Let Me Die Having Lived: Death Through the Eyes of Unitarian Universalists by Kristine "Kat" Kowalski

In the months following the death of his young bride, Ralph Waldo Emerson made daily sojourns to her tomb. Ellen’s death had left Emerson bereft, unsure of his faith, and questioning the idea of personal immortality. And so it was, in a state of deep spiritual crisis and craving a direct and unmediated experience of death, that on a cold March day in 1832 Emerson journeyed to the tomb and opened the coffin of his beloved. The experience changed him. Though afterwards he continued to walk to Ellen’s grave every day, his absorption with death dissolved and he determinately turned his gaze and thoughts to life. Shortly after his graveyard experience Emerson penned a sermon titled “The God of the Living” and an entry in his journal around that time reads, “Let us express our astonishment before we are swallowed up in the yeast of the abyss.”[1]

Religion may be seen as our human response to the dual mystery of being alive and having to die.[ii] Unitarian Universalists place a strong emphasis on the here and now, but what do they have to say about dying? Have their notions about death changed over time? How are these ideas reflected in UU theology? As death is an oft ignored subject in UU circles, I cast a wide net in searching for answers to these questions. Clues can be found in the writings of historical and contemporary theologians, UU religious education curriculums, commemoration services, and funereal songs and readings.

For a complete review of this excellent journey through the ecumenical evolution of the UU view of death, the UU contribution to the modern garden graveyard and an interesting contemplation on death, life and some of the practices surrounding both, please see Kristine's full paper posted in the comments below (apologies for the formatting, but I couldn't attach/post properly at this time.)

As an absolute agnostic, I'm quite fascinated by the Universalist Unitarian's lack of a single perspective, or said another way, their openness and integration of the diverse viewpoints of many. I was even more intrigued to find out that many UU congregations even have atheists among them.

I've long contended that an agnostic is nothing but a polite atheist, aware of both the upsetting nature of his/her beliefs on others when expressed as well as the personal liability of being a non-believer in a world of religiosity. It is encouraging to see a congregation that seems to be more focused on living together as humans than the elevation of a world view, godhead or political institution. Thanks Kat for sharing your academic paper!

Happy holidays to all and here's wishing for a 2010 with more joy, prosperity and tolerance for all.

September 21, Mist Betwixt and Between Oak-Leaves

The mist is thick on Main Street, the mist thicker on Porter where the houses are farther apart, the yards over grown between lots, several houses empty awaiting destruction, sale or tenants. Tall white oaks hundreds of years old, witness the moments drip one into the next amid scattered showers and thick fog.

Coyotes and foxes have taken to the brush on Porter as of late and tonight they scamper about, Indian Summer announced, but the nights have not the will to stay warm. And tonight my bones ache with the damp, the mist softens my vision and discourages visitors to this part of town.

It's wonderful. I listen to the haunts of Dead Can Dance, expecting an owl to sound or a hand to reach out of the past from beyond the veil and grab my flesh, to spook me back into believing that it is not simply this and then nothingness.

Whether 60 years, 60 days or 60 hours more, these last few weeks have been joy. Angst and fear largely at bay. Time with children, moments with nature, moments with myself, moments... life is a series of moments dripping by, bleeding one into the next, but so subtle, so steady that the bloodletting goes largely unnoticed until some event. Some event that "pulls the rug out from under us" as Chogyam Trungpa said - a funeral, a wedding, disturbing news completely unexpected. Some event that makes linear time seem silly, suspending the part of our mind that looks for walnuts and acorns to bury in the yard, should winter be long and hard. Whether 60 years or 60 days more, what joy without fear. May I keep fear at bay.

Indian Summer will surrender, autumn in turn, winter will be wonderful even if long and hard. Each season in its time, the cliches I write about, none of them fully memorable until that sight, that sound that smell of soil in air whether spring rotting leaves about to give birth, autumn crisp air, cool, but smoke filled, or cold, cold, biting breath of the after Christmas, none of these things are real until and only during the moment a season fully unfurls.

though we are not yet in the moment Ms. Millay describes below, I know it won't be long and I feel the leaves she speaks of cling (perhaps float) betwixt/between one season and the next, one moment and the last... thank you Ms. Millay.

The Oak-Leaves by Edna St. Vincent Millay from Wine From These Grapes (1934)

Yet in the end, defeated too, worn out and ready to fall,

Hangs from the drowsy tree with cramped and desperate stem

above the ditch the last leaf of all.

There is something to be learned, I guess, from looking at the

dead leaves under the living tree/

Something to be set to a lusty tune and learned and sung, it

well might be;

Something to be learned – though I was ever a ten-o’clock

scholar at this school-

Event perhaps by me.

But my heart goes out to the oak-leaves that are the last to sigh

“Enough,” and lose their hold;

They have boasted to the nudging frost and to the two-and-

thirty winds that they would never die,

Never even grown old.

(These are those russet leaves that cling

All winter, event into spring,

To the dormant bough, in the wood knee-deep in snow the

only coloured thing.)

All Summer in One Night

All summer slips past me in one night,

the night where warm turns cool, where fireflies vanish

and autumn begins, even if sunny August & September days seem summer again,

autumn has begun and winter’s always within;

but before this night where summer slips, there was all of summer in one night,

or thirty six hours.

August half over, panic that an unseasonably cool summer would go straight to winter,

the sense that life passes equally fast and two years have gone by largely unconscious,

I planned all things summer for one day/night (and other things summer just happened) –

unplanned swim with childhood friend, our sons meeting for the 1^st time, parallel play

not just for children, so conversation was disjointed, but still delightful,

paddle boats in the quarry with cousins, uncles and aunts, fish floating beneath the murky water like they’ve always floated in my dreams and in the lake of my youth, Leawood , Kansas, a long walk along the river, dinner and setting up camp for a sleep out, but first ghost in the graveyard, my sons first game of midnight rider, pure joy, one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, four, five o’clock, six o’clock, seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock, ghost in the graveyard, ready or not here we come…

only my oldest brother and I actually slept outside in tents, the ground was hard, the crickets loud, the night not yet cool… the best I’ve slept in quite some time…

breakfast with me at the skillet, spinach & onion, lots of coffee and fruit, a short car ride to the zoo, an August thunderstorm while we took lunch under cover, bears, elephants, kangaroos, a carousel ride too many and we barely make the tunnel before the 2^nd thunderstorm begins… I run to the car laughing, more like swim, the rain is warm, thick, the day, the summer, all of it within thirty six hours, thick, delicious, the recipe perfect, family, friends, sunshine, shade, laughter, exercise, rest, libation, presence, respite amid August before winter coaxes the season into autumn, the nights into coolness, the fireflies into slumber or where ever they go that final night when summer ends

Montauk reference by poolside at start of all summer in one weekend, reminds me of the following:

November 3, 2004 6:15 a.m.

Meet Me in Montauk (RE: Eternal Sunshine of A Spotless Mind)

lucid day dreams or dejavu

memories of you fading,

evaporating, dissipating

and no one can save them…

“blessed are the forgetful for they get the better even of their blunders”

but blunders haunt beyond the specific

smell and look of a gray winter day

forever locked in pain, the sadness

lingers the ache meanders

through grey matter even when the “blessing”

of forgetfulness erases the exact root of the ache

and thus the forgetful end up cursed

not able to search the wounded waters

of regret and hurt to find the part of themselves

that was once whole, spotless? spotted?

nearly extinct elephants in New York before Madison Square Garden

the circus absurd in the city, the city a circus absurd on a snowy beach Long Island

on a gray winter day slipping into darker gray, light snow blowing

sand sleeping below, sand “over rated just being really small rocks”

flashlight photography glimpses of the events that led to this

captured on degradable film, that led to this latest

attempt at escape

only to discover what we discover last, time and time again

that the way out is the way back in

only to discover what we discovered last time, time and time again

hidden from the mind is a familiar secret

not rememberable until dead;

that when given the choice

we chose to do it all over again

we chose against the eternal sunshine

of a spotless mind

Beck’s voice haunts the surf hazy night

back in gray winter, the snowy beach of my memory

as I search for my father’s hand outstretched

from whence I came and from where

I shall return only to pause,

reflect, reform and return

to struggle to ache to yearn

too often missing the moment;

forever to be enjoyed

One Night in Bangkok, Every Night (Yeti Friend)

Forgive me father, it has been six months since my last blog.

The snow falls in Denver, sixty degrees in Chicago,
after more than a month of well below 30, well below 20,
often below 10, days below zero, but today, I'm in CO
and it is momentarily colder than Chicago.

The economy is collapsing, at least shrinking,
my belly growing, or at least holding steady,
bigger than I like, my children are growing too fast,
for me, too slow for them, maybe, maybe just right for both of us.

I miss them tonight, I'm not chasing immortality, I'm not chasing fame, I'm trying to pay for their education, food, clothes and to secure their happiness, trying to align or find my own happiness with the work I do, cuz I do a lot of work, more time than I spend with them, it's a classic catch 22, I work to support, I support because I love and I brought them into this mess or dance (depending on the day - my day), and I spend less time with them.

This is not new, this is age old, but my subtle sinking into this position is strangely ok. I'm not disappointed in myself, I'm not overly proud, I'm not disgusted like I used to be with people like me. I do want more joy.

More joy when home, more joy when at work. No matter what, if anything happens next, my time as this person, as this father and husband is limited and love is no less real than god, no less real than my back pain, no less real than more trivial things I concern myself with, yet it is not either or, it is not either cave of meditation with yeti, yak, snow lions my hermitage friends, or
one night in Bangkok every night drowning out the silence and loneliness with prostitute, temporary friends, noodles and beer (though I swear I've never been).

It's not natty beard, ashram, vegan sex or Wall Street, drycleaned, steam pressed ROI on a soul capriciously spent.

It is not either this or that, it is always both, it is always the betwixt the between the interbeing. My life moves back and forth trying to find balance between suits and ties and tattoos, gods, animism, cynicism, after life, belief, disbelief and rest.

My heart beats irregularly, I'm happy to be alive, a privilege to contemplate even if inane.

Peace, good night, Conan