Welcome to Carved in Stone.This is a diary or journal of my personal impressions, contemplations, insights, odd connections, and dialogues about death. Entries will be added on an irregular basis which means 'when the mood strikes me.' These thoughts come from my perspective as a human, nurse, buddhist, an avid reader, and the web master of a death, dying and grief web site. If reading this diary makes you depressed you are missing the point and need to further explore your feelings about death or get professional counseling. I am an upbeat person and this diary should be read with that in mind. I fully accept the fact I am going to die someday.
If you have thoughts you'd like to share about this *diary* or about the topics of death, dying or grief, send them to:
webster@ katsden.com with
SUBJECT: CARVED IN STONEIf I find your perspectives or insights interesting, I'll mention them here. I will use my best judgment as whether to list your comments with your name or anonymously. Do let me know which you prefer. I'm interested in philosophy and true spirituality and/or feelings -- not proselytizing or commercialism.
If you discover any of the links I use in the diary are no long working, skip over them. I don't plan on updating links if they become defunct. I will try to use web sites most likely to be permanent. This is after all a diary. I shouldn't have to go back and edit.
Journal Index
- Pool of Death - 7/6/97
- Sunflower - 7/7/97
- Moonflower - 7/10/97
- The Faithful Dog - 7/15/97
- Elvis at Peace - 8/16/97
- A Diana Goodbye - 8/31/97
- Mothers Fruit of Love - 9/6/97
- Halloween and Humanity - 10/23/97
Sunday July 6, 1997While sitting outside today before going to work, I noticed a tiny baby lizard clinging to the white stone blocks in my carport. I have no idea if it was an anole, common lizard, skink or gecko as I haven't figured them all out yet. Florida is filled with these wonderful small creatures. This particular lizard entertained me with a few back flips then jumped off the wall and skimmed across a small puddle left by recent rains. We've had some malathion recently dumped on the Tampa Bay area in an attempt to eradicate the medfly. According to a study cited at a web site maintained by Dr. Wayne Sinclair MD specializing Asthma, Allergy & Immunology from Vero Beach, FL and Richard W. Pressinger, MEd from Tampa, FL, lizards develop liver and kidney damage at very low levels. I wondered if my little friend the lizard was swimming in a "pool of death," if not for itself for its offspring. Are we as a human society killing our environment a little bit at a time with many oblivious to it?
Monday July 7, 1997Another very hot day in Florida. The sunflowers in my garden seem to enjoy it though. I planted the smaller variety so that they are about as high as my face. The sunflower is botanically classified as Helianthus annus, and belongs to the Compositae family. The generic name Helianthus stems from the Greek helios, "the sun," and anthos, "a flower." In the US, you can generally plant them right into the ground from about March to September.
We grow sunflowers in our garden purely to enjoy the beauty, but they are a crop plant in some parts of the world, either for their seed or oil. So we expect that a sunflower will go through a cycle of birth from seed, growth, then finally death. People can easily look on the birth/death cycle of plants as a natural act but seem stubborn about doing that for humans and animals. I wonder why that is.
Sunflowers are now being used to extract radioactive materials at Chernobyl and in the United States. These plants may have the ability to remove radioactive metals much cheaper than existing technologies. There is an interesting article called More on Sunflowers written by David Krieger from the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation.
Sunflower Sutra is a poem written in 1955 by Allen Ginsberg, the famous Beat poet. Ginsberg had been inspired and "envisioned" when he heard the following poem about the sunflower in 1948. Both poems include allusions to death and life.
Ah! Sunflower! William Blake, 1794 Ah! Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveler's journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go! And last but not least, while you still hold the image of the sunflower in your mind, read this wonderful story I accidentally found (or was it synchronicity?) on the web entitled The Leave-Taking by Taylor Stanndard in an ezine called the Blue Penny Quarterly. An incredible short story about breast cancer and the sunflower. Get out your kleenex first, please.
Thursday July 10, 1997
There is something special about the time in our lives when we are able to grasp and accept our own mortality. If you had told me when I was 20 years old that I would someday see the spiritual as the most important side of life, I would have laughed in your face. The world changes and we change. There is both joy and pain in this impermanence.
My in-laws have a lovely garden and recently planted Moonflowers. These are annual plants related to the Morning Glory, sometimes referred to as Lady-of-Night or Virgin's Cuff, or St. Michael. A climbing plant, Ipomoea alba has the unusual habit of blooming only at night and is extremely fragrant. I took this photograph as the sun was setting, the blooms only beginning to open.Sunflower and moonflower; yin and yang, birth and death. If we always seek the light and never look into the darkness, we will miss exploring some beautiful connections. If we focus only on the negative and dark side and neglect joy, inspiration and hope -- we risk a life of quiet despair.
To see the World in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour... --William Blake, from Auguries of Innocence
Tuesday July 15, 1997Mont Vernon is a small town with a population of just over 1800 people, nestled between Milford and New Boston in southern New Hampshire. I was born and grew up in NH, and had the pleasure of living in Mont Vernon for a short time many years ago. Remarkable features of the town as I remember it include a lone store with a gas station, a post office, and delightful Yankee people.
Some warm hearted locals befriended me. One lazy NH summer day Frank and Siddy Tower convinced me to visit their small yet beautiful cemetery located in the middle of town on Route 13. I have enjoyed photographing cemeteries ever since that day. The most interesting feature of the graveyard is a statue of a dog possibly a blue tick hound located near the grave of a William Bruce.
The local myth as related by these locals is as follows:
Back in the 1800's, William Bruce had gone hunting with his dog and accidentally shot himself. The dog went for help but unfortunately arrived back too late to save him. William was buried in Mont Vernon cemetery. His loyal dog refused to leave his masters burial place and eventually died at the grave site.
The oral tradition states the dog was buried at the same location as his master and the stone dog was erected in his memory. I remember reading a newspaper article written about the statue that attempted to debunk this local traditional version . Old church records were destroyed in a fire so any story is partly conjecture. If given a choice, I'll go with the oral tradition.
Whether truth or myth, it is a tale of love and loyalty and not the first time this type of story has been told. Consider the tale of Greyfriars Bobby in Edinburgh Scotland. In 1858, a shepherd named John "Jock" Gray died of tuberculosis and was buried in Greyfriars churchyard. His Skye terrier kept vigil at his grave for over 14 years, become a town hero and was dubbed "most faithful little dog who ever lived." They buried the dog in the churchyard with his master. The Bobby story has been the focus of books and a Disney film.
So what is the point of all of this? To sum it up simply, with apologies to Alexander Pope, I believe from my heart...
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, The faithful dog shall bear her company. The news coverage is so powerful that it would take a hermit to miss the fact that today is the 20th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley. But this commentary is not written for the fans of Elvis nor his detractors. It is about one view of death.
The picture shown is of Elvis and Priscilla on their May 1967 wedding day. I doubt thoughts of death were part of that day as such ceremonies are idyllic occasions with a focus toward the future, on home and children. Little did they realize that later they would share the grief of divorce, with a child split between them.
Elvis celebrated his birth in Tupelo Mississippi on January 8, 1935 with a death. He was one of identical twins born to Vernon and Gladys Presley, his twin brother Jesse Garon born dead. In August 1958, Gladys Presley died at the age of 46 and Elvis was overwhelmed with grief and despair at the loss of his mother. "He would never be the same" says the Elvisology at the Graceland home page.
No matter how famous or unknown, rich or poor, all beings experience grief and loss during their lives, and eventually die. There is no escape, no avoidance, no place to hide from it. Not even for a hound dog or a King.
There'll be no sadness, no sorrow
No trouble, trouble I see
There will be peace in the valley for me, for me
Well the bear will be gentle
And the wolves will be tame
And the lion shall lay down by the lamb, oh yes
And the beasts from the wild
Shall be lit by a child
And I'll be changed, changed from this creature that I am, oh yes
There will be peace in the valley for me, some day
[From Peace in the Valley, recorded January 13, 1957 by Elvis Presley]Once more the news is centered on the death of a famous person. Early this morning, Diana, Princess of Wales, died after a car accident in Paris -- along with her friend Dodi Fayed and others in the same car. I extend the sincerest of sympathies to the families of all who died in this terrible accident. It will be an intense loss to Diana's children Princes William and Harry along with her friends, family, and country. In addition, the world has lost an international ambassador of caring.
Diana recently showed the depth of her caring as she visited a Sarajevo cemetery in Bosnia, comforting an old woman who had come to lay flowers at a grave -- Diana embraced her as the woman cried. Diana was in Bosnia campaigning on behalf of the Landmine Survivors Network to raise awareness of suffering caused by mines. Per their website, landmines have killed more civilians than nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons combined. Those who survive land mines are often maimed and crippled. Diana had also been known for her support to many charities related to homeless and deprived children, drug abuse, and victims of acquired immune deficiency syndrome (AIDS).
It is especially sad to hear that a breed of celebrity photographers better know as 'paparazzi' may have contributed to the death of Diana and her companions through their persistence in hunting her down for a single snapshot. One Los Angeles celebrity photographer proudly calls himself a scummerazzi.
But we as a society are as responsible as those who take the photographs. If we did not buy the magazines and newspapers that use paparazzi pictures, there would be no high prices paid for them. Just a year ago and also in France, Princess Diana was beseiged by paparazzi while with her sons on holiday. Perhaps next time we see a newspaper or tabloid well-known for use of such stalking photographs, our hands will flinch away before we touch or buy one.
In ending, here is a poem that I selected in memory of Diana, the loving mother and the compassionate human.
YES, thou art gone ! and never more
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
But I may pass the old church door,
And pace the floor that covers thee.May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that, frozen, lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
'Tis still a comfort to have seen;
And though thy transient life is o'er,
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form so angel fair,
United to a heart like thine,
Has gladdened once our humble sphere[A Reminiscence by Anne Bronte, English poetess, April 1844]
Friday, September 6, 1997"We can do no great things; only small things with great love."
Mother Teresa
This morning, Mother Teresa died in Calcutta India. Born and given the name Agnes, she took the name Sister Teresa after Saint Teresa of Lisieux, the patroness of missionaries. This compassionate Roman Catholic nun and founder of the Missionaries of Charity was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979. The heart of her missions was the place she called home, a clinic called Nirmal Hriday (Pure Heart) or Home for Dying Destitutes in Calcutta.
Some feel her work made her a living saint. Her message to the world was one of love for all. She dedicated her life to helping the poor, the sick, and the dying around the world. A simple human being with a large heart. The world has lost its mother.
The following is a prayer that she often gave to others in the form of business card.
The fruit of silence is prayer
the fruit of prayer is faith
the fruit of faith is love
the fruit of love is service
the fruit of service is peace.
October 31st is celebrated in the U.S. by an event referred to as Halloween. Children go door to door dressed in costumes, yell "trick of treat" and get candy, fruit or other treats dropped into their bags. It marks the transition from autumn to winter. Some say it is a day of recognition of the unseen world and the ordinary person's access to it, as well as the acceptance of death as a natural and illusory part of life -- central to the sacred nature of All Hallow's Eve.
Known as Samhain (pronounced "sow-en") in the Celtic calendar, it once marked the beginning of the new year. This ancient fire festival was a time to ponder through spiritual realization of the transient nature of life, grasping at the promise of rebirth. The dead were honoured and feasted, not as the dead, but as the living spirits of loved ones and of guardians who hold the root wisdom of a tribe.
The Mexican culture has a similar day on November 2nd called Dia de los Muertos or Day of the Dead. The celebration’s main element is the offering-altar that people build inside their homes designed in homage to one's ancestors. It is a day of joyous remembrance, not of sadness -- with festive celebrations, cemeteries cleaned and decorated, and special food and candies cooked. The indigenous people of Mexico and Central America believed that the dead are always living within the memory, spirit and life of those who love them.
Americans have lessons to be learned from these cultures. To be born and to die is the amazing duality of a human being and of everything that exists. Perhaps we should learn how to celebrate death as fervently as we do life.
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
[John Keats - The Human Seasons]
Copyright © Kathi Webster, 1996, 1997. All rights reserved.
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