The Dead are Not Dead

Interdependence is our nature. 

Yet, we are raised in a culture that values independence and the ability to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. We are taught to do things for ourselves, and being pro-active and a self-starter are resume builders. But are we really ever doing anything all on our own? 

What nature being works independently from its ecosystem? What tree, bee, bird, or beast do not need each other? We are delusional humans to believe for one minute we are independent. It is a crisis of our own nature and a disconnection from self to not acknowledge and recognize what sustains us. Buying into a belief of independence within a family, community, state, or nation is ridiculous. And, it causes unnecessary pain and isolation. 

The notion that we have to create a new path, or find our way independently without the benefit of the wisdom of all those who came before us is terrifying and exhausting. Yet, most of us wake up with that belief every day, and it is socially reinforced. 

The indigenous knowledge systems of the native people of North America value elders and ancestors and maintain those connections as a means of support. Connections and traditions encourage a willingness to reconcile and heal old wounds that have been handed to us along with our skin tone and eye shape. Knowing whose shoulders we are standing on is an awareness that carries the blessings of all the lessons learned and, for many, an inheritance we have yet to fully claim. 

The feeling of being left behind by Edmond is real, and it isn’t true. If energy cannot be created or destroyed, then what is true is that he has changed form. He is not gone in the larger sense. And, that change in form is dramatic and difficult. It is unfamiliar and terrifying, and I cannot find him where he used to be. My pain is of losing Edmond in the form I came to know so intimately. For all who knew and loved him, Edmond’s death is also our death, and if we choose it, our rebirth, too.

In her book, The Fruitful Darkness: A Journey Through Buddhist Practice and Tribal Wisdom, Joan Halifax explores the shadow side of who we are as human beings as it relates to Native religions and the natural world. She has this beautiful paragraph at the end of Chapter 9: The Way of the Ancestors.

“We think that the ancestors are behind us,

but they are actually those who go before us. They are a vanguard, a spirit wave that pulls us along. When the Hopi enter the kiva, they go into the body of the past to ensure the future. We too must seek initiation and search the darkness of the past for the light that is hidden by time. For thousands of years, initiation has served to establish the individual firmly in the continuum of all existence. To see ourselves as part of the continuous body of interconnecting, interdepending, and interpenetrating members—past, present, and future—is one of the functions of Buddhist meditation practice. And until we give birth to our ancestors, Earth cannot be redeemed from its suffering. To exclude any species from the continuum of existence—either consciously or unconsciously—is to deny part of ourselves.” p. 190

I pretty much became obsessed with this paragraph for several years in graduate school. I picked it apart, quoted it, related it to other learnings, took it in as poetry, and prayed it. I looked for ways I could birth my ancestors, find their interpenetrating connection in my daily living, and I look for ways to do that now, again. 

The interdependence Edmond and I shared must still exist, and getting to know that connection in its new form is the way through this penetrating grief. His death is an initiation for us both, for our interdependent relationship that pulls the past-present-future into the same room. 

Remembering the births, not only of the beings that entered the world though my body, but also the ancestral births, I recognize the times when some new understanding has arrived through those connections. There are moments of knowing something more, something gifted by the greater knowing of the elders. They want to lay their wisdom in our laps, but we must sit still long enough to receive it. 

Halifax’s words could not have rung more true than they did during my final childbirth experience. Four months before the birth of my fifth child, my father-in-law died suddenly and unexpectedly. My pregnancy was an elevated experience for that reason and because of some other significant losses the previous year. 

As I began my ritual of breath and images calling in my support from all directions as the labor waves rose and fell, I became aware of a choir of our ancestors in the birthing room with us. All who had gone before us, my husband’s father and grandparents and my own grandparents appeared from the waist up in three tiers. My husband’s paternal grandmother also appeared in the array of relatives even though she was still alive, living in a state of dementia. These ancestors stood before me in three rows, like a choir ushering in this new being. 

In the intensity of transition labor, I felt the cool comforting chills prickle over my skin as these wise elders smiled upon us. I breathed in the lavender scent of the water where I labored. The ancestors and water held me and this fetus/child who had not yet emerged to fully separate from me. The tub was our womb, holding me holding her in ambient waters. 

Time was different and still, in a humidity, a mist of Otherworld. Between contractions and two pushes, I spoke with my friend/doula about death and birth. I cannot remember our exact words, but she shared this altered liminal state with me where a knowing arrived of how we all come here and eventually depart. We were there in the cycle of life knowing it was the same to be born and to die. Our beginning and end are the same. These two most profound transitions of death and birth, where our form changes and our essence remains constant, represent every small and large moment of our lives. There was a lightness to the air about us, the veil was thin, and our ancestors' presence was palpable. 

I spoke of the choir’s presence only to my husband and my doula, our shared sacred experience. As I pushed sweet Elaine Sidney Sabatier Moreland (her name flush with ancestry) into the world, the midwife remarked in astonishment that it was a completely bloodless birth. I had breathed her into the world from the darkness of my womb. She did not utter a cry, but curled up on my chest, breathing her own breaths now, as we put our hands upon her new skin in a blessing. All of this was possible through the interdependent connectedness of our past-present-future.   

This is an image and experience I am called to remember. It holds me.

It was my last child birthing experience, a letting go of so much, and a beginning of a new season of life. Remembering this time births me and pushes me to the edges of what I can do with grace and breath when I am in contact with the ancestors. It pushes me to allow the flow and to be in relationship with the pain and labor of becoming. It calls me to be present to the transitions available in the course of each day, and in this time of grief. This visceral image of the choir of ancestors holds me and connects me to the present moment of what is happening in this very instance because of all that happened before and what is to come. Breathing Elaine into the world was a vibration of presence. It is not possible to be fully in a breath and not be present to all that made the very moment possible. 

With the support of the choir of ancestors I know I am not alone. These relations pull me forward through the dark womb-moments that a lifetime offers, and if I can breathe through it, I will be present for my own birth, my own transcendence of what is painfully difficult or blissfully easy.

I look for Edmond, who is now part of the ancestral realm of elders. I invite him into all of my day, not only when I need his comfort and our interdependence, but also in the moments I know he must still find joyful. Surely, he is cheering William on in every baseball game, delighted by Ellie’s latest sculpture or drawing, pleased by Brigid’s beautiful heart that shows up for so many, excited for Summer’s successes and growth, and proud of all the ways Jade is becoming a man. 

I hope he feels our connection when I leave our home and go into the world, and visit the places in town that are familiar to both of us. I hope he is with me when I call out to our friend who owns a shop on the square. We love her dearly. I hope he embraces our friend with me, wishing her a Happy Mother’s Day. Edmond must be delighted to see me having coffee with two dear writing and reading and soulful friends. I feel his smile as the three of us imagine a new project for the world. He must have his hand in mine when tears show up as easily as the laughter at lunch with two sister-friends in the world. And, certainly, he is by my side, humming along at the informal house concert and gathering of friends where it is so easy be vulnerable to the music that opens me up to gratitude, tears, joy, and comfort.

I talk to him all the time. I noticed earlier in the week a subtle shift. I still ask, “Why aren’t you here?” And, I also offer, “I want to understand.” This may not seem like much, but it has been enormous. My desire to understand is an invitation toward our continued interdependence. I want to understand this new form of who we are together. I can feel the pain of the change and make room for understanding.

At the end of the chapter, Halifax shares a poem by Senegalese poet and storyteller, Birago Diop. 

Those who are dead are never gone:
They are there in the thickening shadow.
The dead are not under the earth: they are in the tree that rustles,  they are in the wood that groans,
they are in the water that sleeps,
they are in the hut,
they are in the crowd,
the dead are not dead.
Those who are dead are never gone,
they are in the breast of the woman,
they are in the child who is wailing and in the firebrand that flames.  The dead are not under the earth:
they are in the fire that is dying,
they are in the grasses that weep, they are in the whimpering rocks  they are in the forest,
they are in the house,
the dead are not dead.