Death

Each separate being in the universe

returns to the common source…

When you realize where you come from,

you naturally become tolerant,

disinterested, amused,

kindhearted as a grandmother,

dignified as a king…

you can deal with whatever life brings you,

and when death comes, you are ready. (Tao Te Ching, 16)

In Hispanic cultures, today is one of three “Days of the Dead.” The annual feast—dating back thousands of years—is an occasion for families to remember deceased loved ones. Favorite foods and beverages are brought to graves to motivate the return of departed souls. Family members and friends of all ages participate—children included. On the surface, the celebration invites those who’ve passed to be present again. At a deeper level, it’s a reminder of both our mortality and transcendence. The message: life is transient and death a passage—but spirit is eternal.

Asian and African cultures have similar traditions. Unfortunately, there’s no equivalent in western society.  On the contrary, death is largely taboo—avoided and often feared, much to our detriment.

On a recent retreat, I was invited to spend 24 hours preparing for my death. Through directed reflections and other exercises, I was encouraged to actually live those final hours. To replay the “movie” of my life. To make my own burial shroud. And to address some important questions: Have I provided for those who depend on me? Have I reconciled with those for whom I harbor judgment or resentment? Have I sought forgiveness from those I’ve hurt? Have I thanked those to whom I’m indebted?

I’ll confess—I didn’t like all my answers. There are certainly relationships I’d rather have handled differently. And it’s definitely time to update the will!

The experience was profound, to say the least. The hardest part was saying goodbye to loved ones. But there was nothing morbid about any of it. On the contrary, the day was wonderfully cleansing. And when it was time, I actually felt ready to die.

On the way to my “death bed,” I stopped to observe the sky, which was striped in orange and grey. What an extraordinary sunset, I thought. I’ve never seen one like it.

Obviously, my attention was heightened by the awareness that this would be my last sunset. My ensuing “death”—again facilitated through guided meditation—was equally amazing—and surprisingly peaceful. While I didn’t literally walk into the light, I did feel enveloped by love.

Much of the night was spent in sleepless vigil—which made the morning sunrise that much more remarkable. I was sure glad to be alive! I felt fluorescent much of the next day. Ever since, I’ve appreciated just about everything—and everyone.

I wonder what it would be like to live in that state of awareness? Given a second chance, what would change? What new ways might emerge? And finally: Why don’t we address those questions when we actually have time to do something about them?

I’m reminded of the reformed Scrooge, after his Christmas Eve hauntings. “He became,” wrote Dickens in A Christmas Carol,

as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them… His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him.

I believe such transformations are possible—without ghosts. But they’re much more likely when we take the inevitability of death to heart.

The exercise makes me much more amenable to the “Days of the Dead.” I like the idea of communing with the departed—if for no other reason than the reminder that such a fate awaits me as well. Who knows when?

There’s no guarantee I’ll get a day, an hour, or even a minute to prepare for my final passage. If that’s not incentive to live each day as if it were my last, I don’t know what is. 

(West Point, New York)

Sturbridge Village Cemetery

West Point Cemetery

Gifts

“Nothing among human things has such power to keep our gaze fixed ever more intensely upon God than friendship.”   (Simone Weil)

Six months and six days into the journey, I’ve passed the peak for autumn foliage in New England. Fading leaves still hang on precariously (more in Connecticut than Vermont)—but a light rain or modest breeze will soon bring their downfall. Winter’s in the air—time to turn south.

Today marks the official halfway point of my journey—good excuse not only for a change in course but also a grateful tribute.

Perhaps the most unexpected highlight of the trip is the time I’ve been able to spend with friends and family. I say unexpected because, with few exceptions, I’ve generally not known exactly when (or even if) I’ll reach an intended destination. And not everyone is available on short notice. So, each time I’m able to connect, it seems serendipitous.

“The reality of God,” writes Krista Tippett, “is most powerfully expressed not in ideas and proclamations but in presence.” I’ve felt that presence from the Pacific to the Atlantic. College classmates I haven’t seen for decades, professional colleagues from both recent and distant past, high school cronies, and of course, my children, parents, brothers, and sisters have all opened their homes and hearts to me. Along the way, I’ve made a number of new acquaintances who I hope will remain life-long companions. And close friends from Portland remain in touch via phone, e-mail, and Facebook. So, despite the miles separating us, they’re never far away. All of them are unique and precious gifts—and each is part of my ongoing dance with divinity: God in nature and God in people.

One of the marks of friendship, as someone recently volunteered, is the ease with which you talk about the important stuff. Another is the ability to take up right where you left off, no matter how long it’s been since your last visit. I’ve experienced both—and as Simone Weil so eloquently points out, nothing “has such power to keep our gaze fixed ever more intently upon God.”

To see God in the face of another is truly awesome. Thanks to all of you who continue to treat my eyes.

(Hartford, CT)

Irony

I’ve now traveled more than 13,000 miles—not including two side trips by plane. That’s a lot of movement in six months.

The irony isn’t lost on me. As quite a few have suggested, if I really want to experience God (or kindle any profound insight), I would be much better off sitting still!

Thomas Werge, a professor at Notre Dame, put it best during a lecture in an American literature course I took 36 years ago. “Truth,” he observed, “comes in moments of patience, waiting, passivity.”

Of course, I am fairly still while driving. And the majority of my time behind the wheel is spent in silence. Driving has always had a calming effect—so long as I’m able to avoid big cities during rush hour. And I’ve been treated to some lovely scenery—most recently the autumn foliage along Highway 20 through New York and Massachusetts, and a number of rural roads on Cape Cod (which I traveled by scooter).

But there are times I’ve just longed to stop. I spent three June days in Pismo Beach, California for just that reason. There wasn’t anything I particularly wanted to see or do there. I just needed to be in one place for a while.

The last few weeks have been delightfully tranquil due to the conspicuous absence of motion. I stayed five nights in Boston, three nights on the Cape, and three more in Scarborough, Maine—with a night in Middleboro, Massachusetts sandwiched in—all on a single tank of gas. The next few weeks promise to be similarly relaxed, with lengthier stops set for Salisbury, Vermont; Hartford, Connecticut; Sturbridge, Massachusetts; West Point, New York, and Washington, DC. I must confess, the slowdown is prompted in part by the surprise discovery that most New England campgrounds close on Columbus Day! Fewer options compel longer stays. But I’m not complaining. Perhaps it’s divine intervention!

Given my extroverted nature, I’m surprised by how much I’m savoring the solitude. While I continue to gravitate to people in even the most spectacular natural settings, I likewise relish the peace and quiet of my humble rolling abode (which hasn’t required any repairs the last 2,000 miles—keeping my fingers crossed). Albeit temporary, I welcome the grounding—which is a function of both time and intention.

“The spiritual quest,” writes Anthony DeMello, “is a journey without distance. You travel from where you are right now to where you have always been. From ignorance to recognition, for all you do is see for the first time what you have always been looking at. Who ever heard of a path that brings you to yourself or a method that makes you what you have always been? Spirituality, after all, is only a matter of becoming what you really are.”

Whatever I’m becoming, I’m certainly enjoying the ride.

(Scarborough, Maine)

Secrets

(For Joel Stenberg)

Message on a friend’s t-shirt: Why do we need beliefs? Can't we just show up?

Two years ago, as a birthday gift for my son-in-law, Joel, I wrote an essay called “The Secret Ingredient,” which became the title piece of my second book. In it, I suggested that “love” is the secret ingredient—“the essence from which flavor emanates”—in both cooking and life.

These days, I wonder if there really are any secrets. As the Bible puts it, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

That’s especially true as it relates to God. God is either everywhere or nowhere. When we die, we’ll find out. Or not. It’s that simple.

If God is everywhere, everything is sacred. If God is nowhere, why should we have any less reverence for the world we inhabit?

As for beliefs—while interesting fodder for discussion, they aren’t terribly important in the grand scheme. All that truly matters—and the only thing over which we have any control—is how we show up.

As humans, we seek always to arrive somewhere. But we never stay long—and we’re swiftly off to the next new place. Which puts even more impetus on the way we travel.

If Joel were to prod me today, I’d say this: When you journey with an open mind, an open heart, and an open spirit, extraordinary things occur. And the best present we can give—to ourselves and others—is our genuine presence. But Joel already knows that—and he continues to guide me along that path.

As the t-shirt suggests—just show up. I guarantee you’ll enjoy the ride.

(Needham, MA)