Death

It is loyalty and a sign of deep love to want your loved one to die when he or she is dying, though it means that something of you will die with them. It is a deep love of being alive that finally helps a dying person want to die.

— Stephen Jenkinson, Die Wise (p. 30)

Death. The word itself has become less frightening to me as I have matured and witnessed death. Our western culture has been particularly good at hiding death from children and even from adults. We want to whisk the body away after its final breath, then make it appear still alive as it lies in a coffin, eyes closed as if only in a peaceful sleep.

I now find it reassuring to touch the cold white skin of the deceased and to plant a kiss on the unmoving forehead of the departed. I know there is a circle of life, which includes death and rebirth. However, rebirth can mean many things for many people. In my bedside experience of the ones who are birthing out of the body, there is a tangible release of the spirit into the immensity of all that is. I can only describe that experience as a feeling of awe. I was fortunate enough to witness this and be a midwife to my mother as she released herself from the body with a glorious chant of “Ohm.” Her essence was in the air all around us, like a powerful genie had just been released from its bottle. It was my first and only time to be with someone in the moment of death. It transformed my father and I as we sat by her bedside and encouraged her to let go. When she finally did, we were both quite elated. All my father could say was, “I don’t feel sad.” It was truly a miraculous event—one that changed me forever. 

My ninety-three-year-old father is dying as I write this. He is asleep in a hospital room, many miles away in a different country. His organs are shutting down and his spirit is halfway in this world and halfway in the next. I am not able to be with him. I wanted him to have the same experience as my mother, but he is a different type. My mother said quite clearly, “I am ready to die.” And then she asked each of her children to talk to her about death, our beliefs and our sense of it. My dad is very private, and so he is having a private death. He never wanted to talk about death, his own or others. It always caused him to squirm and quickly change the subject. I had to ask my dad several times to tell me what he wanted when he died. Finally, over coffee and toast one morning, he gave me a list of clearly thought through instructions around cremation, where he wanted his ashes to go, etc. No church, no service, no big gathering, no fuss, no muss. 

I remember watching a documentary about Stephen Jenkinson and his work in death and dying. There was a segment on an infant girl who was dying. She did not want to be touched or held. She wanted to be left alone. Many animals do this instinctually like our sixteen-year-old cat, Gopa, who crawled into the garden and rested under a bush, ready to die, quietly and alone. My dad is very cat-like in this way.

At Triveni, we hold a vigil with the dying person. Someone is present at their bedside twenty-four hours a day to be a witness, to comfort them if needed. I know for most people this is an incredible gift. I would want that. Candles and flowers and soft music and whispering voices and my hand held and quiet chanting. Maybe someone would be reading to me, encouraging me. And then we have our death prayer, a beautiful guide into the freedom of Great Spirit, into the arms of Love, into the Grace of Godliness. Someone will read this after my last breath and continue reading it until they feel they have connected to my spirit. It is the most loving of send offs, rich and powerful. 

Of course, we never know when our time will come or if it will be quick or prolonged, accidental or a slow burn through illness. We don’t know if we’ll be conscious or unconscious or have the gift of bedside attendants. But we do know we will die as sure as the leaves fall off the trees each winter and the bare branches wait for warmth and sunshine and water. In the cold of winter we get to witness small deaths all around us. The supple greens and flourishing flowers all fade and whither, grow brittle and brown and fall down to be trampled or blown away or become natural mulch for the earth. Bodies decay and all the moisture disappears back to nature. Round and round we go—life, death, rebirth, re-growth. 

The Australian aboriginal people say to a child newly born and a person on the threshold of death, “I wish you well on your journey.” I love that. It makes sense to me; it feels like such a true wish. Both the journey of life and the journey of death are adventures we will all travel, and each one of us will have a unique experience. All we can ultimately do is to wish each other well. And we know that we will suffer and experience joy and be happy and experience fear. We will reflect shadow and light and full moons and dark nights. And we will laugh and sing and shout and cry while life and death swirl around us.

I am appreciating the power of prayer right now. I can offer my father my prayers and my wishes for his journey. I can perform pujas and call out his name in temples. I can ask my guru to watch over his transition and welcome him into the next world. I can walk outside and breathe in the miracles of nature and the stuff of existence and know that we are all going to break down into organic matter and merge with the earth and the stars and the oceans and the planets. I will sense the presence of the departed in the birds and the buds, in the rainbows and in little life’s that appear at every turn. I feel both heartbroken and a surge of joy. And in my mind’s eye I am holding his hand and whispering to him, “You can let go, Dad. You have had a beautiful life. We will all be fine. Your job here is done. Your body has served you well. You can let go.” In my pocket, I carry the death prayer for that powerful time of transition.

For you who have been called _________________. 
You are set free into Great Spirit.
Those who love you release you completely unto That which is Love.
All connections in your previous world are as air now, there is

only history entirely free of responsibility and meaning.
Only go to the source of all.
Disregard the sights and sounds and smells and feelings of your surroundings, 
they are merely stimuli with no substance or value for you now.
Only go to the source of all.
The heart of Great Spirit is the domain of your existence.
The thought of choices is a fragment of illusion, do not be distracted.
Only go to the source of all.
The swirl of surroundings is just scenery, it has no value for you.
Be drawn effortlessly to the field of light.
Only go to the source of all.
Your perceptions are tracings in space, they will not lead you away from the One you rest in.
Only go to the source of all.
Great Spirit is your advantage – there is no benefit for you in other possibilities.
Move as Great Spirit moves you – no personal distinction will overpower Its pull.
Only go to the source of all.
The Sacred Blessing of the Word made flesh is your comfort and your constant companion.
This benediction is the prayer that shows you the way.
Only go to the source of all.
The essence of light guides you to the soul of Great Spirit.
Follow freely without doubt or confusion, trust your clear knowledge.
Only go to the source of all.
The thread of my voice is the path directly to Great Spirit.
As you enter That domain my voice will not be separate from Great Spirit.
You cease to hear one from elsewhere as you are absorbed in the radiance of Eternity.
Only rest in the source of all.
Only rest in the source of all.

by Lesley Ball