I redeemed my Thanksgiving Elmer’s glue-like disaster with some pretty passable smashed potatoes yesterday. We had some old friends over for Sunday dinner. The sort of friends who feel like a soft, sentimental sweater you’ll never outgrow and never, ever give away. The sort of sweater you might like to be wearing when you die. In your sleep.
We did discuss death, actually. And later, when I met with another small group of friends, we also talked about our mortality. I suppose winter inspires the subject.
At the lunch table, our friend John said that ours was the kind of meal he’d want to be served on Death Row—his “last supper”: Pot roast, potatoes, green beans, coconut cake. These morbid reflections prompted others to ponder their preferred final feast, while one friend wondered aloud whether such a meal might not be a waste of food. Ugh!
At my evening gathering, we exchanged small gifts and epiphanies about Epiphany…and other important days highlighting the liturgical calendar. We come from congregations that barely acknowledge occasions such as Epiphany, the Baptism of our Lord (which high-church Christians celebrated yesterday), and All Saints Day, which of course celebrates the lives—and deaths—of those who have progressed to the heavenly realms.
We don’t typically talk about death, and we don’t always tell the truth about life. But the truth is: We’re all dying…or, we’re all going to die…or, we’re all moving in the direction of death, at a pace unknown to us. Any way you want to spin it—or deny it—death awaits us. I, for one, do not dread it—not as one without hope. (At least, I say I don’t. Perhaps fear would attack me like a ravenous animal if I really were facing it, toe to hoof.)
Meanwhile, I am awaiting the birds. With Epiphany behind us and guests to help us, I asked John and Will to relocate our Christmas tree to the backyard, where I decorated it with suet cakes and birdseed bells. Word has not gotten out yet, but I feel fairly certain that it will. Then we will perpetuate life for our feathered friends, who suitably serve as a metaphor for the nearly indescribable necessity of this sun-starved season:
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
—Emily Dickinson
