Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
A few days ago I was rushing out of my little office, irritated by some terrible injustice (or, more likely, inconvenience) when I noticed a Bee on ground below. He looked exhausted, so I fetched some sugar water and a paintbrush and knelt on the grass, hunched over with my face a couple of inches from the earth, offering him a drink. Suddenly, I felt a nearby presence. A short, soft rustling sound edged closer, and then a young Robin appeared in my periphery. “Hello” I said, politely, not moving from my Bee-tending position. While clearly each their own sovereign beings, I do find myself eyeing wild Birds as tiny emissaries, representatives of life, seemingly on a mission to pull awareness back towards a state of presence and wonder. The Robin flicked some leaves with his head, and then hopped closer. And closer. And then, closer still. He must have been a Robin from the rescue centre who’d been released in the garden earlier in the year because, in his seeming fascination with what was unfolding, he came to stand as close to the Bee as I was; body perfectly still, head moving in punctuated angles. So close, the little Robin came, that I felt compelled to utter, “Please don’t eat him”. A request he honoured as the three of us, in our motley little triangle, each did our own thing; together. Our interspecies gathering ended as the Bee, satiated, took to the air, the Robin darted to the Rose bush, and I returned to my desk. Clueless as to what had irritated me, prior.
About a decade ago, we were in New York City on New Years Eve, and we overheard someone saying that Judy Collins was going to be at the Cathedral of St John the Divine in Morningside Heights that night. Any friend of Leonard Cohen’s is a friend of ours, and so we went, with very little idea of what to expect. Many hundreds of people poured into the dimly lit colossus—it’s the 4th largest church by area in the world—and before long, Judy Collins appeared at the pulpit; as commanding as she was serene, speaking with the air of a woman who had addressed many a large crowd. She shared memories from the year of events personal and collective, before saying that she wished to address the Charleston Church shooting which had happened that Summer and was then the most deadly shooting to have ever occurred in a place of worship in the United States—it was surpassed, two years later, in Sutherland Springs, Texas. She spoke of the victims, of a black congregation who had, on that fateful day, welcomed the very shooter into their Bible study, before, at the end of the group, he opened fire. A heaviness descended as we sat, a thousand or so people shoulder to shoulder, in such a place. One perhaps naively regarded as somehow protected against the type of violence which occurs in the ‘outside’ world. We listened as Judy told how some of the nine killed had tried to soften, to reason with, their murderer and how others were shot point blank as they tended to the wounded. Her voice broke off into a sustained silence which, in that monumental space, felt like a concrete block suspended over us—until, suddenly, that concrete, that vast space dense with the grief and despair felt at the summoning of those nine souls so unjustly taken, was pierced clean through by her singing into it the first line of Amazing Grace. Being pulled so quickly from the cavernous realm of despair into the vaulted dominion of grace gave me whiplash. It literally took the air out of my lungs. She was completely unaccompanied, just her atop a pulpit, casting out above the heads of a crowd who had been near drowning, life preservers formed out of song. She finished the first verse, and opened both palms, gesturing to the crowd to join her. There’s something about the wave-like sound of a mass, collective inhale taken in order to sing which feels equally as potent as any of the notes that follow. I couldn’t catch my breath enough to join, too stunned was I by having seen tragedy met with the invocation of grace, seen darkness offered a resounding light.
In dying, there is a phenomenon called ‘terminal lucidity’ (also known as the ‘Lazarus moment’, or ‘the rally’1). It is by no means standard, nor is it well understood, but when it does happen it appears as a brief and sudden ‘return’ of the life-infused individual who had previously been slipping away. Perhaps most remarkably, it's been known to manifest in those with advanced neurodegenerative diseases, severe brain injuries, or tumours that have compromised fundamental neural pathways. People whose brains should, medically, no longer support clarity, connection or presence—and yet, impossibly, do. A comet of lucidity, burning through the night sky of dying.
This world is truly remarkable. We can be in community with species not our own, share resources with the insects who carry our world on their wings, and share our time and attention with curious Birds. Song can cut through concrete to bless the dead, and the dying can defy their physiology to bless the living. Impossible messengers abound. Death and Birds teach that the unexpected may impose itself upon any moment, any time—a most terrifying and wondrous fact.
Yours in aimless flight…
Friends, after many, many months of weaving together something that resembles the arc of my own journey towards a deep reverence and respect for Death, Life, and the sacred ties which bind them, The Deep End is now available. If you've ever sensed that our culture's relationship with Death might be denying us something essential about how we live, this course offers an alternative. I'd be so grateful if you had a look, and shared with anyone you thought might benefit.
There’s a wonderful scene from the TV show ‘Dying for Sex’ in which an enthusiastic hospice nurse gives the main character a brilliant lesson is what she may experience, while dying; including ‘the rally’. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so fond of a character as I am Amy, the hospice nurse.
Chloe, your words are my church. Another Sunday where I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for the space and rest you so softly deliver.
As I listened, I found myself asking the Robin to please not eat the bee too. I’m glad to witness these small communions between sacred beings through your writing, dear Chloe. They etch into my soul and draw me into communion and reverence with Life, Death, and Birds. I can only imagine what a powerful moment it must have been to witness ‘song cutting through concrete to bless the dead’ - thank you for sharing it, too, and for the Deep End, that I am slowly making way through the lessons and meditations. I just took the opportunity to rewatch Coco on our flight home from Florida - the breadth and richness of this journey you have created and shared, is a wonder. Much love x