Dying While the World Comes Back to Life
When I look at the photos on my phone's camera roll from March 2023, this is what I see:
- A particularly pretty pattern of clouds as I saw them from the window of my flight to Memphis, my sixth trip to Tennessee within eight weeks.
- A screenshot of a quote by Richard Rohr:
"What looks like falling can largely be experienced as falling upward and onward, into a broader and deeper world, where the soul has found its fullness and is finally connected to the whole." - The back of my son's head, documenting copper-red curls that were fast approaching a mullet.
- The dogwood tree in front of our house, beautiful in full bloom.
- Flowers from the farmer's market in a planter that reminded me of Persephone.
- A photo of me holding a lemon cake that says "Congratulations, Dr. Mize!" – a surprise from my parents on one of my many trips home to celebrate my new job.
- A screenshot of a quote by Ram Dass:
"Dying is the most important thing you do in your life.
It's the great frontier for every one of us.
And loving is the art of living as a preparation for dying.
Allowing ourselves to dissolve into the ocean of love is not just about leaving this body; it is also the route to oneness and unity within our own inner being, the soul, while we are still here.
If you know how to live and to love, you know how to die." - Several photos of Addison playing in a birdbath, wearing only a diaper.
- A photo of a daily calendar on my aunt's desk, frozen on March 25:
"The Christian should never consider death a tragedy. Rather he should see it as the angels do: they realize that joy should mark the journey from time to eternity. The way to life is by the valley of death, but the road is marked with victory all the way.
I am the resurrection, and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. - John 11:25" - ...and 228 photos of my Uncle Joe.
He died in the early morning hours of March 25, 2023. One of these days I'll write about it fully. I have so much to say. I want to tell you about the fortitude and love of my aunt, the final moments with his closest friends, the ways my sister cared for him in his last weeks, how it felt to be in that liminal space with him in the hours leading up to his death and what it was like to care for his body after his soul departed. I miss him deeply.
It felt so strange to walk outside to a beautiful, lush spring day the morning my uncle died. My world had screeched to a halt - can flowers still bloom when this happens? Of course they can. I think that's the whole point of spring. Life in death, death in life.
One day I will write about that holy, sacred, sorrowful day. But right now, I'm contemplating this cycle of death and life as spring settles in by spending six weeks with a conscious dying coach.
On March 11, I began taking a six-week small group course called Going There. Going There is led by my brilliant friend Susan, a conscious dying coach, who is guiding us to actively contemplate the last 90 days of our lives across five perspectives. You can (and absolutely should) read more about her work here.
I'm two sessions in, and it's already changed my life. This work is astonishing and deeply humbling. I spend a lot of time in the liminal spaces of life; I'm a counselor, I do a lot of work in grief and suicide intervention and prevention, I have my CT credential (Certified in Thanatology: Death, Dying and Bereavement). This blog/newsletter is called Mortal Wonder for crying out loud. So admittedly, I was a little arrogant going into this course. I thought it would be well within in my comfort zone to talk about mortality for six weeks.
NOPE.
I am smack dab in the zone of growth here – and it's uncomfortable and wonderful. With Susan's guidance and support, I am tasked to think about my life and the next three months – right now – as if June 11, 2025 were my last day on Earth.
Having June 11 in the back of my mind has been so powerful. There's a depth I can't fully access yet when I think about my son and my husband – no amount of time on earth will ever be enough for me when it comes to them. I'm not sure I will ever be able to surrender to this.
I want to write more (and I have). This has been wonderful. I'm writing like I'm running out of time.
I can't keep track of how many times in the last two weeks June 11 has crossed my mind and quickly made me realize no, I don't want to spend my remaining 85 days on this. Detaching is so hard for me - but my goodness, it feels good to detach from things I've already needed to let go.
This week I wrote I love deeply and am deeply loved in my journal. This feels like one of the greatest gifts of my existence. (Susan's work is called Gifts from the End and I can't endorse it enough).
Lately, I find myself holding my dog's faces and gazing into their eyes as long as they will let me.
I'm getting out of bed as soon as I wake up because I want to be there when Addison wakes up, and I want to rock him to sleep every single night. This has been a nice bonus of my Lenten practice of waking up early - I feel like it gives me more time.
I'm making actual plans for a few trips that have been stuck in the we should totally visit sometime! phase of adult friendship. One of these trips includes 24 hours in Chicago in July to attend a Hozier concert with a friend (I'm still obviously very much hoping and planning for life on the other side of June 11).
I feel so very aware of my time these days. I've had a song from one of my favorite musicals in my head often over the last two weeks:
How did I live? Was I kind enough and good enough? Did I love enough? Did I squander my divinity? Was happiness within me the whole time?
I'm going to continue to relish in the new life ushered in by the spring, and make plenty of room for the Very Big Feelings involved with contemplating my mortality. I'll leave you with more lyrics (First Time by Hozier) that represent how life feels lately:
These days I think I owe my life
to flowers that were left here by my mother
Ain't that like them, gifting life to you again?
This life lived mostly underground,
unknowing either sight nor sound,
'til reaching up for sunlight,
just to be ripped out by the stem.
Sensing only now it's dying,
drying out then drowning blindly –
blooming forth its every color
in the moments it has left
to share the space with simple living things
infinitely suffering,
but fighting off like all creation
the absence of itself...
...anyway.
With you in wonder,
Mary Chase
