The Wheel in the Sky
Old sun has his final day of 2021. Winter Solstice, Capitola, CA.
Today, as the old sun dies and I prepare for the longest night, death is on my mind. In part, because that is what the winter solstice is about—the death of one sun and the rebirth of another. The darkness turning into the light. The wheel turning once more around the year, spinning what it will of our lives. Some believe in destiny. Others believe in the power of our will. The reality is somewhere in between when it comes to this tapestry of existence. The pattern isn’t something we can determine ourselves, rather the best we can do is observe and follow the pattern where we are called. One thing is for certain though—eventually our personal thread will be cut. At this time, death is 100% guaranteed for all of us. No matter how much human will we apply to the situation, no matter how we argue with the weavers of destiny, we cannot win against death. Why then do we work so hard to avoid this reality?
I’ve seen the death of many things the past several years. The most tragic is of course human death, because it hits close to home. We feel it when a human dies, that whisper from beyond that reminds us we could be next. If not this day, then definitely sooner than we could ever want. I found out last week that our Aussie, Evelyn, has cancer. For some reason, I’ve always known she would die this way, but I also didn’t think it would be now. She’s 11 years old, so it’s not too soon. Still, one is never prepared for such a diagnosis, even if one knew it was coming.
A little over a year ago, I had five chickens, two goats, two dogs, and one cat. In a few months at most, I will have one dog. The fire took the other animals, so the dogs have a special place now in our family. They were the ones I managed to save. Yet here we are, a year or so later, and Evelyn is still dying. I can’t save her from death, I just provided a different death. It makes me wonder—perhaps that is the only real power we have in the tapestry of life. Our choices lead us down different paths which of course lead to different deaths, yet in the end, the cord is cut one way or another. Ideally, my husband will hold Evelyn as she passes. This is the beautiful death, the one we all wish for but so few actually receive.
Often we say a person who is curious about death is morbid, but my curiosity isn’t about death itself but more the right to die as we see fit. I’ve heard hospice workers tell me that they have an extensive list of procedures that they must try before they can “let” you die. There is no freedom other than your choice to enter their care. After that point, you will be subjected to everything we can think of to keep you alive. I imagine you enter the hospital so that you can live, even if just for one more week. If you were ready to die, you would have had your loved ones come and bear witness as the life that animates your body dies out, like the old sun, and transitions to a space where the living cannot go. Maybe there’s nothing else, maybe there’s a heaven like the good books say, maybe the tapestry continues in new colors, new dimensions. I can’t say, but I do think the state of our consciousness when we cross over is important. While we can never be ready for life’s final moments, we can practice dying.
We practice through rituals honoring the seasons. The myriad of festivals honoring the light during this time of year is one way we do this. Facing the darkness and admitting there is a mystery to this wheel of life, admitting our vulnerability as well as our faith that the sun will indeed rise tomorrow, is practice for the end of our story. We also practice by staying open, even in the face of trauma, to the lessons that come with endings. Humans die. Animals die. Trees die (oh, my heart is still breaking). Plans die. Dreams die. Relationships die. Laws die. Everything has its brightest day and then passes unto the night.
Everything.
I don’t want to lose something dear yet again, but the wheel turns whether I want it or not. I’m curious about how I stand in the face of this latest death. To witness her as her body lets go. To tend to her needs. To go about my own life for her death isn’t the end of my story. It is a part of my story, along with the death of the others I now name:
Laura, Sebastian, Barttimus, Abigail, Grandmas Marion and Audrey, my time as a mother of young boys, my house, my dream of running a tech company, friendships that have run their course, D’ougal, Burl, the Twin, the Mary Tree, and many others.
With every death, there is a rebirth, but I tend to honor the new things quite often. It’s the deaths that I avoid honoring, for to do so is to admit I too will die, and sooner than I could ever be ready for. On this darkest night, I honor the dead and those dying, whether it be humans, dreams, or marriages—anything that is a part of the wheel of life. My wish is that we become aware of the turning of the wheel and we honor it with the courage to look at all the parts of the dance, including the ones that appear as suffering. I am no Job and am not looking to see how far I can be pushed before I lose faith; however suffering is a state of mind and this is the season that teaches the great truth of darkness—that when we truly accept our death, we are finally free to live.