He said the words that title this missive, and they have haunted me since. He is Stephen Jenkinson, a Canadian, who is Harvard educated, a theologian. And he has attended over 800 deaths. I was listening to a radio interview with Stephen when he said these words. It was like a big wet shaggy dog shook nearby. At first those words just shocked me into an uncomfortable wetness, then subsequently, when I listened again to the interview, these words drenched me. I believe I am now, like Stephen says, grief soaked.
Known as the Griefwalker in Canada, Stephen’s principle mission has been shedding new light upon our culture’s phobia about death. That is moving enough, but that isn’t what grabbed me so hard. What galvanized my attention was his answer to the question, “what constitutes a good death?” His answer came across as if it was customized for me to hear. I have been a community-builder all of my adult life, and suddenly I’m accosted by an idea that seems so right, and that has evaded me for so long. If I wasn’t so moved by what it says to me now, I would feel ashamed that I hadn’t realized this before.
I don’t want to spend time on Stephen’s work. If you want to know more, and I do recommend it, go to Ken Rose’s site for the 1 hour interview (www.pantedmonkey.com), and to (http://www.nfb.ca/film/griefwalker) for the Canadian documentary of he and his work. Instead I just want to focus upon the village-making aspect of death, and life.
He points out how one significant part of life is ignored by our current attitudes about death. This is familiar to we elders, who are used to being ignored (or worse). I was taken by the sense that we don’t really know what death holds for us, we rarely talk about it, and we don’t inquire into the experience of those who are dying. In all these ways we are missing the potential of death to bring us together. It is, after all, one experience we all have in common. Dying probably has a lot to say about life, a lot we may not even know.
I am touched by the notion that there is a community-building aspect to dying. Dying transparently, apparently, holds a power that unites us. I can imagine that dying out in the open can touch us all. I can also imagine that knowing something about what it is really like changes the way we live. And finally, I can imagine holding the precious flame of Life so much more diligently, mine and yours.
I want that, for us, for my self, for this stricken world. I have attended some memorial services that brought out the village, now I want living to do the same. Is that possible? I know I can’t make it happen with anything I do or say, but it appears that by living and dying well I might be able to enhance the chances. So I’m writing to you to direct your attention, to the extent I can, to the work of Stephen Jenkinson, and to the kind of life/death I hope to share with you.
I share in the destruction of our world, I can’t seem to avoid it. I know that the end of an unsustainable way of life is coming, and that I probably won’t make the necessary transition, if one occurs, but while I am alive, I want to be working to lessen the unnecessary distances that keep us from being as connected and whole as we can be. The world is a holy vision (so are we really) and we need each other to see it clearly.
