Winter months of solitude bring thoughts of death. What might have been, what still might be, what was, was not, and won't.
I have prepared Muslim, Christian, and Baha'i mortal remains for their final resting place. Very few acts of service have I been allowed to do that have honored me more. I have been honored to be called mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend. Cousin, niece, aunt. I long to be called Baha'i, but that isn't really for here. It is what I call myself but if I will be called that only time will tell.
In preparing someone's loved one's remains for their final rest it is truly unbelievable the amount of trust they have in you and it is with a shock each time when I realize how much they wish to know that this last act is taken so solemnly, so carefully, and done so sacredly with love. Your hands are their hands, your eyes are theirs, your lips, theirs, as you chant the prayers they want said. Your ears theirs as you listen to the music they wish played and your minds eye theirs, too, as you see the life of "once was" passing softly as wisps from the smoke of candle wicks, sputtering in soft evening light.
Attar of rose oil rubbed into the skin, the more pure and pungent leaves my hands tinged purple, and then the body is wrapped in swathes of silk. Round and round, billowing up and down, and around and tucked in. A final cocoon and hand stitched so as to not become disturbed with the rocking of the casket. A few times, on this final wrap, an assortment of pins frames the face or adorns the chest. "#1 Dad" reads one, "Love" says another, a shamrock pin, a bowling pin, a teddy bear. Love notes to be tucked in now. A poem from a grandchild, a drawing from nephew, a song sheet from an old love. Closure, the ache shared is not as heavy as those born alone.
I think of these caskets of love. The honor that people give in these last moments and I think of those who die alone, none to honor them, love them, hold them, wash this world from them and today I ache for them. So much senseless death, so many dieing alone, so many not caring from one moment to the next who is going without when they are so focused on who has more then they do. And I ache for them.
A child, alone, no one to hold it for those final moments, no one to wash the cares away, the soil that was this world, rest the head on the pillow, kiss the closed eye good night, to say good-bye. And I ache for that one.
I have prepared Muslim, Christian, and Baha'i mortal remains for their final resting place. Very few acts of service have I been allowed to do that have honored me more. I have been honored to be called mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend. Cousin, niece, aunt. I long to be called Baha'i, but that isn't really for here. It is what I call myself but if I will be called that only time will tell.
In preparing someone's loved one's remains for their final rest it is truly unbelievable the amount of trust they have in you and it is with a shock each time when I realize how much they wish to know that this last act is taken so solemnly, so carefully, and done so sacredly with love. Your hands are their hands, your eyes are theirs, your lips, theirs, as you chant the prayers they want said. Your ears theirs as you listen to the music they wish played and your minds eye theirs, too, as you see the life of "once was" passing softly as wisps from the smoke of candle wicks, sputtering in soft evening light.
Attar of rose oil rubbed into the skin, the more pure and pungent leaves my hands tinged purple, and then the body is wrapped in swathes of silk. Round and round, billowing up and down, and around and tucked in. A final cocoon and hand stitched so as to not become disturbed with the rocking of the casket. A few times, on this final wrap, an assortment of pins frames the face or adorns the chest. "#1 Dad" reads one, "Love" says another, a shamrock pin, a bowling pin, a teddy bear. Love notes to be tucked in now. A poem from a grandchild, a drawing from nephew, a song sheet from an old love. Closure, the ache shared is not as heavy as those born alone.
I think of these caskets of love. The honor that people give in these last moments and I think of those who die alone, none to honor them, love them, hold them, wash this world from them and today I ache for them. So much senseless death, so many dieing alone, so many not caring from one moment to the next who is going without when they are so focused on who has more then they do. And I ache for them.
A child, alone, no one to hold it for those final moments, no one to wash the cares away, the soil that was this world, rest the head on the pillow, kiss the closed eye good night, to say good-bye. And I ache for that one.
2 comments:
If you want to be called a Baha'i, do your own independent investigation of Baha'ullah and if you find yourself believing that Baha'ullah is the latest manifestation of God's Covent to man. Then you are a Baha'i.
My Suggestion is that you find a Baha'i in your area or go to the official website and get started.
good luck.
Thank-you for the concern, dear one. At the moment of death, however, is when one will truly know if one is a Baha'i. One may call oneself whatever they want. One may sign a declaration card, as I have done, and sit on an Assembly, as I do, and serve in a multitude of capacities, as I have been honored to do, however, it is not I who may chose that name for myself: "I beseech Thee to grant, from the ocean of Thy bounty and the day-star of Thy heavenly grace, that I may be cursed, reviled and denounced a myriad times for the sake' of Thy love, that these ears of mine may but once be blessed by hearing Thy sweet words: "Verily thou art of the people of Baha".'
(Baha'u'llah, Compilations, Fire and Light, p. 12)
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