experiments with death

Did the title get your attention?

I hoped so.

In fact, this is actually a post about hope. 

Because death is the engine of life.

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My dear friend, Rebekah, lives on a farm in North Carolina. We lovingly call her Farmer Jackson, but she admits that the real boots behind the operation is her father. He’s the creative and compassionate man who tills the ground and reaps the harvest. Egg and seed. He knows the mystery of death.

In a recent conversation, Bekah recounted her father’s cold frame, an outdoor building to protect their seedlings from the harsh winter. “Winter’s not over yet.” her father sighed, anticipating the next blow of snow. 

“... but Spring is coming…” Bekah snatched my attention.

Bekah also knows the mystery of death.

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My first year of teaching was overwhelming. I spent most of my time in the classroom or thinking about it. I picked up running to help relieve some stress.

One day, on my long run through a local park, a large willow tree caught my eye. I tried to keep going, but her long, tired, draping arms pulled me in and whispered "me too". So I sat under her nest for hours, suddenly intrigued by arboriculture. The earth buzzed and birds danced and cooed all around.

I returned to her many times that semester. I even gave her a name. The Wonder Tree.

I saw her transform in the fall, and endure the winter as she stripped her leaves and bared her true form.

We were quiet and somber, as winter demands.

Spring would come. Her buds and blooms and birds would return. Her peace and patience, intact. 

Wonder knew the mystery of death.

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I took a yoga restoration class in January. It was a lot of slow flows and deep breathing. The intention was to slow down and connect to the essence of winter, so the instructor led meditations centered around nature. 

There was much talk about lunar cycles and day lengths, but what really stuck were her observations of animals. 

In winter seasons, animals are forced to adapt, migrate, or hibernate.

Humans too.

The proverbial winter.

We grow and change, we leave and search for home, or we shut down, store up, and await a shift.

Our response shapes our reality.

Yogi knew the mystery of death.

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What's hidden in these short anecdotes?

The tension and the mystery: to die is to live. 

Farmer Jackson's three words are saturated with hope: spring is coming. Spring comes. 

Death produces life. 

Yield.

Leaves and flowers burst to life. Birds return to Wonder's branches. They sing a new song.

Yield.
The sun burns longer. The butterflies return home. The bears stretch their sore bodies and forage for earth's treats. 

Yield. 

Easter is all around.

One author puts it this way: "Jesus talks about death and rebirth constantly, his and ours. He calls us to let go, turn away, renounce, confess, repent, and leave behind the old ways. He talks of the life that will come from his own death, and he promises that life will flow to us in thousands of small ways as we die to our egos, our pride, our need to be right, our self sufficiency, our rebellion, and our stubborn insistence that we deserve to get our way. When we cling to our sins and our hostility, we're like a tree that won't let its leaves go. There can't be a spring if we're still stuck in the fall."

"Lose your life and find it, he says. That's how the world works. That's how the soul works. That's how life works when you're dying to live."*

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I believe this, so I am experimenting with death:

Death to the ego, through honest questions and reflections.

Death to the critic, though sharing unfinished thoughts and imperfect creative projects. 

Death to control, through releasing quixotic expectations.

Death to unhealthy relationships, through forgiveness and reconciliation.

Death to body obsession, though harvesting life-giving foods and exercise.

Death to... well... I'm still asking for feedback and trying it on. 

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Wherein our death(s) we find life.

stay open,

stay tender

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Thank you Bekah for inspiring this one. I love your friendship.

And Clarissa, you inspire me everyday. Thank you for our daily texts and weekly phone calls.  

*quote from Rob Bell's Love Wins (chp 5)