Five crows have gathered in our backyard labyrinth on a dazzling winter morning. Our neighborhood is pretty hoppin’, corvid-wise, but our yard has never been the murder capital. I wonder what brings them here.
Then I see the sixth crow—and the squirrel. Frozen and decapitated, the squirrel is providing a sumptuous feast for our black-winged visitors.
One of my personal credos is “We are not the Story.” The Cosmos began to spin its tale aeons before any of us arrived, and it will continue to do so long after even our beloved planet is just a memory. When telling our stories of place, perspective—in time as well as space—matters immensely. Seen from the crows’ point of view, this is a story of feast and triumph. Seen from the squirrel’s, it is a one of tragedy and loss.
Or is it? The essence of what that squirrel was when alive has passed; yet, in the sustenance it provides the crows, it continues to participate in the Story. Its last chapter is, in a way, also its first (or, to stretch the metaphor, the first of a sequel): its first chapter in the guts of a crow; its first as nutrient-rich fertilizer on the ground; its first as, perhaps, a Douglas fir or a phlox plant. Altruism plays no part in the gift—the squirrel, given its druthers, would surely have chosen to continue the starring role it was playing in its own life and withhold this particular generosity as long as possible. But that does not minimize the rich story of its gift, of the future tales its death makes possible.
Crow Attack by Carrie Sloan. Some rights reserved.
We might all, I think, do well to consider how our physical selves will continue participating in the Story after we die. I often feel saddened by the way in which humans have unbalanced the equation. We have grown so adept at taking, yet two of our greatest opportunities for giving back to Earth’s natural cycles—excreta and remains—many cultures have sealed off almost completely. Our wastes (unless we have composting toilets…dang, I love composting toilets) rush down pipes away from us and away from any fertilizing benefit it might hold. And although there are cultures, and individuals in our own culture, who reverently place the bodies of our beloved dead in the open, to feed the other lives of their place, most of us lock them away the bodies in urns or nearly indestructible coffins that will “protect” us from the natural processes of decay and transformation.
I hope I’ll live long enough to receive burial in a natural or “green” cemetery here in Minnesota, like the one in Wisconsin overseen by Circle Sanctuary (and support the efforts of organizations like the Full Circle Project to make that happen). If I don’t, I hope that my loved ones could find something like Martín Azúa’s Bios Urn. It is my small way of trying to rebalance the equation, of making a real offering back to the Earth in exchange for all I have taken.
We are not the Story, but we participate in its telling every moment of every day, even after this particular chapter of ourselves ends. We all offer one final gift to this planet we love. May we, like the squirrel, make it a generous one.
Very nice. Are you reading my mind? I have had a story to submit rattling about in the back of my mind regarding this very subject (albeit, from a slightly different angle). I am disheartened by our cultural denial of death. Our obsession with ‘eternal life’ makes us do terrible things like fill our dead bodies with toxic preservatives. Even if we don’t choose that option, our alternatives are few, far between & often, prohibitively expensive. I look forward to a day when we have a more, as you say, giving culture of death.
Moma Fauna, NUP has a sort of death motif going on lately; I’ve seen several posts along those lines in the past couple weeks. I don’t know if we’ve been inspiring each other, or if it’s just on everyone’s mind right now.
I hope you submit that story!
One of the things that comforts me is the idea that after I die my body will remain in the cycle of life and death, my molecules becoming parts of other beings as it has been more slowly throughout life. We do have a green cemetery right outside of Portland where I intend to be buried in a shroud. Why would I want to shut myself out of a cycle I’ve been a part of from the moment I was conceived, even if “I” didn’t exist at that point?
Thanks for the comments, Lupa. Some people seem to think that somehow, by embalming the dead and putting them in indestructable coffins, that we are somehow “sparing” them the “indignity” of decay. But we remain in the cycle no matter what. The chemicals and the coffins only slow the process.
The other day, I listened to a presentation by a medical examiner, who mentioned exhuming 30-year-dead remains, and how well-preserved the embalming left them. I know it’s a boon for her work, but while she was talking about it, I kept thinking, *But WHY?!?*