Carol Soller        1943-2002

Mother of two daughters, Jennifer and Julie Soller.
Sister to two brothers, Daniel and Jay Markham.
Wife of Arthur Soller (deceased).
Daughter of Mark Markham (dec.) and Beatrice Markham.
Devoted co-worker and friend to many.

Buddhist saying:

When a person who has lived skillfully passes away,
All their good deeds come to greet them like
A family welcoming a traveler back home.

My Mom used to say she wasn't afraid of dying. Dying was 'going home.' On July 27, 2002, she had the wonderful opportunity to fix her attention on the dharma and let her life end. She probably planned it that way. She was a clever and resourceful woman.

My Mom used to say she was a magician. Someone who transforms obstacles caused by fear and uncertainty into opportunities. She always called ALS a gift. Even the handicapped parking permit was "one of the perks of the disease."

July 8
I drove her into Berkeley to run an errand. On the way back, we're driving along the bumpy winding Arlington Road in the wheelchair van. I've got a song in my head. The Beatles. I sing, "You say you want a re-vo-lu-shun..." and when I get to the part that goes, "You know it's gonna be! All Right, everything is gonna be, all right," I think of her, and her life, and my life, and it seems the song is true.

The song was in my head because the truth wanted to get itself sung aloud to us.

Everything is gonna be all right.

And at that very moment, I'm acutely aware of driving my Mom down home in her van, she sitting calmly beside me in her wheelchair, the windows are rolled all the way down, the the big boat of a vehicle is coasting along on a hot summer afternoon. And I feel like she's my friend. She's not a mother, a dying person, a burden, or a worry. She's my pal, I'm singing to my pal. I'm singing aloud and I know my pal is enjoying it; we're sharing a lovely ordinary moment. Nothing is missing. Nothing is there that shouldn't be there.

I tell her, "Tell me you love me," and she types it onto her typing machine and plays it in the different computer voices until it comes out in the high-pitched one I like.

I've been taking acting classes at the Jean Shelton Actors Lab. I tell Mom that doing method acting is like a mini-Buddhist practice in that, in order to truly inhabit the life of the play, you must give up the illusion of your own ego and fully enter the world of the people in the play. What you are practicing is the understanding that ego is an illusion. Good practice for life, I tell her. She croaks, "I agree," and added that that's another gift of the disease: she has to let go of what she used to be able to do, whom she used to think she was.

July 14
Mom and her caretaker Amanda came to see the play "Of Mice and Men." I was doing lights for it. I introduced Chris Phillips, my acting teacher, to her. He was very sweet to her, and so were two of the other actors who greeted her kindly and shook her hand. It made me ache inside to see them so sweet to her. That's what love is, I realize again. When someone is being sweet to the one you love, it's as if they're directly being sweet to you. That's love. I feel happy that love is so often a part of my awareness.

July 16
The face of Rigpa is the face of our own true nature and our true reality. Innate, ever-present perfection. Yesterday was Monday, Mom-day, and I was reading to Mom from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and every paragraph or so, I'd stop and interpret what I read. Mom was very calm and a bit stoned from the egg scrambled in hash butter, leftover from last week. Mira and Amanda were in the kitchen, cooking for a birthday party. The house felt very lively. I was feeling very creative. Mom's main contribution to the discussion was to press a button on her talking machine that she'd pre-programmed with the words, "I agree with you" in a high-pitched computerized monotone. Then she changed the voice to a husky male baritone. Amanda said, "Oh! Who's the sexy new man?"

I interpreted one of the teachings: "It's like, you have a thought. That's what is called the self-radiance of Rigpa. You notice that. You noticing that is Rigpa. There's a gap between your thoughts and you go, "Oh, wow, Rigpa again," and then you have another thought, and that's Rigpa again, and you go, "Oh, wow." You notice Rigpa instead of following or being swept away by the illusion of your thoughts. Amanda laughed and said I had a knack for interpreting Buddhism. Mom seemed to be enjoying the spiritual conversation. Then the new caretaker, Jane, arrived and Mom began to arduously type something. I waited to hear what she had to say. She hit play and the device said, "Can you show Jane how the hose couplings work?" And that was the end of our Buddhism discussion that day.

July 22
An unusually sad day. I did a lot of crying with Mom, from the moment we were alone. She can't talk at all, just types on her machine.

She said she was doing an important thing: setting an example of how to die without fear. I suggested that she write down her method, like engineers do when they devise a computer system and then type up notes so that anyone can go and do it. She said she would.

Mom was unusually compassionate with me, instead of her usual response to my crying, which is to say, "Noticing sadness, sadness," she also said "Everything is gonna be OK" and "u  r  fine too." We read more of our book and discussed compassion. Giving to others is the best practice for attaining the ultimate truth or happiness. Here I go, dutifully, over to Mom's every Monday for a visit, and even though I think I'm doing it for her, I'm the one getting the most benefit. She helps me. She even patted me on the back when I hugged her. I felt like the daughter again. I'm so lucky to still be able to be the daughter and that Mom is well-cared for in her own home with wonderful people. She's fine and I'll miss her so much.

Everyone's Mom should have "I agree with you" "Everything's gonna be all right" and "Me, too" on speed-dial.

Improv is like Buddhism anyway. My Improv teacher suggested I work on being present in the moment. Concentrate on receiving offers instead of advancing the narrative. In Buddhism this would be pay attention to the moment instead of being in your head, telling yourself stories. Let go of directing. Let go of your own ego. Focus on other people and on being in the moment and it will all work out.

July 26
Mira calls me because Mom's breathing is very labored and the doctors recommended she go into the emergency room to get the phlegm suctioned out of her lungs. Mom doesn't want to go. I drive back from San Francisco where I'm supposed to have dinner with friends to check out the situation. Mom refuses to go to the hospital.

She keeps typing, "Not necessary."

She makes grunts and groans with each breath, which comes forcefully like a hiccup.
She types, "I make noise all the time now."

I try to convince her that it might be a good idea to get the gunk out of her lungs so she can rest.
She types, "There's nothing there."

Mom doesn't want to start the process of artificial respiration, I know, and I tell her we won't do anything she doesn't want to do. But I say, "Is this it? The beginning of the end? Is this how it's going to go?" She nods.

I call Jen and let her know the situation. I hold the phone to Mom's ear so Jen can tell her she loves her and ask if she should come back from Las Vegas. Mom shakes her head. She tells Jen she loves her.

July 27
Me, Jane and Mom go to Green Gulch Zen Center, to hear her favorite monk, Ajahn Amaro. Mom struggles to draw each breath all morning. After the first dharma talk, she wants to leave at the break. She is sweating and having difficulty typing and controlling her wheelchair.

She gets as far as to roll her wheelchair back up into the van and position it facing forward next to the driver's seat.

I realize this could be the moment. I stop the van and tell her, "I love you. Thank you for teaching me everything you taught me. It's okay. You're doing what you have to do." It might be the moment that she has been practicing for.

I don't remember my exact words but I was thinking about the bardo, the great gap in the moment of death, when you have to be very present to what is happening and not afraid.

Her lungs finally cease working. She stops breathing and her eyes fall half-closed.

It is like the moment at a fireworks show after the finale. The sky goes dark. Jane and I say to each other, "Was that it? I think that was it."

I drive back down to the town at the bottom of the mountain. Jane holds Mom's head to keep it from flopping around. I focus on driving very carefully with tears streaming down my grimacing face. The whole way Jane and I are talking to each other, and to Mom. At one point I feel an enormous wave of happiness. It must be my Mom's spirit releasing from the body, passing through the gap, and realizing home. Then for a while I experience a very calm focus and the pain is gone.

"It" is the moment. Any moment. Every moment. When you realize the moment is all you got. You got to pay attention to each moment. Compassion erupts naturally from this attention. Even with tears streaming down my face, I felt a huge upwelling of compassion. A car coming down the one-way road barely stops in time for us to avoid a head-on collision as we drive up out of Green Gulch with my mother. The car pulls over to the side and I pass slowly. I roll down my window to tell the driver, "Thank you."

Now Mom exists within me and within everyone who knew her and loved her. We love her still and I am grateful for everything she's taught me.

Everything is all right.