I am not a religious person. There are too many variables in the world / universe for me to believe in any one doctrine or dogma. I wasn’t raised in any particular religion – I’m sure that has something to do with my lack of religious conviction. If the bible was read in our house, it was done so as a scholarly activity. Perhaps I’m taking the easy way out by not committing. Perhaps it’s lazy to treat religion a bit like a buffet where I pick and choose what I’m in the mood to eat, always going for the crab legs and bacon wrapped scallops and skipping over the iceberg lettuce wedges and green beans.
Over the years, these last few in particular, I have become a more spiritual person – a word I’ve been hesitant to use – spiritual. In my mind, it conjures up the barefoot hippy smelling of patchouli with unwashed hair etc etc or the yogi in robes or basically a flakiness that I hope to avoid. I’m not sure what else to call it – this contemplation on how to live life, this attempt to understand complexity alongside simplicity, this focus on life before death?
This morning, I walked and spent a little time thinking about life after death.
Nearly every day, I walk through a small memorial garden. It’s part of the church grounds (The Church of the River) that sit along a path on my way to Big River Crossing – the pedestrian bridge that crosses the Mississippi in to Arkansas. I’m not going to expound on the symbolism of the memorial garden being placed just before one crosses over the river – for one I have no idea if it was intentional or merely poetic, and I don’t know enough about the church to speculate. While I’ve passed through this quiet place dozens of times, today was the first time I stopped and looked around. It’s not terribly big – I might describe it as a small grove. There are a few brick retaining wall benches and there is a pedestal that looks like a bird bath but much more serious – it’s the kind of thing I could see being lit with an eternal flame. Towards the back of garden and in the shade of the hedges and trees are markers with names and dates on them. I assume these are the final resting places for some of the parishioners. There are fewer than two dozen of them. Some share the same last name, most don’t. The space itself, while not neatly manicured, sits in that in-between state of being a little wild yet still well kept.
The concept of graves is a little strange to me. I mean I get it, but I also don’t get it. It’s a little like having a permanent home – which seems nice, until you realize it’s entirely symbolic and very few things are permanent. Its permanence is reliant on everyone but the deceased. For the departed, any memory that exists lives in those who are left behind. What happens when they stop visiting, or when there’s nobody else left behind? Do graves maintain their significance for much more than a generation or two?
I haven’t had much experience with death, therefore I don’t think about it all that often. I think most people avoid thinking about it – and for good reason. It’s a pretty sobering topic. My grandparents have all passed away. I don’t know if anyone visits their graves. I’m not sure I could tell you where their graves are. My ex-wife’s father passed away shortly after we got together. We visited his grave a few times. I’m not sure either of us believe that graves are the only way, or even a terribly meaningful way, to remember people – we stopped going. My ex-fiancee’s husband passed away. So did her mother. He’s in a cardboard box that travels with her from house to house and city to city. I’m not sure about her mom. I think she’s buried out in California. He’s never out on display. I think some ashes have been scattered here and there. She and I talked about going to Italy – he wanted some ashes scattered there. I remember picking the box up, looking inside. From the outside, you would have no idea of its contents. It could just as easily be full of old CD cases. I was surprised by the weight of it. I was also surprised that it was little more than a clear, thick plastic bag of ash. It makes me sad to think that she needs to carry that with her. At the same time, if he felt that she was his home, and she felt he was hers, where else does he belong? I really wanted to help her with that weight. It’s a part of her life that I wanted to understand but was afraid to talk about.
I tend not to think much about the logistics of my own mortality. When I do, I seldom think about who will bury me or carry me with them. Does anyone even know me well enough to make those types of decisions? Instead, I think about what messes I might leave behind. Who will be saddled with cleaning up after me? My goal in death, as is often in life, is not to be a burden to anyone. I don’t want to be in the way or cause a fuss. I don’t want to cost a lot. Sometimes I think I should get my affairs in order. At least make it a little easier to sort things out. I feel like I should leave a list of passwords or at least leave some instructions. I think about those things a bit more now that I’m looking at moving, and now that I’m getting older, and now that there’s an indiscriminate virus on the loose…. but mostly because I’m moving. Moving feels like a time to take stock of what you have; a time to get your affairs in order.
I don’t pray much. When I have, it was when I was younger and it was the begging, pleading, bargaining type of prayer. Elvis Costello has a lyric in the song “God’s Comic” in which he sings “sometime you confuse me with Santa Clause / it the big white beard I suppose.” So yeah, I’ve definitely done that a few times – asked the big guy to do me a solid. The asking was always followed by guilt. Not only was I pretty sure I wasn’t deserving, I knew I couldn’t offer up devotion in return. I wasn’t even the prodigal son returned, I was more the kid passing by and saying “oh, cool! You’re giving out free stuff? I’d like a new bike and I’d like my brother to stop teasing me.” I have no idea what I asked god for on those childhood nights (it seems like a thing that’s done mostly at night). I can say it was never the typical image. I didn’t kneel by the bed with hand and palms together in front of my chest. No, it was a head on pillow eyes open type of praying. The conversations were infrequent – which brought it’s own type of shame. To this day I’m uncomfortable with things like public prayer, bowing one’s head, offering up thoughts and prayers. I can deliver on the thoughts part, but man will you be disappointed if we’re relying on my prayers to do the trick.
The closest thing I get to prayer now is “putting vibes out in to the world.” I’d like to believe that there are some mystical forces that remain unexplained. That people might be able to hear or sense our thoughts and feelings – which, I suppose, isn’t all that different than saying I’ll pray for you. When my fiancée left, I did this vibes out in to the world thing – I didn’t know what else to do. I would address her every night before I went to sleep. I would say that I hoped she was healthy and safe. I would say I hoped she finds her way home. I would say that I hope she finds it in her heart to reconnect or call. While I meant finds her way back to me and us, I was intentionally leaving the definition of home open. I did that every night for longer than I care to admit – until missing a night once in a while became missing several nights, which became sending warm thoughts out when I remembered. I still talk to her in this way from time to time. For the record, none of it has worked (yet) – or if it has, I don’t know about it.
As I looked at the markers, slightly askew and not quite flush with the ground, I thought about where I might wish to rest. I thought about how nice it must be to know with some sense of certainty that one place you call home. Here along the river seems like a nice enough place, but it’s not home. I once tried to write a poem about this – some instructions on my passing. In it I thought my ashes could be given out like party favors – thanks for coming – you can keep this little glass vial in the drawer next to the magnet you picked up on that drunken weekend in Aruba and the shot glass you bought at the Hard Rock Cafe in San Francisco – or inside the mug you got to celebrate Josh and Dianna’s wedding in 2002, the one that holds all those silver dollars that you never spend. It’s hard for me to care what happens after… it feels like that should be decided by whoever wishes to hold on to whatever they care to hold to. At this point, where I am in the here and now, I suppose I’d choose the scattering route. Take me to some places that I might like – a mountain top, the ocean, some distant cities of intrigue. Though honestly, if I get tossed out with the leftover fruit and cheese after the “celebration of life” I probably won’t know the difference.
By the time I passed back through the garden, I was starting to think about how I’ll spend the rest of the day. Today’s the day I turn in the paperwork to vacate my apartment. I’ve been resisting it, delaying it, it doesn’t feel right. Then again, moving on seldom does.