shapeshifting animals

the peculiar choreography of loving and dying

King of shapeshifting. Photo by Robert Eklund

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Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.

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The big Oak who eyes me from bed went from bare-bones to bells and whistles seemingly overnight. One minute she was stocky and immovable, now her millileaves shimmer and flirt with every passing breeze. The explosive nature of the great green unfurling mirrors the slow-motion firework of adoration which launches from my chest at the sight of the little Birds to whom I am servant. Recently, we changed the brand of mealworms that we feed the Birds at home. It took Mr and Mrs Edward Hopper—our garden Crows—three days to forgive us. I often find that I’m trying, perhaps too hard, to be liked by Crows. Whenever I’m cleaning one of the Crows bays at the rescue centre I carefully consider which stones they’d most like in their water, what colour wooly hat they’d most enjoy on their nest. I do this with all the Birds, obviously, but especially so the Crows. We had a juvenile Crow last year, George, who stole and hopped off with a paintbrush, and I stupidly made him give it back. I don’t think he ever forgave me. It was awful. I’d see him side-eye me and even though he tolerated being fed by me he’d barely flutter his wings as it happened. I don’t have a first-born, but if I did I’d have gladly swapped it for George’s forgiveness.

We’ve just had our annual end-of-life doula gathering, and I arrived feeling rather self-conscious because I’d come straight from the rescue centre and I smelled like Crow; earthy, vinegary, feral. It’s a difficult smell to cover. Last week I tried to conceal it with a few drops of frankincense essential oil, but the stopper had split and the contents spilled all over me—so instead of smelling like Crows I smelled like a Catholic Church. Thankfully, death doulas lean toward unflappability, so my corvid aroma was met with nothing but warmth. A dear friend and I had planned to hold a Death meditation¹ on the Saturday morning, complete with a beautiful wicker coffin² which had been delivered earlier in the week, in case anyone was in the mood to deepen the experience. I had spent weeks looking forward to this. I appreciate that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but practicing a Death meditation inside a coffin is literally a dream come true for me. On the Friday evening, however, following a long and arduous day, there came a knock on the door—and no one knocks on my door of an evening unless they have found a Bird.

Enter Magdalena, a baby Magpie who had been found scrambling around a field, alone, unsteady and parentless. She was underweight, dishevelled, too young to be out of the nest and when she was first handed to me she looked a lot like she were dying. Floppy, eyes closed, head rolling backward. I immediately sat down, crossed-legged on the floor of the hall, and David (ever the pro) brought some water, baby bird food and a paintbrush. And that’s where we sat for the rest of the evening, me gently stroking a water-soaked paintbrush down the side of her beak, David offering her whispered words of encouragement. Some considerable time later, she half opened an eye and very softly parted her beak and sipped on the water-soaked paintbrush. The celebration which erupted from us was not dissimilar to when a beloved sports team scores a league winning goal. Quieter, of course, but no less heartfelt, and our rapture only continued when a little later she managed a whole paintbrush tip of food. By five o’clock the next morning she was alert and inquisitive and managing three paintbrush tips of food at a time, like the tiny warrior she is. Then, to top it all off, as I drove her into the rescue centre later that morning, she let out some Magpie chatter from the backseat. Who needs sleep, when you can get yelled at by a baby Magpie instead?

My morning with Mags meant that I missed the Death meditation at the doula gathering. A heartbreaking turn of events, though thankfully fate had it that the opportunity arose later in the day for me to steal away and have the coffin all to myself. I settled down inside and began listening to the guided meditation, my concerns about claustrophobia vanishing instantly as I felt only held, cocooned and protected. Through familiarity with Death and dying, fear has transmuted into fondness, and that fondness allowed a fleeting connection to the reverberating echos of every person ever placed into one of these most sacred vessels, readied for their voyage back into a familial element of earth, fire or water. It is a well-walked path that lies ahead of us.

I woke up two hours later, momentarily confused as to my being in a coffin. I have never taken a better nap in all my life. I took a photo to mark the occasion, and sent it to David. He’ll be pleased that I’m coming round to coffins. I’d always wanted to be buried in a simple, cotton shroud (well, I’d always wanted to belong to a culture where my body could be laid out for large Birds of prey to feast upon, so that I could die knowing I would soon become Bird but, alas, Tibetan sky burials aren’t legal in the UK). I liked the idea of being placed directly into the earth, like a seed—but that could only happen if David were to die before me. Years ago, when I first gave him my ‘Death Plan’ and it featured a coffin-free burial he practically threw it back at me. “What’s wrong?!” I asked. With jaw clenched and nostrils flared he replied, through gritted teeth, “No. Too sad.” He looked about five. I went and wrapped my entire self around him and pressed my face against his. “It’s ok,” I said. “Bury me in whatever you want.” We’ve been listening to a podcast about the Titanic, recently, and we managed to get into quite the row after I insisted I would have stayed aboard and drowned alongside him if he weren't allowed in a lifeboat. He, of course, insisted that he would have forced me onto a lifeboat while demanding that I go on to live a long and happy life—like some kind of psychopath. “Come on. Wouldn’t you want me to embrace a happy, adventurous life if you died?” he asked. “No! I’d want you to dress head-to-toe in black for the rest of your life, like Queen Victoria!” I said. And I think I was only half-joking.

Dying is as relational as living (because life and Death are not two separate things) and the relational dance of loving-while-mortal is a peculiar choreography. Forgiveness, devotion, remembrance, love; they’re all shapeshifting animals. Death bids me to honour life. To love it, best I can—it is love, after all, that makes life and Death bearable. It is love which makes that well-walked path worth walking.

Yours in aimless flight…

waking from the worlds best nap, inside a beautiful willow coffin

1. If you would like to listen to the Death meditation (and I do encourage you to!) you may do so here

2. The lovely people at Ecoffins make beautiful, handcrafted and ecologically sound coffins