What Do You Want To Do Before You Die

Dwayne flew my best friend, Sarah, down for my
surprise 40th birthday party in the spring of 2010

This fall, I decided to get a Certificate in Thanatology, which is the study of dying, death and bereavement. Assignment 4 in the first course, Introduction to Thanatology, asks me about my Bucket List. 

The term "bucket list" was coined by screenwriter Justin Zackham for his 2007 movie, "The Bucket List". Technically, a bucket list is made when you are told you have x-number of months left to live. But as we do in our culture, we now use the phrase to refer to anything we want to do, even if it's easily accomplished next weekend. 

I don’t have a bucket list. If I did, I would have checked off the one and only item already: Be an author before I die. (Whew!) Of course, I’d like to publish more books but that’s out of my hands, especially now with publishing hitting the pause button because of the pandemic. 

Besides, anything I’d put on a “Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die” require a long commitment of time, money, and/or travel (the last of which is totally kiboshed by the pandemic):

- I’d like to have a pet pig and a couple of pet goats

- I’d like to have a donkey sanctuary

- I’d like Dwayne to see the Pacific Ocean (he went to Peggy’s Cove for the first time in 2019!)

- I’d like to take my mother to Ireland for her 80^th birthday (next June – egads!)

- I’d like to live in Italy or Greece

A few years ago, I took horseback riding lessons, which could count as a Bucket List item if I’d been thinking in terms of “end of life”. I was thinking more of fulfilling a lifelong dream from childhood (like getting a pet pig) and overcoming a rather vague fear of large animals – it also became a “Summer of the Horse” column. 

I’d love to have a pair of horses so Dwayne and I could ride around the field but that’s another thing that requires  money. 

I asked my best friend, Sarah, if she has a Bucket List and she doesn’t either. “But we are going on a road trip,” she said but even then, we have no specific place we HAVE to go. I think at this point in our lives – we both turned fifty earlier this year – we’re influenced by one idea: We’re too old for this shit any longer. We're just going to do what we want, say what we want, and go where we want. 

For the assignment, however, I'm counting that as a Bucket List item: Road Trip with Sara.

 

In the weeks leading up to my milestone birthday in May, I asked myself what do I want to do in the next ten years. What one thing do I really want to accomplish before I turn 60?

And all that came up was: Publish another book (or more books). Being a writer is what I love and it suits the life I have -- and love -- here in rural Nova Scotia. 

Again, this pandemic has affected that work, and those hopes – I can’t do anything about publishing hitting the pause button but I also can’t do anything about the ideas in my head and the urge to share them. 

This assignment reminded me of what I realized back in April, in the lead-up to my 50th birthday: I am satisfied with my life. 

I’ve done a bit of travelling but never had the travel bug; I’ve lived in other places in Canada, rather than staying in the same place my entire life; I’ve been married twice, and lived in the city and the country and in-between so I know where I belong and with whom – and why; I have wonderful friends, some of whom have been in my life for thirty years; my mother lives with me and she’s a healthy, wisecracking, good-natured 79-year-old – I’m grateful and blessed we get along; I have a river on my doorstep and 72 acres behind the house, I get to see the sun rise and set; I have chickens and cats and a dog; and I live in a large house where I have my own writing space that is filled with books.

 

There is nothing I want or need to do. I am lucky. So when I’m dying, and looking back on my life, I won’t be wishing I’d lived in Italy or swam with dolphins or went on an Alaskan cruise. Sure, those would be great memories, but they aren't necessary to my life well-lived. When I die, I will go in the assurance that I was happy and loved and did work that mattered to others. And I was an author. 

If I’m lucky, my best friend will be there with me, and I’ll die laughing as we remember our epic road trip to wherever. 

A Blessing At the Beginning of October

Now that we are in October -- that bridge month of vibrant colour and cool, starlit nights that carries us from the heat and lushness of summer into the dark, stripped-down days of November -- here is a blessing I wrote as we continue to learn new ways of living with the pandemic, and political, upheaval and uncertainty. 

Do not give up.

This is life, 

and it is blessed

even when it is hard.

Do not give up. 

You are loved,

and you are blessed,

even when you are scared. 

Do not give up.

You are healed,

and it is a blessing,

even when you don't feel it,

because healing is love and peace

and a moment of joy

even when there are tears and pain.

Do not give up.

You are beloved,

you are known,

and you are not alone. 

~ Sara Jewell 

Mother's New Pets

 

In July 2019, I took photos of a sweet mama raccoon on our front deck in the rain, eating the peanuts for the squirrels that I would hide behind the shovel so the blue jays -- greedy buggers -- wouldn't get them. 

I suspect that sweet mama is the raccoon that was hit by a car out front of our place, and I suspect these cuties, who are young, are her babies born in the spring. 

Mother feeds the finches and the squirrels on her balcony all summer (I know, I know) but once the blue jays returned, she had to put the squirrel platter under an inverted basket with holes cut out.

We call it "The Squirrel Cafe". Seriously. It's a thing. 

So these cuties climb up onto Mother's balcony every evening to raid the cafe (and freak out our three cats). They are not all that afraid of us; in fact, when I opened the sliding door to take a photo, the one of the left started to walk to the door -- as if I was inviting it in!

I might have been raised on "Frosty the Raccoon" but even I know better than to try and make a pet out of a raccoon. At least one I didn't rescue as a day-old baby... because those capable little hands... 

Note: If Mother starts to keep her door closed, and refuses to let the cats and dog into her room, I'll KNOW she's brought those two little cuties in for the winter! 

Dressing For the Living

The river shawl

I'm not sure what verb to use to describe this new work I'm doing. 

Do I...

conduct

perform

provide

do

...a funeral? 

I like the word "provide" because I'm using my talents and skills to be in service to someone in need. I am providing support, comfort, guidance, and reassurance on a most difficult day. A day that we dread -- the final goodbye -- but a day that is so important, so vital to our moving from the death and into life after death. 

I base my work on this belief: Done well, a funeral is a strong and essential memory that, over time, helps us heal the wound of loss and the ache of that wound. 

So, last Friday morning, I provided a graveside service for the family and friends of a man who passed way after a sudden, and brief, illness. His wife is a member of my church congregation, and someone who makes a point of messaging me with words of gratitude and encouragement. 

My turn to provide encouragement and comfort to her. 

I was honoured she asked me to do the service, and grateful she trusts me and my words. 

Now, the interesting part of doing funerals is what to wear? For a minister, it's the same outfit for every event: black pants, black shirt, white collar. But for me, I have to think hard about the image I present. 

This is how I was raised: That appearances matter and one should look professional. 

This is what I believe: Dressing nicely and being well-groomed is a sign of respect. We are a visual species -- we judge what we see, even before someone opens their mouth -- so dressing well tells others I take my work, and myself, seriously. I'm not an ordained minister so this provides me with credibility.   

Respect for the dead, and respect for the grieving. 

Since it was a sunny but cool morning and we were outside, in this town that a river runs through, I chose my white swallow dress and wore the river pattern shawl my friend Kerry knitted as a 50th birthday present. It gave me comfort and confidence as well, knowing I'd be facing a grieving woman I consider a friend, and also many people that I know. 

Afterwards, I overhead a woman -- a stranger to me -- say, "That was a lovely service. It was better than any funeral I've been to."
I don't share that out of ego, but out of relief and gratefulness -- because I got it right. It's my reassurance that the service I provided was the right one. That response means someone will think of the service I've provided, and feel good about it, feel better about the passing of their loved one, be comforted in the weeks and months to come by how we honoured their person, how we celebrated their life, and how we said good-bye. 

And it may have been better than any funeral that woman went to, but it certainly wasn't better than my father-in-law's funeral back in July. His funeral was perfect -- perfect for him and his life, perfect for his family, especially for my husband, and perfect for me to study and aspire to, because it was memorable, in its full-on funeral tradition. 

According to poet, author and funeral director, Thomas Lynch, of Michigan: 

"A good funeral gets the dead where they need to go and the living where they need to be. There's no easy way to do this. So do it right: weep, laugh, watch, pray, love, live, give thanks and praise; comfort, mend, honor, and remember. Grief is the price we pay for being close to one another."

Amen. 

 

Taking Down the Prayer Flags

 The season is changing. 

My morning walk now begins at seven o'clock, just as the sun crests the trees on the other side of the river. This means I get to wave at Debbie, the bus driver, as she heads up the road to start her route. 

The mornings are gorgeous, but it means my work days begins later than it should. I'm not ready to shift yet from the morning walk in the crisp air to morning yoga in the living room, and the treadmill in the basement. 

We had two nights of frost, and all the flowers are done. The red poppies that suddenly emerged in the middle of the messy lawn where the two spruce trees blew down last year are shriveled up into memory. 

I was able to salvage enough sunflowers for two bouquets for church, and one more for the house. They are dripping pollen all over the dining room table. 

The chickens are able to roam outside the pen now, in the yard, in the cucumber patch. 

A husband and friend died this morning, and I know those who are grieving. My own husband sat down on a concrete block in the sunshine, to think about the news. Death is closer to home these days. 

The prayer flags are down, tucked away safely as the tropical storm that was Hurricane Teddy gets set to arrive tomorrow. I listened to the sound of their gentle flapping throughout our hot, dry summer. Now I'll listen to the rain and the wind. 

The sun shone today and it is warm. It is always the way before the storm arrives, and afterwards, we'll wake up to another sunny day, as if the storm never happened. 

The chickens peck at the grass and climb up the steps to the back deck. They follow me across the yard, hoping I have bread in my pockets, and curious as to what happens next. 

River Supper

Something happens

in the midst of turmoil and uncertainty,

in the middle of the familiar routines and new protocols,

at the end of a weekend,

at the end of the summer,

and you don't expect it. 

You don't even see it coming.

You arrive and greet everyone, 

you accept a glass of wine and help pass around 

bite-sized bacon-wrapped chestnuts and mushroom-cheese melts. 

The host hops in your husband's truck to go light the bonfire

and the hostess rallies everyone in the kitchen to carry food. 

You are handed a foil-covered pie 

and you follow the path through the woods to the gravel road 

that winds down

and down

towards the river. 

At the end of the walk, the pie still safely in your hands,

you come around a wide copse of poplar trees

who leaves are rustling in the evening wind,

the sound of water rushing in a stream,

and you see it before you:

a table covered in bottles and beverages,

a bonfire and a barbecue,

the field and the trees. 

Two men in conversation. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you think,

This. This is what I've been missing. This is what I've been craving.

This is what I need right now. 

This spot.

These long-lost friends. 

This sunset meal. 

Supper by the river. Hamburgers and sausages, sweet potato salad and green bean salad. 

Wine. Mint water. Iced tea. 

Pie.

I've never done something like this. 

We're so used to gathering on decks that this -- what words describe it? It felt like entering another world. It felt like coming home.

I don't know why I felt like that. I don't know why my heart leaped. I don't know why I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for a very long time.

Perhaps it was just the unexpectedness,

the visual impact of the space,

the al fresco setting,

all coming together in that moment,

during this time

when gathering

is done with caution. 

Outside. Where it's safe to breathe.

That's it: This was abandon. This was freedom. This was elemental. 

Sky. Earth. Water. Fire. 

Friendship. Food. 

And laughter. 

All the while, the river flowed past us,

the tide rising,

as always, not unexpected, 

like our breath,

and we didn't even notice.

Our Season of Sunflowers

The Giant Russians alongside the chicken coop

Despite knowing they won't be here for long,

they still choose to live their brightest lives.

~ Rupi Kaur

We've reached the end of the sunflower season and what a season it was. Our best ever in the seven years we've been growing sunflowers on our property.

For the first few years, they were small patches here and there -- in front of the chicken coop, or in a strip alongside the vegetable gardens. For the past five years, Dwayne has planted six rows -- 400 seeds! -- on the lot next door by the road. 

People ask, "Why do you plant so many sunflowers? Do you sell the flowers? Do you sell the seeds?"

It's not a business venture at all. We do it because it makes people happy. We live on a busy road so lots of people watch the progress from tilled soil to sprouts to the first blossoms. All through June and July, people would stop Dwayne in town and tell him about how well his plants were growing! 

I decided to plant sunflowers in the "dirt bath" area I created for the chickens along the sunny side of the coop -- a spot they've not yet used because they prefer my flower gardens! Once they are let out into the yard for their fall forage, I figure they'll see the sunflowers and make a beeline for the dirt underneath them. 

Speaking of bees, I'm not seeing as many this year as in previous years. In fact, every year, there are fewer and fewer bees. Over in Dwayne's patch, I should be able to hear the buzzing of bees flitting from flower to flower but sadly, it's too quiet. Only the occasional bee, instead of a bee per blossom. 

We need to pay attention to that, unless it's really too late. 

Dwayne's sunflowers are visible from a half a kilometre away.