When I Am Dead

Because we live in a death denying society those faced with the death of loved ones often feel that they are left facing the inevitable void alone. I have a small copy of the work of Ella Wheeler Wilcox and the page opened at this poem. The truth is that when you talk about death you learn about how to live.

When I am dead, if some chastened one,
Seeing the item, or hearing it said
That my play is over, and my part done,
And I lie asleep in my narrow bed –
If I could know that some soul would say,
Speaking aloud or silently,
In the heat, and burden of the day,
She gave a refreshing draught to me;

Or, when I was lying nigh unto death,
She nursed me to life, and to strength again,
And when I labored and struggled for breath,
She soothed and quieted down my pain;
Or, when I was groping in grief and doubt,
Lost, and turned from the light o’ the day,
Her hand reached me and helped me out,
And led me up to the better way;

Or, when I was hated and shunned by all,
Bowing under my sin and my shame,
She, once, in passing me by, let fall
Words of pity and hope that came
Into my heart, like a blessed calm
Over the waves of the stormy sea,
Words of comfort like oil and balm,
She spake, and the desert blossomed for me;

Better by far, than a marble tomb –
Than a monument towering over my head;
(What shall I care, in my quiet room,
For head board or foot board, when I am dead)
Better than glory, or honors, or fame,
(Though I am striving for those to-day)
To know that some heart will cherish my name,
And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.

1870.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Copyright 1873
Hauser & Storey, Milwaukee

The Soul Rests Eternal

“… the landscape that emerges through my music is rather like the misty dawn of a new day; a day not yet ripened by the sun, but one that shows the promise of a warmer future – a way through the emotional morass.”

Take the time to read the delightful new interview in the Salon du Muse at the Soul Food Cafe. Heather Blakey, web mistress of Soul Food, takes the time to interview British composer, Mike Sheppard. This interview explores spirit and soul and shines some light on the path for those suffering from bereavement.

Cleaning Up Our Mess

Ravens figure heavily in Celtic mythology and legend. They were linked to darkness and death – especially the death of warriors in battle. Celtic war goddesses often took the form of a raven. In “The Dream of Rhonabwy”, the knight Owein battles King Arthur in a dream world assisted by ravens. Some tales suggest that the great King Arthur himself was turned in to a raven upon his death.

The Morrigan, a goddess of war, often appeared on the battlefields in the shape of a raven.

Because ravens were a common sight on the battlefields they have become know as one of the Beasts of Battle and feared. It must have been a shocking sight for survivors to see murders of ravens hovering over the slain devouring them. Little wonder that fear has been etched into the hearts of the human race.

But cleaning up the mess of mankind is hardly the original sin. The sin was the blood thirsty, relentless wars that saw so many women, children and men killed for the sake of some cause that felt right at that time.

To Let Die What One Must Let Die

Vasalisa’s initiation begins with learning to let die what must let die. This means to let die the values and attitudes within the psyche which no longer sustain her. Especially to be examined are those long held views which make life too safe, which over protect, which make women walk with a scurry instead of a stride.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes – Women Who Run With Wolves

Like the solitary raven I am perched, knowing I can take flight, but not quite sure where to fly to. For now I am at Baba’s examining long held views that kept me safe but also restrained.

Perhaps I will turn to the Tarot to help me identify just what the views are that I need to dismember and let die.

My Old Dog Is Dead

“And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold- but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and all because I was steadfast about one or two things: loving foxes, and poems, the blank piece of paper, and my own energy- and mostly the shimmering shoulders of the world that shrug carelessly over the fate of any individual that they may, the better, keep the Niles and Amazons flowing.”
— Mary Oliver (Blue Pastures)

Old dogs lie buried in the garden here, a place where, in another lifetime, my husband, children, companion animals and I once lived, where my parents once came to share our lives and bear witness.

Dougie and I grieved for each one who departed; when we sold and left the only home he had known behind.

We moved to a sheltered place and comforted one another.

Now my old dog is dead too. I know! I held him close to my heart as he died.

Dougie is gone, joining those, so many whose hands/paws we held, watched as they went.

Soon I will be leaving this place that offered safe harbor, taking his ashes to mix with the ashes of others.

I am moving to make yet another fresh start, selling more, giving away more, but, taking memories of happy family days to weave and wrap around me.

I will go to another place where I will scatter mixed ashes and, little by little, piece by piece, rebuild.

At Raven’s Beckoning

Raven symbolizes changes in consciousness and is the symbol of a shape shifter. Ravens are prophets, spell-casters, and messengers. Raven offers knowledge of the world to the people for safe keeping. Over the course of generations, this knowledge is passed on, and the spirit of transformation begins to unfold.

When change needs to occur, the Raven flies quickly. She also brings new things, new places, new ideas, and rebirth. Raven helps the worthy, but loves to trick the unsuspecting; and is as full of mischief as she is wonderful. Raven symbolizes the home of our ancestors, our personal stories and imprinted memories. Raven is distinctly earthy, and feminine.

At Raven’s beckoning Baba comes to me with soup, a special elixir for the soul,  strong brew that she thinks will warm the now aching heart where Dougie was comforted as he died.

Huginn and Munin

And so, the raven once known as Munin, or Memory, one of the pair of legendary ravens of the  Norse god Odin, spent his last few hours on this earth in a barn in a green plastic milk crate, guarded by a yellow retriever and fed on homely hamburger, unable to remember anything except the name of his lost brother Hugin, or Thought, for whom he called all the way to the end.

Read the full story of the A Boy and A Crow by Jane Wolfinbarger

Artist: Unknown

Demeter and Persephone

Crumpled, prostrated by loss
amid fallow fields hardened with ice
I lay in a cold stone shell
Wasting
Until she came riding upon Ebony wings

May I say that
as she cocked her head and cawed joyfully
Danced cheekily, laughing with me
I felt a life force
Felt the void filling, the world greening

The original story of Demeter and Persephone centres on Demeter’s loss of her daughter Persephone to Hades, the King of the Underworld. Demeter in her abject maternal grief and anger plunges the world into everlasting winter until her daughter is returned to her for part of the calendar year by Hades after pressure from other Gods.

When Persephone returns from the place of the dead it seems that she comes to rescue her mother.

In this case the writer is rescued from the abject nullity of grief by her mother’s fleeting return. Her mother’s appearance, in the shape of a raven, is, given their shared love for these creatures in the last part of her life, a clear sign.

The writer is gently reminded by the exuberant bird to pull herself together, to come out of hiding, to stop withholding from self and do what she loves.

The loss of a uniquely beloved figure has the power to consign us to an emotional wilderness where creativity cannot flourish.

Worse, memory can make us mad. We cannot escape the dead’s monumental significance for us once they are gone. Death has a way of showing just how much a person mattered. It also forces us to see how we kept so much to ourselves, how we refused to share some things with them. Now that they are gone all seems exposed. It feels like they are now privy to all our thoughts, seem to know everything about us, everything we kept from them.

Seeing them in another form someone cleans the slate and enables new beginnings, a chance to make amends.