About my death…
I’ve been thinking about my funeral.
No, I don’t have a terminal illness; at least I don’t know about it now. But seeing the funerals of two famous people televised does make one stop and think — about the future. And I am going to be 71 years old soon. My future is narrow and I want the end of my future to be of my own making.
I recently reviewed my will. It didn’t take long. I have very little and most of it will go to my daughter. However, I did have some ideas about my funeral, or memorial service, and my remains that I had put into my will.
My mother was terminal when she and I discussed her final requests: what she wanted to wear, where to have the service, the hymns. That was comforting to both of us. I knew that, when I returned to her hometown in West Virginia, it was all arranged and I could just go on autopilot.
It was basically the same with my dad. As he and I decided Mom’s coffin and vault, I said, “Do you like these?” When he said he did, I said, “Good you’re getting the same thing.” He laughed, “That was easy.” “Yep,” I said. “That’s the whole idea.”
To make it easy (and less expensive) for Heather and whoever in my family is left, I want to be cremated and placed (at least most of me) in a biodegradable urn with a sapling. Me and the sapling to be planted at a place of her discretion. I love trees, look at them all the time. I touch their trunks to feel their bark as I ask for help to get through tough times. I find trees very calming. That’s why I want to be one. I want to be one that gives calmness and hope to others. I want to grow tall and make a home for birds and squirrels and raccoons and whoever needs my trunk and my branches for shelter or sustenance. I’ve read that trees have a secret way of communicating among themselves; even when the tree dies it’s still a part of its surroundings and is still useful, a home for those who need it, a place for fungi to grow, and eventually, soil for more trees. Probably the trees it has sent out as seeds.
Yes, I want to end up a tree. No need for a stone or an epitaph. No need for a place to visit. If you want to honor my memory, just go to a tree…
Or to a specific tree — the Holy Hawthorn Tree on Wearyall Hill in Glastonbury. That’s where I would like the small remainder of my…uh…remains to be scattered. I’ve always felt a connection to England, to Glastonbury, to the Arthurian Legends. The legend of the Hawthorn tree on the hill across for the Glastonbury Tor was one of favorites. A tree grown from where Joseph of Arimathea placed his staff after climbing the hill. And we could discuss the likelihood that it really happened just as we can discuss the likelihood of King Arthur or, for that matter, Jesus. It makes no difference to this old pagan. I love that tree. I love all three legends. I want a part of me to rest there.
All of this was in my will, along with a small bit for any memorial service. Beatles songs. No hymns — just the Fab Four. Especially Ob-La-Di-Ob-La-Da — Life Goes On.
“And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”
Ob-La-Di-Ob-La-Da.
