in the presence of death

by Jennifer Muir, Death Doula

It is the first day of autumn and the eve of the one-year anniversary of my father-in-law’s memorial, and I have been called to write about my work as a death doula. Little by little, I’ve learned to heed the muse who calls from the mouth of mysterious portals.

As the season progresses and the veils thin, I find myself poised at the precipice of the underworld, the depths of the unknown, the fertile darkness. The time is ripe for deep diving into interior mysteries that are directly connected to the mysteries of our Great Mother Earth and our Great Cosmic Mother—the ground of all that is manifest. This is the beautiful gift of this time of year.

It’s the poetry of the fertile darkness that pulled me to the work of death and dying. It was a siren call from the Dark Mother for me. I had no idea where I was heading, or why. Slowly but surely, I am coming to a deeper understanding.

I made the realization that collectively coming into intimate relationship with the fact of death will save us. Period. There’s not much else that will, in my humble opinion. The exiled nature of death in our culture has been deeply devastating and damaging in all ways, and the evidence is visible and palpable, especially in these tumultuous last few years. We in the West are materialists, first and foremost. Through our insatiable need to consume, we overuse and fail to protect natural resources, we prioritize long life over quality of life in our healthcare system, we steep ourselves in the dogma of reductionism and fail to see our sacred interdependent nature. I often wonder: If we witnessed the reality of death and dying in our day-to-day life, and didn’t sterilize, silence, and hide it, how might things be different?

There are plenty of cultural examples. I think of India and Tibet, of bodies burning on the Ganges and sky burials in charnel grounds. Where dead bodies of loved ones are left unmoved in the home for a few days while families and friends gather because it is believed that consciousness is still making its leave from the gross vibratory realm of matter. Death is not banished in these cultures and, dare I say, people seem more content with what is. The statistics around anxiety, depression, and other mental health issues in the US are staggering.

I was in a women’s circle recently and every single woman who shared discussed her fears and anxieties. I found it uncanny that each one identified fear of death as the subconscious source. The gnawing existential angst is just so palpable and present in our broken and flailing culture. And I don’t think the problem is solely informed by our death denial; I think it’s also informed by the lack of beauty and magic around our death traditions and rituals. The synchro- nicities, heart openings, dreams, and signs woven in the fabric of the dying process are available for those who have the eyes to see. It is my experience that along with the sadness and pain of loss comes an immense opportunity to touch into the ineffable. died, however. I chose not to view his body when it finally arrived back in the US. I was too scared. I told myself that I didn’t want to remember him that way. I wanted to remember him vital and alive. But what did I miss out on by not looking? What did I relegate to stay hidden in the cluttered attic of my unconscious mind? . He was ultimately cremated, having only his father bear witness to his dead body. In a week’s time we had a service of sorts that was pieced together in the midst of our trauma and pain. In retrospect, it did little to bring any of us together, nor did it really celebrate or honor his life. How could it? He died at the age of 32. None of us had any depth of knowledge or practice that could support and guide us through. And our community didn’t know how to hold us because we didn’t know how to be held. The healing available to a culture or people that know how to be with death and grief was missed out on completely. His loved ones had to forge their own way or no way at all. Though I lament the lack of knowledge at that time, I am grateful for the grace that showed me the way and my spirit that responded over the years. This was my training ground and the training continues. sterile, cold rooms with TVs blaring, lonely and confused patients, who are drugged, disconnected, and disoriented. And yet, grace is present— the invisible gentle hand of profound compassion. The field of one who is making their passing, and those who vigil at their side, is the most expansive I’ve ever experienced. Thoughts cease, perception sharpens, and a transparent rainbow of vibrancy permeates. Is it this grace I was seeking to know when I jumped out of bed to confirm my alive-ness? Is this what I still seek over and over again?

My second reason for doing this work stems from the dire need to face my own impending death and the fears connected with it. I thought about death a lot as a child. It scared me. I was constantly afraid someone I love would die or that I was dying. I would feel myself slip away in the night into some terrifying black spiral. I’d jump out of bed to make sure I was still there—peering at myself in the mirror to affirm my existence as flesh and blood. Every death and dying training workshop I’ve ever done has been filled with people speaking of the profound gifts they’ve received working with the dying and their families. No one ever described the nature of those gifts, however (back to the ineffable). I feel that they were referring to the freedom found in facing one’s deep-seated fear of death—in standing in the face of it, softening and breathing, and loving what arises.

Even with all of the cultural denial around death, the reality and authenticity of it cannot be avoided. This is what I have sought and what has sought me my whole life. The real, absent of pretense. This is what working with death and dying offers me.

I didn’t really know what I was signing up for. Had someone told me beforehand I’d be faced with my deepest fear, I would have turned back. Thank goodness for flying blind. Thank goodness for the call to the underworld by the Dark Mother.

I did not experience the death of someone close until the passing of my husband 13 years ago. He died of an accidental drug overdose 3,000 miles away, outside of London. His lifeless body lay alone, untended, slumped for about 36 hours before he was found—not before I knew he

And now reflecting on the death of my husband’s father a day less than a year ago…. Oh the grief… the grief that had no outlet and stayed trapped in the heart of a man with a huge heart…. He died a year ago in a hospital bed, in a hospital room. The bed had vinyl covering. The room was freezing with a loud air purifier so that anything anyone said in this tiny room was drowned out and muffled by its persistent hum. I had to touch him and hold his hand through plastic gloves, a plastic gown, and two masks. This made communicating nearly impossible. And still, the grace and tenderness of the hearts that were present permeated all of it. I’ve seen it time and time again in my training. Hospitals and Hospice centers—

When I became a death doula, my first client died in his home on a mountain covered in mountain laurel, shrouded in mist, with his wife next to him in a room that was an altar in and of itself. I arrived only five minutes later. His body was still warm but the light from his brilliant blue eyes was gone. He died on the memorial day of my husband’s passing. I entered the house, hugged his crying wife, stood by his side. Chanted and prayed. His adult daughter arrived as soon as she could and the three of us washed his body with herbs and water and anointed him with frankincense oil. We sat quietly, we talked gently. We inhabited that field together. Something was deeply affirmed for me that day and another thing left untended, was tended. A completion and undeniable invitation.

So I share a bit of my experience and my musings with the purpose of working towards eventually making what I do obsolete because, one day, we will be communities of people who have come to know how to care for each other in death, and, thus, how to care more deeply for all of life in all of its miraculous diversity.

Creativity is alive and well in the Hudson Valley’s home for arts, music and culture. Walk in the footsteps of Bob Dylan and The Band at Woodstock, catch electrifying live music at any of our venues, hike the trails of the Byrdcliffe Art Colony, and explore quirky shops and cafes on Tinker Street in the heart of Woodstock. With the majestic Catskill Mountains as your backdrop, get inspired by the place where counterculture is the culture.