The storm is coming

Becoming a student of death.

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

A few days before my first ayahuasca ceremony, I had a dream where a voice said, “The storm is coming. The storm is already here.” It was 2022, I’d been alive for 44 years, it was time to get ready. The ceremony turned out to be a clarion call – to begin the process of letting go of childish things; to prepare myself to hold the door open for elder loved ones, and to slowly but surely walk through that door myself.

As a suicidal teenager, I had assumed I was ready for death, that I was somehow braver than all those life-loving folks because I was ready to throw in the towel, exit this crazy world, and enter the unknown. One time, I very dramatically swallowed eight mothballs and a handful of aspirin, gave myself an intravenous injection of tequila, laid down in bed, threw rose petals all over myself, crossed my arms over my chest, closed my eyes and waited to die. Oh, the incredible stupidity and arrogance of youth!

Now, as a 47-year-old, I’m only just beginning to understand the weight of aging, grief, death and dying. There is nothing romantic, gallant, or remarkable about death. Death is humble, steady, stoic, sometimes unrelenting, ruthless, violent, and unpredictable. But she can be a gentle, wise and tender teacher to those willing to pay her attention.

This is what I would tell my fool-hardy, suicidal teenage self: “Grow up, you quitter. Enough with the self-importance and self-pity. Suicide is not courageous or noble. Staying alive – with loss, disappointment and the awareness of death as constant companions – is. Choosing death over life is giving up, giving away, giving in, letting go. Death is the ultimate capitulation.”

For those of us who’ve been challenged by her as rebellious Thanatos-chasing teens, in dreams, in bars, on the streets, in medicine ceremonies, sitting next to a dying pet, family member, lover or friend, under rubble, under water, on fire, or in a hospital bed, the question becomes: “Why am I still fighting? What am I fighting for?”

Perhaps I am fighting for me, the idea of me in this precious meat sack, traipsing around in this movie called “my life”. I am fighting for all the roles, people, pets, places, beliefs, feelings and memories that compose “me”. I am fighting for dear life. I am fighting to sustain the heartbeats of all that I am attached to, all whom I love. I am fighting for my values, my morals and convictions. I fighting for the last blurry glimpse of the sun rising, for what remains of my confidence and dignity, for the smell of coffee, the touch of that person who knows me too well.

Perhaps with that last exhale, when all the fight is gone, I will realize that there is nothing to fight for. Because all of it never belonged to me to begin with. I was never entitled to life, to be here at all. The experience of existing as ‘me’ was a most sublime privilege. The entire thing was a gift, a gift of grace. And for it to remain a gift, it must eventually be given away, used up.

In the last four years, working with plant medicines (journeying myself and accompanying clients on their journeys), I've come to agree with Ram Dass’s words: "We're all just walking each other home". I’ve just completed training as an end-of-life doula and I hope I can be a good companion and "door holder" for those who will die before I do. And I hope that someone compassionate, kind, wise, and familiar with the threshold will hold the door open for me when it's my time to cross over and be washed away.