The Power of Presence

There is a stillness in the forest, a quiet that echoes through the trees, much like the silence we must carry when sitting with someone who is dying. This silence is not an absence, not a void to be filled, but rather a presence—a deep, attentive awareness that is alive with meaning. In the forest, this stillness is vibrant, filled with the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, the soft whisper of the wind through the branches. Similarly, when we sit with someone at the end of their life, the silence between us becomes a vessel, holding all the unspoken words, the memories, the love that binds us together.

To be with my father in those final hours was to witness the slow ebb of his consciousness, much like the mist that rises from the ocean at dawn, dissipating as the day begins. There is something profoundly sacred in this transition, a quiet grace that envelops the room as life gently releases its hold. This kind of presence demands that we set aside our own fears, our need to fix or explain, and to simply be—as steady as the ancient cedars, as patient as the tide that waits for no one. It is a presence that does not seek to alter the course of events but instead respects the journey, whatever it may hold.

In Being with Dying, Joan Halifax (2008) speaks of this presence as a form of “radical optimism,” where we face the inevitability of death not with dread, but with a compassionate heart that embraces the entirety of the human experience. Radical optimism is not about denying the pain or sorrow that accompanies death; rather, it is about acknowledging these emotions and holding them with tenderness and acceptance. It is the belief that even in the face of death, there is something beautiful and meaningful to be found. This perspective allows us to remain fully present, to offer our loved ones the gift of our attention and our love in their final moments.

The act of simply being there, fully present in the moment, is a gift more valuable than any words or actions. It is a presence that says, “I am here with you, no matter what.” It is in this stillness that we can offer the most profound support, allowing our loved ones to pass from this life knowing they are not alone. In those quiet moments, when the room is filled with nothing but the sound of breathing, we become witnesses to a sacred passage—a moment when the boundaries between life and death blur, and what remains is the pure essence of connection.

This presence is not about doing; it is about being. It is about setting aside our own discomfort, our desire to fill the silence with words, and instead embracing the stillness. In this space, we allow the dying to feel seen and heard, to know that they are held in the warmth of our care. We do not need to have all the answers or find the perfect words; our presence is enough. Like the ancient trees that stand tall and silent, we become pillars of support, offering a steady foundation on which our loved ones can lean as they take their final breaths.

There is a profound peace that comes from this kind of presence, a sense of completeness that transcends the physical act of dying. In being fully present, we honour the life that has been lived and the journey that is now coming to an end. We create a space where love and connection can flow freely, unimpeded by the noise of the outside world. In this sacred silence, we find that we are not alone—neither the dying nor those who accompany them. We are connected by the shared experience of being human, of loving and being loved, of facing the unknown together.

As I sat by my father, I realized that this presence, this simple act of being with him, was the greatest gift I could offer. It was a gift that required no special skills, no profound insights—only the willingness to be there, fully and without reservation. And in that presence, I found a deep sense of peace, a knowing that this was exactly where I was meant to be. This is the power of presence—a power that lies not in doing, but in being, not in words, but in silence, not in fear, but in love.

The Simplicity of Love

In those final days, I discovered that love takes on a simplicity that is both humbling and profound. It is in the small gestures—the squeeze of a hand, the soft murmur of reassurances, the gentle brushing of sweat from a forehead—that love reveals its true power. These acts, so ordinary in nature, become extraordinary in the context of life’s closing chapter. They are the quiet expressions of a bond that transcends words, a language of the heart that speaks directly to the soul. Like the gentle rain that nourishes the forest floor, our presence, when infused with love, can provide a deep comfort that words often fail to convey.

In her work Present through the End, Kirsten DeLeo (2019) reminds us that being with someone who is dying is not about doing or saying the right thing; it’s about being fully present, offering a loving presence that is felt more than it is heard. It’s about the shared silence, the quieting breathing in unison, and the deep connection that is forged in those moments of simply being together. In this simplicity, there is a profound beauty—a recognition that the essence of love lies not in grand gestures but in the steady, unwavering presence that we offer to one another.

As I sat with my father, I realized that our presence, like the cycles of nature, is a force of continuity. Just as the seasons change—each one flowing seamlessly into the next—our presence is a thread that binds us, a constant in the ever-changing landscape of life. This presence is not loud or insistent; it is quiet, like the turning of the leaves in autumn or the first snowfall of winter. It is the whisper of the wind through the trees, the soft lapping of the waves on the shore—a reminder that life, even in its final moments, is still a part of the greater whole.

This simplicity, this unwavering love, is the greatest gift we can offer to those we accompany in their final days. It is not about solving problems or easing every pain, but about being there, fully and without reservation, holding space for the transition that is to come. In these moments, love becomes a shelter, a safe haven where the dying can rest, knowing they are not alone. Our presence, infused with love, becomes the steady ground on which they can lean, the gentle hand that guides them as they take their last breaths.

In the end, it is the simplicity of love that remains. It is the quiet touch, the shared silence, the moments of deep connection that linger long after words have faded. This love, so simple yet so stirring, is the thread that ties us to one another, the bond that endures beyond the physical, carrying with it the essence of who we are and what we mean to each other. As the seasons of life change, as we move through the cycles of birth and death, it is this love that remains constant, a beacon of light in the midst of darkness, a source of comfort and peace.

In these final moments, I learned that love is not about grand declarations or dramatic gestures; it is about the quiet, consistent presence that says, “I am here with you.” It is about the simplicity of being together, of sharing the journey, of offering a hand to hold in the darkness. And in this simplicity, in this unwavering love, we find the true power of connection, the enduring strength of the human heart.

A Framework for Presence

In the gentle stillness of those moments, I found guidance in the simple yet profound words that can anchor us in the act of accompanying a loved one through death. Drawing from Maria Popova’s reflections on Wendy MacNaughton’s How to Say Goodbye, I leaned into phrases that hold a quiet power: “I forgive you,” “Please forgive me,” “Thank you,” “I love you,” and “Goodbye.” These words, like the steady rhythm of the ocean’s waves, offer closure and connection, creating a bridge between life and death that acknowledges the depth of our relationships (Popova, 2020).

But how do we cultivate such presence? In his book Preparing to Die: Practical Advice and Spiritual Wisdom from the Tibetan Buddhist Tradition, Andrew Holecek (2013) discusses the importance of training the mind to be at peace, not only in life but also in the face of death. Holecek emphasizes that the state of mind at the time of death is crucial, both for the person dying and for those accompanying them. By fostering a state of loving-kindness and compassion, we create an environment where the natural transition from life to death can be faced with grace rather than fear.

This concept of mindful presence, where one’s state of mind becomes a conduit for compassion, mirrors the quiet wisdom of the natural world. Like the steady cedar trees and the rhythm of the tides, being present with a loved one as they approach death is about creating a sacred space where words are secondary to the power of being. Holecek (2013) suggests that this presence is not merely a passive act but an active cultivation of a peaceful mind that can hold space for another’s journey, much like how the forest holds the mist, gently and without judgment.

In those tender moments with my father, as his mind slipped further into the liminal space between life and death, I found that my presence—rooted in love and a deep sense of calm—was the most profound gift I could offer. This presence, bolstered by the words of Mary Oliver and the wisdom of Holecek, became a silent conversation, where the only language needed was the steady beat of my steadying heart.

Mary Oliver’s poetry often captures this essence of presence. In her poem White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field, she writes:

“And then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes,

to lurk there,

like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows—

so I thought:

maybe death

isn’t darkness, after all,

but so much light

wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—

that we are instantly weary

of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river

that is without the least dapple or shadow—

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones” (Oliver, 2003).

Oliver’s imagery here is not just poetic; it is instructive. She shows us that death, much like the flight of the owl, is a graceful transition, not into darkness, but into a new form of light—one that surrounds and carries us. This perspective aligns beautifully with Holecek’s teachings on mindful death, where the moment of dying is seen as an opportunity for spiritual enlightenment, a time when our presence and our love become the light that guides the dying through their final journey.

Creating a Sacred Space for Transition

Building on these ideas, the creation of a sacred space during the final days of a loved one’s life is an act of honouring significance. In Preparing to Die, Holecek (2013) discusses the importance of environment and atmosphere in the dying process. He suggests that just as we would prepare a room for meditation or prayer, we should also prepare the space where our loved ones will pass. This could mean surrounding them with objects of meaning, playing soft, calming music, or simply ensuring that the space is filled with peace and love.

The natural world offers a powerful metaphor for this sacred space. Think of the forest floor, where the fallen leaves create a soft, nourishing bed for new life to emerge. In the same way, the environment we create for our loved ones can serve as a gentle cradle, easing their transition from life to death. It is about making the space around them as supportive and serene as the forest itself, where every element works together to create harmony and balance.

Accompanying someone close to death is not about knowing the right things to say or do, but about being fully present, creating a sacred space, and allowing the natural process of dying to unfold with grace. As we face these moments, we can draw on the wisdom of those who have gone before us—like Mary Oliver and Andrew Holecek—to guide us in offering the most profound gift of all: our loving, compassionate presence.

Embracing the Unknown

“Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death,
I eat the stars.

Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.

Sometimes, instead, I stir myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:

No outer space, just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.

And sometime it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral bones:

To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings” (Elson, 2001).

As the fog rolled in each morning, wrapping the world in a quiet, shrouded embrace, I found solace in the imagery of Rebecca Elson’s poem Antidotes to Fear of Death. Her words—“Sometimes, as an antidote to fear of death, I eat the stars”—resonated deeply within me during those final moments with my father. Elson’s reflections on lying beside “our long ancestral bones” remind us that death, like the turning of the tides, is not an interruption but a continuation, a natural part of life’s endless rhythm (Elson, 2001).

In those sacred moments, as my father’s breath slowed and his eyes grew distant and closed, I realized that being present with the dying is not about resisting the inevitable or clinging to what is slipping away. Instead, it is about embracing the profound truth that death, much like life, is a journey—a transition from one state of being to another. This understanding, so eloquently captured in Elson’s poetry, offered me a strange yet comforting clarity. The fear that often accompanies thoughts of death began to dissipate, much like the morning mist as the sun rises, revealing the landscape in its true form.

Elson’s imagery—eating the stars, lying beside ancestral bones—speaks to the idea that death is not something to be feared, but something to be integrated into our understanding of existence. It is a return to the earth, to the cosmos, to the place where all life begins and ends. As I sat with my father, I began to see death not as a stark ending, but as a gentle merging into something greater, something eternal. This shift in perception allowed me to be fully present with him, not as a protector or a saviour, but as a companion, walking alongside him as he crossed the threshold into the unknown.

In these moments of acceptance, I found the courage to face my own fears—not by pushing them away, but by acknowledging them, sitting with them, and ultimately, letting them go. This act of surrender, of allowing things to unfold naturally, brought a profound sense of peace. It became clear that my role was not to prevent death, but to be there, fully and without reservation, as my father journeyed into the mystery.

This realization also deepened my understanding of what it means to be seen and heard in our final moments. It is not about grand gestures or elaborate words, but about the quiet, unwavering presence of those who love us. It is about holding space for the dying, allowing them to transition with dignity and grace, and in doing so, allowing ourselves to find peace in the process. Just as the tides turn without hesitation, so too do we move through life and death, each phase a natural progression of the other.

The antidote to fear, as Elson suggests, lies not in avoidance but in acceptance. By embracing death as a natural and inevitable part of life, we can offer our loved ones—and ourselves—the gift of peace. In those final moments, I understood that the greatest comfort we can provide is our presence, our willingness to be with them as they take their final steps, and our acceptance of the journey they are on. This acceptance, like the gentle turning of the tides, brings with it a deep and abiding peace.

Conclusion

Accompanying someone at the end of their life is a sacred act, one that calls us to be fully present, to sit with the discomfort of our own emotions, and to offer a loving presence without the need for words or actions. This presence is not about having the right words or knowing exactly what to do; it’s about showing up, being there, and allowing love to flow naturally in those final moments. As I continue to walk through my grief, I invite you to consider how you can bring this presence into your own relationships, not only at the end of life but throughout your time with loved ones.

It is in these quiet, shared moments that we find the true depth of connection and the enduring strength of love. This presence serves as a powerful antidote to the fear and loneliness that often accompany the end of life. By being fully with those we love, in life and in death, we become as steady as the cedar trees and as soft as the ground beneath our feet, providing a sanctuary of peace and comfort.

This post is intended to guide those who find themselves walking alongside someone who is nearing the end of their life. It is a reflection on the quiet power of simply being there, on the depth of love that transcends words, and on the sacredness of presence that we can offer in these tender moments.

References

DeLeo, K. (2019). Present through the End: A Caring Companion’s Guide for Accompanying the Dying. Shambhala Publications.

Elson, R. (2001). Antidotes to Fear of Death. In A Responsibility to Awe. Carcanet Press.

Halifax, J. (2008). Being with Dying: Cultivating Compassion and Fearlessness in the Presence of Death. Shambhala Publications.

Oliver, M. (2003). White owl flies into and out of the field. In Owls and other fantasies: Poems and essays (pp. 27-28). Beacon Press.

Popova, M. (2020). How to Say Goodbye: An Illustrated Field Guide to Accompanying a Loved One at the End of Life. Brain Pickings. Retrieved from https://www.brainpickings.org/2020/05/25/how-to-say-goodbye/