finding life in death cafes

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finding life in death cafes C O N N E C T I O N S A C R O S S T H E C O U N T R Y, S U M M E R 2 0 1 8

// WALNUT, CA

// ALBUQUERQUE, NM

// FARGO, ND

// LA CROSSE, WI

// STANFORD, CA

a journey of yielding to experiences and dialogues surrounding our s h a r e d m o r t a l i t y, undertaken by Michelle Chang and forged communities

for adib— whose nickname in Bengali, “Pran”, meant “life”.

D e a r R e a d e r, T h e “ F i n d i n g L i f e i n D e a t h C a f e s” z i n e i s t h e r e s u l t o f a ( m o s t l y ) solo roadtrip I took across the U.S. for 10 weeks in the summer of 2018 to create spaces for community members to gather together and openly engage with questions, experiences, stories, and perspectives surrounding mortality in unstructured dialogue. Thousands of these g a t h e r i n g s , c a l l e d “d e a t h c a f e s”, h a v e h a p p e n e d a c r o s s t h e g l o b e s i n c e 2011; I just happen to be the first to do a mobile death café. In fact, during the first death café I ever attended , the man sitting next to me b r o k e d o w n i n s o b s , s a y i n g , “ I h a v e A I D S .” W h a t a n i m m e n s e p r i v i l e g e it was to then hear the words, “I’ve never told anyone that since I was d i a g n o s e d 9 y e a r s a g o .” I b e g a n t o c o n s i d e r t h e d e p t h s t o w h i c h t h e context of death invites us to take a glimpse at the center of universes swirling in ourselves and others.

I view mortality as a fundamental basis for and imperative to selfauthoring our lives—to approach each day with the intentionality and beauty of the gift that it is. As so many of our answers to “ What is the meaning of life? of death? ” revolve around abstract, philosophical musings, I hoped to learn through the mutually transformative lens of lived experiences and stories. In doing justice to the multitudes o f t h i s 7 6 8 7 . 3 - m i l e s - l o n g j o u r n e y, I d o n o t a t t e m p t t o f o r m a n e a t l y packaged , coherent narrative to answer the questions I have, other t h a n t h e c o m m o n t h r e a d o f o u r s h a r e d h u m a n i t y a n d m o r t a l i t y.

A n d w h e re d o we g o f ro m h e re ? H ow d o we n ot j u st co n s u m e t h e s e sto r i e s ?

I invite you to consider what has brought you to this zine. How we e n t e r i n t o a s p a c e c a n m a t t e r j u s t a s m u c h a s t h e s p a c e i t s e l f. I n Dubuque, a woman said that she found our culture lacking in the right w o r d f o r g r i e f. I n S w a h i l i , t h e w o r d f o r a n e m p a t h e t i c “ s o r r y ” i s p o l e , a n d i t m e a n s “ I w a l k w i t h y o u .” M y g o a l i s t o w a l k y o u t h r o u g h t h e experience of a death café, showcasing the diversity of the voices you m i g h t e n c o u n t e r, a n d a s k i n g y o u t o c o n s i d e r w h e r e y o u f i t i n w i t h t h i s broader conversation . The death café is not a singular experience, not sequestered to café walls at all . It is as simple and profound as st a r t i n g w h e r e v e r y o u a r e a t , w i t h t h e w r e st l i n g a n d t h o u g h t s a n d st o r i e s y o u h a v e, a n d y i e l d i n g t o t h e m e a n d e r i n g p a t h t h a t c o m e s y o u r wa y.

I a m f i l l e d t o t h e b r i m w i t h g r a t i t u d e . To S t a n f o r d ’s B e a g l e I I A w a r d f o r s p o n s o r i n g t h i s t r i p . To m y a d v i s e r s S e l b y a n d L a u r a f o r t h e i r i n s i g h t f u l r e f l e c t i o n s . To f a m i l y a n d f r i e n d s f o r g e n e r o u s l y g r o u n d i n g m e . To n e w f r i e n d s a n d c o m m u n i t i e s , f o r h e l p i n g m e s e e t h a t h o m e i s a f e e l i n g o f b e i n g k n o w n a n d s e e n . To m y f r i e n d f r o m h i g h s c h o o l , A d i b , w h o d i e d a y e a r a g o a n d s t a r t e d m e o n t h i s j o u r n e y.

In gratitude, Michelle Chang

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This zine is organized into the places where I stayed long-term , and the d e a t h c a f e s t h a t h a p p e n e d w i t h i n a f e w h o u r s’ d r i v e w h i l e I w a s i n e a c h place. I valued immersion into local contexts over quantity of stops. Read it in whatever order you choose. Rip out and rearrange the pages, write in the margins, decorate your dorm room with the pages! Make it your o w n j o u r n e y . * *A l l q u o t e s a r e n o t m i n e a n d h a v e b e e n a n o n y m i z e d f o r c o n f i d e n t i a l i t y , d u e t o t h e i n t i m a t e n a t u r e o f s o m e o f w h a t i s s h a r e d .* *

TA B L E O F CO N TE N T S

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walnut, california 06 fallbrook, ca death café 08 laguna beach, ca death café 10 idyllwild, ca death café

albuquerque, new mexico albuquerque, nm 16 death café

fargo, north dakota 19 fargo, nd death café

la crosse, wisconsin la crosse, wi 22 death café viroqua, wi 26 death café dubuque, ia 28 death café

we remember.

36 route 38 critical connections

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walnut, california a recreation of aroma craft coffee, a coffee shop that was one of adib’s favorite hangout spots and the location of many of my chats with his mom. we always order the tiramisu in his honor—a favorite of his. I grounded myself in a promise I made to her that I would not stop talking about adib.

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fallbrook, ca death café fallbrook branch library 06.19.18 600-800pm

this summer, I developed a fierce love affair with the clouds.

“I had a near-death experience when I was 18. They almost killed me. And after that, I think my senses become more acute. Each day is really very special. Any one of us can go in a second.

Instead of seeing it like, ‘This is terrible. I can’t live because death is pending over me’, we need to celebrate because each second is a moment of friendship, a moment of sharing… you know, to be able to see the colors, to be able to smell, to taste.”

NM

IA

SD

06

CO

“I realized that I wanted to be in this world only if I still had the capacity for joy.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl talked about some woman with a fatal disease, in horrible, horrible condition in a concentration camp. And she was watching a branch out of a window of a tree that was going to be in bloom. She just wanted to last long enough to see that one flower bloom. When it did, it was huge for her. Because she had this focus outside herself, and ahead of herself. It told me a lot about what we value, what gives our life meaning.”

“He had Alzheimer’s disease.

He went from being a person we knew, to someone who didn’t recognize us, and we didn’t really recognize him anymore. He was still my dad, and he was still the person that we loved, but there was sort of an inherent distance that had become.”

what’s your minimum need in life to give it meaning?

“When my mother was in her last months and days and hours, I would always say, ‘If you die before I do.’ It was a very good exercise for me, a reinforcing experience for me to realize that every day, it could be the end. If I’ve got someone I need to forgive, if I feel there’s someone that has a grudge against me, I want to make sure they know I’m in open to hearing it, receiving it, even if I’m not in a position to resolve it. I don’t worry so much about when or how I’m going to die because I already want to put myself in a position of always being complete.”

“When I’ve spoken at memorials, what I’ve liked best is to tell something humorous about that person. Because something humorous usually says something about their good and their less admirable traits.

That is part of some truth that is much bigger than I can take in right now in my experience. I want to be loyal to that truth.”

CO

UT

CO

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laguna beach, ca death café laguna beach senior center 06.25.18

330-500pm “Why are you, a young Stanford student, thinking about death so much?” Behind these repeatedly-asked questions throughout t h e s u m m e r, I h e a r d a c o n t r a d i c t i o n o f e x p e c t a t i o n s — t h a t a small, bubbly and smiling girl with institutional privilege would devote so much headspace to her inevitable death, that I was not old enough and thus immune to death. Hoping to challenge narratives of who could and could not think about death, I sought to include as many voices across the country into the fold of this conversation. I recognize that many voices are not represented even in this retelling, and that devoting headspace to mortality is a privilege that not everyone ca afford.

legal document in which a person specifies what actions should be taken for their health if they are no longer able to make decisions for themselves because of illness or 08 incapacity

“One of the things I think about is, how do you approach someone with a dying dog or mate or anything? We have a tendency, since we don’t talk about this in general, of saying the wrong thing. And I know I’ve done that.

‘I’m sorry for your loss’ doesn’t seem enough.”

“This gentleman had 2 or 3 backups listed as his healthcare proxies in his advance directive.

They would get together regularly and have... kind of like an advanced directive club and go over medical decisions.

And they would just

be very candid and unattached about that.

I thought, ‘Wow, what a great idea!’”

“I have tried to approach my children several times. I’m very careful because no one wants to hear. I had a letter written to me, and they wrote, ‘We are at the point that we don’t want to come here or talk to you at all because it seems like you’re always talking about death.’”

this death café started with an elderly woman serenading me with “michelle” by the beatles.

“I think it also pays to pray in whatever way you approach the Holy of Holies. The thing, whatever that is greater than we are. I think that is something about prayer. I think that’s… to even say, ‘Thank you for letting me be here.’ I’m thankful. I’m really thankful for life that’s been much more lovely than I ever imagined it to be. And of course, I chose the right partner.

That didn’t hurt at all.

We’ll get to celebrate 59 years of marriage next week, which is pretty marvelous. But

I always tell everybody that I married him when I was an embryo.”

“Wait a second, I’ve had a magical life! I was born in Newport.

Grew up here, and lived in Laguna, and retired and bought a ranch in the Sierras and had a horse…

You know? I’ve had a magical life!”

where is there magic in your life?

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a small town of 3000, idyllwild’s people welcomed me with gratitude in being part of this journey and a generosity in asking me questions to learn from me.

idyllwild, ca death café spirit mountain retreat 06.26.18 200-400pm

“During the 80s was the AIDS epidemic. I lost my first partner, and I was part of a survivors’ group. We were 18. And we all lost partners.

In the time span of 11 months, I was the only one left alive out of those survivors. That’s how I got into hospice work.”

“There’s grief, and then there’s joy, and then there’s more grief, and then there’s remembering. And the relationship with the dead continues. My father died 43 years ago.

And my relationship with my father then, and what it is today, is just totally different. It changes and grows as I grow older and have more of an appreciation for what he went through as a person.”

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“Human beings have a tendency to think of themselves apart from the rest of the planet. Robin Williams went to visit Koko the gorilla a lot, the one that learned sign language. And when he completed suicide, they had to tell her about it.

What struck me was that she mourned for him. That really made an impression on me because we tend to think of our journey as being very unique. And I don’t think it is that unique.

You know, I’m sure there are a lot of creatures on the planet that have a consciousness of death.

We’re just not conscious that they’re conscious of it.”

trees surrounding us in our death café outside

“I love the death café because I’m getting to find out what things I need to get in order—as far as paperwork, how it works so that it’s easiest on people around me, and what my wishes are so I can get some clarity.

And since I first started coming, I’ll tell you. I’m feeling so good, I’m not going to be dying for a while. But that’s what got me here, to prepare myself for the journey.”

“Most of you know that my husband died 2 months ago. I’m dealing with the whole thing pretty well, I think. I’m down to 6 meltdowns a day. I’m so grateful that we’re a part of the Idyllwild community.

We are this group, and we don’t need it to be a bereavement group. But some of us are grieving, and I get to talk about it.

I get lots of hugs. “ I don’t know if any of you read the beautiful, compassionate letter Governor Brown wrote when he signed the end-

of-life law. Because this goes against his personal beliefs. If you’re a Jesuit, you’re not to end life But he realized the pain and the suffering that was going on.”

“My mother died 50 years ago. She didn’t want to face her death.

At that time, if a woman didn’t want to face her mortality, the medical community encouraged that. Nobody except 4 people in my family even knew that she was terminally ill. When she died, it was a shock.

The entire family was reverberated. I kind of see death café as a catalyst for creating—for facing the conversation.

I think many times, we think that the verbalizing is worse than the silence.”

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ON FE EL ING SMALL view from drive to idyllwild

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what could a conversation with a family member about death look like?

“I told my brotherin-law that when I die, I want to be cremated. My remains would go into the ground, and I want a walnut tree to be planted over me. I imagine myself—I’m a gardener—becoming

this magnificent tree.

And birds and squirrels, running all over me and being fed by me.

And lovers sitting underneath my branches. I just had this wonderful image.”

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albuquerque, new mexico

a recreation of the santa fe building of the academy for the love of learning, an organization that put on an event “engaged awareness in action�. with no other instructions, a stranger and I forged our own language of dancing, jumping, flying, twirling, and giggling as if no one in the world could see us. I learned that it is okay, even welcome, to bump into walls. and I met so many beautiful artists.

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Some of the most insightful conversations I had happened spontaneously with locals, outside of the death café, after people asked what brought me to their town . The bursting arts scene in New Mexico provided me with a different lens t o r e i m a g i n e m y b i g q u e s t i o n s . I ’m n o t a l o n e i n t h e m , a n d h o w t h e y a r e b e i n g a s k e d b r i m s w i t h d i v e r s i t y.

A journalist told me about a dinner party he went to thrown by a local artist. The artist served his food in ceramic mugs and plates that he glazed with the ashes of 200 people— created to incorporate reminders of mortality even in average moments. A glass artist who created 2 miles of NYC subway tiles gave me a tour of his studio. He explained that he works with glass because it embodies the transitional s t a t e o f l i f e — o f “ w a l k i n g s o f t l y ”. H e s e n t m e o f f w i t h o n e o f his porcelain mazes.

I found myself wondering what it means to divulge these depths of myself to strangers whom I was likely to never see again . Is it an act of small courage, to accept the fear of b e i n g s i m p l i f i e d t o t h e s t o r y I s h a r e d o f m y s e l f ? To a c c e p t that a stranger could never know the context that held it?

More often than not, I wondered if it was easier to explain t o a s t r a n g e r w h y a d e a t h c o u l d d r i v e m e a c r o s s t h e c o u n t r y, than to tr y explaining to some of the people who have known me longest.

porcelain maze, thanks to david gordon studios

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albuquerque, nm death café doyenne of death’s home 07.11.18 400-600pm

“I’m part of a very irreverent group, that, we have gone to sleeping in a cotton nightgown and making sure we sleep in cotton sheets. So if we die in the middle of the night, they can just wrap us up in what we’re sleeping in, and take us down to the green burial site.

Because you have to have biodegradable, natural things to be buried down there.

Because God, I don’t want anybody to have to take off my microfiber underwear to bury me!”

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gail graciously opened up her home, which is decked out in day of the dead memorabilia and a skeleton named lola

“I bought these Day of the Dead skulls after my brother died, and I wear them intentionally.

And when somebody asks me about them, I say, ‘It’s to honor my brother.’ I love the invitation of that tradition, so I embraced it.”

“My sister and I always have cold feet. And for a green burial, they do want you to be buried in natural material.

So she ordered online some 100% cotton, all-natural socks. We’re going to have our little shroud and our little socks on, so our feet don’t get cold.”

“For me, conversation has really been sparked at funerals or in the process of funerals. The conversation was hard. That you don’t actually want to be getting into it. Because for me, the conversations in my family are more… They’re conversations. But I don’t know that anyone has actually bought a plot, or changed their will, or said, ‘I want this song played.’ It hasn’t manifested into actual decisions or planning.”

“I mostly write fiction, and it’s very deathoriented. Some of it’s paranormal, some of it’s just gothic.

I really like heavy metal, which is also very death-oriented.

I’ve just always had a fascination with it. I’ve lost a lot of people who were very close to me, so I have kind of a lovehate relationship, but I feel I should lean into that instead of running away from it. So here I am.”

“Death is private. It’s so personal. It’s about them.

We try to make it about us, but it’s not. So however they do it is okay, but it’s a very, very private, intimate thing to leave your body. We have to honor that piece, too.”

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fargo, north dakota

a recreation of a room in fargo main library, where I spent many hours people watching, writing postcards, listening to the patter of the rain, and hosting the first-ever death cafÊ in north dakota—the very last state in the U.S. to hold one.

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fargo, nd death café fargo main library 07.28.18 200-330pm the most nerve-wracking death café to put together, as north dakota never held one before. 5 miraculous people showed up and leaned into the unfamiliar. one attendee even sweetly emailed my advisers to rave about the experience. a regular gathering will now be starting in september!

“I want to really look at conscious living and conscious dying—and how do we do it walking into it with both feet and our eyes wide open?” ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////// //////////////////////////

“There are so many

people who fall through the cracks. And that’s why we bring it back to the community. How does our community support the needs of the dying? Because there are people who never get the grace of dying in the hospices or even the hospitals. There are people dying in their homes that are probably getting inadequate care, or on the streets or in the homeless shelters.”

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“One of the things that drove me to be a death doula was someone when we talk about hospice. People will say to me, ‘Well, how can we just give up hope?’. As if I’m asking them to give up hope. And I had to come to a realization, ‘What are we hoping for here? Could we maybe hope for a better last few days?”

assisting in the dying process, caring for a person holistically (physically, emotionally and spiritually) at the end of life.

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“There’s not a whole lot of talk about the afterlife. It’s kind of intentionally by the early rabbis left unclear. I think, as a result of Judaism not placing a whole lot of emphasis on the world to come, there’s a lot of emphasis on the world we live in. That’s a lot of what’s drawn me to Judaism and kept me Jewish in moments where I’ve had doubts about my faith. It is so connected to this world that we live in, and our experiences and how we interact with everyone else.”

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“I teach a Death and Dying class. And there’s almost kind of an abstraction when you get too theoretical in talking about death.

In talking about this thing that’s hypothetical, hopefully for most of us in this room is many years down the room. It almost becomes not immediate, and it doesn’t feel like it’s about me until it is.”

grateful for friends who curated playlists of songs to keep me company on the road! many are now tied to my headspaces in different places. “mr. blue sky”, electric light orchestra

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AZ

“death with dignity”, sufjan stevens

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whose voices have been left out of society’s conversation on death & dying?

NM “this old dog” by mac demarco

ND

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“longest friend” by cody ash

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WI

la crosse, wisconsin

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a recreation of the doors to a place that I truly felt a sense of “coming home” on this roadtrip, perhaps more than anywhere else this summer. my now dear friend bought and completely remodeled a creepy, 100-year-old house, neglected after a 22-year old died of cancer and chose to spend his last days here.

“home” in la crosse arrived in many forms: in the excitement of someone who left me a voicemail, “Hi, I’m on my lunch break and wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you and cannot wait for your death cafe!”, in chats with locals at the community garden, in the newspaper’s coverage of my journey, in shared laughter in kayaks down the Mississippi.

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photo by franciscan spirituality center

mississippi river at sunset

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la crosse, wi death café franciscan spirituality center 08.07.18 600-800pm “I was the one who discovered [my father] when I was 6 years old. He was killed, and he was hung.

I walked into the bathroom, and I saw him. And as a kid who never experienced death, I didn’t cry. I wasn’t shocked. I just thought, ‘Oh, it’s my father. And he’s now different.’ My mom advised me to cry. I didn’t want to cry.

I just wanted to be with him.

After that, every time when somebody died in my family, I would spend with them 1 to 2 nights, reading their books to them or just talking to them.”

“One thing that I really got from this discussion was that death has the power to bring people together in a lot of ways. Like one, in this café, it brought people together to talk. But also, in a very physical way—when funerals happen, and families get together. I think that’s one uniform drive that human beings have. The possibility for togetherness around death, I found very fulfilling and optimistic.”

the largest death café I have ever hosted!

40+ people showed up—we needed a microphone to talk because the room was so full.

community garden

“A dear friend and neighbor of mine was 92 years old. He was a physician.

And he had advanced Parkinson’s. Less than 2 years ago, he had decided that he was going to end his life by stopping eating and drinking.

He had studied that path for a while, discussed it both with our community and his Quaker community. And I had the opportunity to be with he and his wife when he chose to do that. He died in 16 days, surrounded by people who loved him and were supportive of that path. He was a courageous man, and he taught us all a lot.”

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“A big part of Buddhism is presentness. That presenttime awareness. The idea that this is all I have right now. And I’m not projecting to what it’s going to be. So thinking that far ahead, really thinking about my own mortality, and really suffering with that thought—how am I going to do it? When am I going to do it? Is it going to be painful? All those different questions… I’m interested in those topics, but I don’t want to talk about them, and I don’t want to face them when they come. I just want them to happen.”

“I strongly remember my father’s passing. My sister said, “Dad, it’s okay. We’re all here.” And he immediately changed. And it wasn’t long after then that he did pass. You wonder how much control we do have.

Because you hear the story so often, that somebody waiting until a certain person comes, until someone says goodbye.”

“As a pastor, coming alongside families and people as they’re dying, it was a gift to be with them.

It was incredible to witness… there’s a shift in letting go and acceptance of life. Or a realization that life can be lived differently, even in the last days or hours. Not many people get to see that.”

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photos by franciscan spirituality ce

how has death brought you closer to the people in your life?

enter

view from grandad bluff

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viroqua, wi death café the ARK community center 08.10.18 700-900pm “I was the oldest of three, and my mom was pregnant with a fourth child when I was 7 years old. It was clear that the baby was lost, and so my mom just delivered him at home. I remember so clearly that we wrapped him up in a blanket, and our whole family paraded out into the forest with this baby. My mom asked my brother, who was 4, ‘What would you like to name him?’. He had this friend that he thought was super cool, so he named him after him. We dug a hole, we buried him, and we put a stone. It was quite joyous. I think we were all really sad, but in my memory of it, it’s just this kind of sunny family outing. And I’m sure my parents were more sad than they let on, but it felt very natural. Like, ‘Bye. Thanks for the brief visit.’”

the first-ever death café in a tiny town of 3000—and nearly 30 people showed up, with many attendees excited to start death cafes in their own communities. it was also the first time I have been interrupted by bats flying into the room.

“Viroqua is such a close community that could come together and fill certain roles or issues to have home funerals. And I guess, that’s something I’m looking for and would like to be a part of. To be able to help others out, and to have a community of my own.”

“My mother’s last words to my sister, sitting on her deathbed nonetheless, were, ‘Don’t forget the recycling on Wednesday!’”

being colloquially known as the “death girl” meant that people along the way gave thoughtful death-themed gifts for me to mull over

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“We talked in our group about how uncomfortable it is for us humans to be vulnerable. I think that’s part of that fear, and also just our culture is so strength-valuing. We talked about the language of illness, we talked about ‘fighting it.’ There’s this ‘war’ between our will and our body, which doesn’t feel very productive to me. I think part of that is that fear that you were talking about. And also just our unwillingness to be vulnerable, or to be embracing of the weakness of physical life.”

“I always have people that ask me, and I said this in my last group, ‘When are you going to do another death café?’. Anybody in here can do a death café. You guys are all attending this, and it’s something that you’ll find a lot of joy in, once you start seeing and hearing people talk. That just continues to strengthen the conversation about it.

So that these discussions and decisions become more common.”

what was the first significant death you experienced?

SD

ND

AZ

CO america’s gorgeous landscape kept me company while driving, sometimes moving me to tears to consider the privilege of experiencing simple beauties

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dubuque, ia death café body & soul wellness center 08.14.18 towards the end of my trip, people cold-emailed me asking to stop by their towns and host death cafes! this was 630-830pm me the first one ever held in dubuque, ia, and my last of the summer.

I stayed at a farm where all the produce, eggs, & milk go to a homeless shelter. here, I learned how to milk a cow & use a compost toilet!

“My parents met at my grandmother’s grave, so my journey with death probably starts there.”

“When my dad was dying of cancer, my brother and I were building his casket as this last act of love for him on this planet. When you don’t know what to do, and you can’t sleep at night, it was this therapeutic building, sanding, varnishing, stuffing All that was just a way for me to do something with all this stuff because my dad was young. We took pictures of all of it and had them at the wake so people saw the process of what we were doing over those 3 months.”

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“You will notice I’m wearing something around my neck—this is my husband’s wedding ring. At the time of his death in the emergency room, some of the nurses were able to get a copy of his last heartbeat. And I put it on the back of this heart I’m wearing. So his heartbeat is always next to my heart. And that’s just my way of coping.”

“I find our culture and language lacking for the right word. My husband and I spent time in Tanzania, and in Swahili they have an empathetic ‘sorry’. The word is pole, and it means ‘I walk with you.’”

“My aunt said something really important to me when my cousin, her oldest son, was murdered in California. she said to me that it’s never upsetting to her that people will remember him. It’s upsetting that they forget.”

“One of the things I like about the death café, that I don’t think exists with other bereavement or support groups, is that you don’t have to be grieving or have had a loss. I haven’t had a very close person die, although I’ve been around death a lot in a professional way. For me, I’m interested in exploring on a personal level about death and the community’s reaction to it, and my own personal beliefs about it.”

“In those initial days after my daughter’s death, it didn’t matter what you did, it was wrong. You could have said the nicest thing, you could have cleaned my house, and it still would have been wrong emotionally.

One of the best interactions I had was at an event. It was the first time we’d gone out in public. Someone came up to me, and she just said, ‘Can I give you a hug?’. I said, ‘Yes.’ And while she hugged me, she stroked my hair. She said, ‘I have nothing to say to you, but I just want to hug you and acknowledge what happened.’

And in that moment, it was just really perfect.”

I am grateful to be.

Lungs breathing, heart beating, joyous and free.

Even though the hard times are all around me, I am grateful to be.

the Threshold Singers, a group of women who sing songs to people as they are transitioning into death, ended this last death café by leading us in singing this chorus together

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we remember.

eat the poop!

a recreation of a tunnel I encountered in keystone, south dakota on the road toward fargo, north dakota.

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A s I p r o m i s e d t o A d i b’ s m o m b e f o r e I l e f t , I started ending each death café I hosted by sharing memories of Adib, of who he was and how he was, and then creating a space for others to also talk about people who have died that are on their hearts. It seems fitting to end this zine with a collection of some of the stories and memories that emerged in the sacred final 20 minutes of each gathering. These moments were some of my s t i c k i e s t t h i s s u m m e r.

SD

NV

CA

WY

My relationship with Adib is still growing, still evolving. When someone shared a story about t h e i r g o o f y f r i e n d ’s n i c k n a m e f o r t h e m o f “ S a r u t h e P r i n c e s s ”, I c o u l d n’ t h e l p b u t t h i n k o f m y g o o f y A d i b’ s s t r a n g e v e r n a c u l a r o f “ b r a h h h” s .

When I found myself lost in a pitch-black coal mine in Arizona for two hours with no cell service, I imagined Adib traversing his treasured Death Hikes. Our relationship did not stagnate where we left off on May 7, 2017.

One of my favorite traditions while driving was y e l l i n g “ E AT T H E P O O P ! ” o u t o f m y c a r w i n d o w whenever I went through a tunnel. I credit this a l s o t o Lu c y Ka l a n i t h i , w i d ow o f t h e a u t h o r o f W h e n B r e a t h B e c o m e s A i r. L u c y r e c o u n t s a m o m e n t o f r i d i c u l o u s l e v i t y a n d j oy a f t e r P a u l ’s death , when she and her daughter drove through a t u n n e l w h i l e s c r e a m i n g “ E AT T H E P O O P ! ”.

S h e t h o u g h t t o h e r s e l f, “ T h i s i s n o t w h a t w e thought what our lives would be, but here we are t o g e t h e r.”

I t h i n k t h a t ’s w h a t t h i s t r i p w a s a l l a b o u t . W h a t I did , how I connected , feels sort of beyond my own comprehension, but here I am. Here you are.

Broad strokes of romanization or demonization can come with eulogizing the dead. I want to r e m e m b e r i n a w a y t h a t i s a u t h e n t i c t o t h e m e s s y, beautiful human beings these people were.

A n d t h e r e’s s o m e t h i n g s o p ow e r f u l a b o u t o u r collective memory—not just in speaking up, but also in being received by others.

I finally invite you to contribute your own memories, stories, of those who have died in your life, who are on your hearts. I wish you gratitude.

Le t ’s c o n t i n u e t o c e l e b r a t e t h e g i f t o f t h i s l i f e .

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/ / / / / / / “It’s so frustrating because the

community’s blaming themselves, or blaming leadership, or firing him, and everybody in town thinks he committed suicide, but he drank himself to death. And nobody knows that either. And I just wanted to come here and say it to strangers. My friend died because he drank. And it wasn’t his fault. And he didn’t commit suicide. And he wanted to live.

And I really miss him.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / “This is a death that happened almost

33 years ago. My maternal grandfather.

He was very instrumental in shaping my self-worth as someone who mattered.

He and I connected at an amazing level.

We had a lot of conversations about life.

He was a religious person—a spiritual, kind of philosophical person. Before he died, he gave me audio letters in the form of cassette tapes.

A few years ago, I transferred them into mp3s. And this morning, I was trying hard to get some app to work, but what popped up was one of his audio letters to me. My wife and I sat and listened to his voice for 15 minutes. The tape would have been 36 years old, but it was as if he was right there at the table with us. Now I’m a grandpa to an almost 9-month old for the first time. There’s a lot I can’t control, but I hope to be a good grandpa in offering my love.”

32 we remember.

/ / / / / / / / / / / “For our friend who passed away, we did a home

burial and buried him on another friend’s farm. He had a real intimate relationship with the fact that he was going to die someday. He had bought a casket from the monks, and he used it as his casket table in his living room! We buried his ashes inside that casket.

We were just sharing so many memories of him and his crazy ways. We still have a little button from him that says, ‘Hermits unite!’. There’s just little things where he’s still making me laugh today.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / “I’m only going to share the story of this person that

I’ve never actually met face-to-face. I got to know him online, through an online video game that we would play, that I would also do live broadcasts of. The legacy he left, without really knowing, are livestreams of when we would play this game together. He passed of cancer in his early 30s. I had not had a time to deal with my own grief and that loss, but tonight I’ve been reminded that I have these livestreams. And I think I’m going to watch them. I’ve been waiting long enough, about a year. What kind of person was he? He had an attitude. Very crochety Scottsman. But a heart of gold. Truly, truly, a heart of gold. And I miss him a lot. So I guess that’s all I need to say. Thank you.”

we remember. 33

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / “I grew up in a very dysfunctional,

alcoholic home. There was a lot of domestic violence and chaos. But there was a gentleman who came into my life. He was hit by a drunk driver, no less walking. And I didn’t get into the hospital to be able to see him. He just came to me one night in a dream, and he said, ‘I’m okay, Smiley.’ He knows what he means to me. He was a big part of my life when I was a teenager, growing up. I didn’t appreciate him as much as I should have at the time. But I’m glad I did later.”

/ / / / / / / “I have a friend who passed

away, late evening of his senior prom, on my heart. He had written a piece about death at school just a couple weeks before. I just happened to serve him his last meal before he died. My son was really close to him. It really meant a lot to him to hold space out at our farm for conversation around a bonfire with 20 or so young people, and for his family to open their home to many in the community for healing and grieving.”

34 we remember.

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“I just kind of want to talk to and say thank you to two people I know who have died. I actually talk to them in private, plenty. But something that this space—and I’m so grateful for this death café because it makes so many beautiful things possible—something I’ve not been able to do before is to talk to them amidst other people. And kind of thank them out loud. So I kind of want to do that real quick. Right now.

Thank you very much. For being the first person, first friend, who was incredibly willing to look deeply at life with me. Who was willing to look at the stars. And I mean, to really, really look at them. You passed so young. And I’m just so grateful for the time we had together. I wish, really much, that you would have seen what I saw when we would look up. I hope you’ve found peace now.

Thank you for letting me walk with you in the last two years of your life. I didn’t know you well before, and I wish we could have walked together a lot sooner. I love you very much. I believe I will see you both someday again.”

we remember. 35

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b a. b. c. d. e. f. g. h. i. j. k. l. m. n. o. p. q. r. s. t. u. v.

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Walnut, CA Fallbrook, CA Laguna Beach, CA Idyllwild, CA Las Vegas, NV Monument Valley, AZ Albuquerque, NM Boulder, CO Rapid City, SD Fargo, ND Minneapolis, MN La Crosse, WI Viroqua, WI Dubuque, IA Des Moines, IA Omaha, NE Fort Collins, CO Salt Lake City, UT Reno, NV Sacramento, CA Stanford, CA Walnut, CA

7687.3 miles 130 death café attendees

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T h r o u g h o u t t h e j o u r n e y, I h a d m y f a i r s h a r e o f s e l f - d o u b t , jitters, and insufficiency—moments when I questioned, “What am I doing here? Why did I think this was a good i d e a ? ”. I n t h o s e m o m e n t s , I m e d i t a t e d o n a l i s t I s t a r t e d of all the beautiful people with whom this journey allowed me to form meaningful connections. I thank you all (some listed and pictured as I tried to master the art of the s e l f i e ) f o r g i f t i n g m e t h e a n s w e r, “ T h i s i s e x a c t l y w h e r e I n e e d t o b e r i g h t n o w .” a d r i e n n e m a r e e b r o w n’ s w o r d s h a v e g u i d e d m e , a s k i n g , “What would our movements look like if we focused on critical connections instead of critical mass?”

T h i s s u m m e r, m y a r m s s t a y e d o p e n i n a p o s t u r e o f constantly receiving what I could not give back as a solo t r a v e l e r. T h e p e o p l e w h o s e p a t h s I i n t e r s e c t e d w i t h d e f i e d the conventional evolutionary theories of reciprocity; when in the foreseeable future would I be back in Iowa to repay the radical acts of hospitality generously offered to m e ? A c c e p t i n g h o w s o m a n y p o u r e d i n t o m e t h i s s u m m e r, I am faced with no other option but to pour out onto others, drawing from the abundance I have received. As the entrusted steward of the conversations I consumed, I am left to share these narrative pearls, to live out the questions I ask.

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S Y D P E T E P A T B R E N D A S H A R O N L A U R I E F R A N C O I S E D A V I D C A R I N A B R O N W Y N M A T T H E W P E D R O R A F A E L N E T T A G A I L C A R L O S T O N Y S U S A N K A R E N J O R D A N D AV I D P R A T T F A A N D R E A B R E N D A B E T S Y J I M B R A D K E V I N G A I L C I N D Y S K Y T Y L E R C H A K I A R I T A M A R I S A A N D R E A E R I C A C A M J A C K I E L E M S J A N E F E T T Y D A N I J O E C O R R I E J E A N S T A C E Y C H U C K E R I C A S A R A H C H A R L E N E M E G T H O M A S M A R Y R I C K J U L I E T A R A R A N D A L L N E I L M A R Y K A Y J E N A R L Y S L A U R A E F R A T E S T H E R C L E O B E T S Y J A C K S U S A N J I M A N 39 D R E W O L G A D A D M O M

We wish you courage for the next step and the next.

We wish you peace in the middle of the storm.

We w i s h y o u u n e x p e c t e d j oy, the strength to see you through, and a heart wide open to the all the love surrounding you.

I t ’s s u r r o u n d i n g y o u .

///////////////////// as sung by the Threshold Singers at the Dubuque, IA Death CafĂŠ