I was imagining my funeral and the only people I could see there were my daughters being comforted by a friend who lives locally. I thought maybe one of my sisters might come. I found it hard to imagine my parents would bother. Work? No-one, I’m self-employed. Neighbours? Unlikely. The church? Someone might come to hide the embarrasment that the strain of being evicted from a church property had ended thus. My spiritual friends? They’re all online. Would they even know?
This was part of a dark suicidal fantasy that accompanied the rupturing of dreams that had kept hope alive in me through the ending of an abusive relationship. As my faith, work, financial security, health, even the roof over my head disappeared into the vortex, my mind spiralled into places I never imagined I’d find myself. On the worst days, I felt I had nothing left. It wasn’t true, lots of beautiful things remained – most especially my daughters, but in my fevered state of despair, I entertained the phantasm.
This post isn’t really about abuse or suicidal ideation; the recollection of the image I had created of my fictitious funeral returned to me today while writing my book about planning an holistic funeral. My view is that community and ritual are central to a meaningful funeral but, in our modern world where so much occurs online, what is community as it relates to the way we hold death and the social performance of ceremony? As my imaginary sparsely attended funeral popped into my mind I was reminded of how this image has pressed me to examine how I live and experience community day-to-day.
- If you were to imagine your funeral who would be there?
- How do you feel looking at those you fantasize might show up?
- And this is the important bit, what does it say about your life now?
The meagre company at my fantasy funeral spoke to the chronic depletion of community and support networks in my life. As I have regained my equilibrium, part of my recovery has also been to foster richer connections, consciously court community and opine on the legacy I want to leave my daughters. Not in order that there’ll be a bustling crowd to see me off or glowing eulogies spread across social media, rather so that my life is well-lived, now, in the present.
You don’t need to be wrestling with the dementors to meaningfully explore what your fantasy funeral says about your life as it is in the present. Who is the community you see in your mind’s eye gathering around your ending? How does that relate to your experience of community in your day-to-day life? Is there anything you would change in light of this thought experiment?
The changes I’m making on the back of this reflection is to acknowledge the devastating effect a long-term abusive relationship has had on my circle of friends and networks of support. I’m mindfully restoring connection with people I care about. A recent trip to my family of origin to celebrate my mum’s birthday at a party she refused to attend, reminded me that however they choose to show up to family events, is their business and not mine to control. What is in my purview is my response to them and I’m doing that by looking gently at the pain I feel about not being held in the bosom of the family when I’ve most needed it.
I’m also evaluating the way I work and I’m prioritising travelling to face-to-face meetings rather than always settling for online options. I’ve got death cafes and a road trip planned to visit the End of Life Planning Facilitators who make up Dandelion, the online community I manage, during which we’ll co-host events on all things grief and end of life. I’m thinking grassroots, local, in-person.
My spiritual community is the conundrum I’m still toying with. Funerals are traditionally the church’s moxie but having felt with full force the disjuncture between message and administration, I’m done with official churchdom. However, my heart is still religious and I savour the friendships that are being fomented over earnest discussions about A Course in Miracles. It’s not a practical text and it lends itself to the disembodied condition of a virtual meeting. This means that those I share the deepest understandings about the meaning of life are people I have very little in-person connection with. My idea of ‘church’ is one that includes ritual, spiritual discussion, shared values and mutual support. My virtual friends, however, couldn’t pop over and help me move when I was crawling through the days in a haze of terror that the bailifs would be at the door any minute, because they live hundreds of miles away. Equally, when one of our group was sick, we didn’t create a rota to take food over; there’s been no-one there to drop in for a cuppa just to touch base if someone’s been away for a while. Our spiritual companionship doesn’t spill over into practical help.
This seems to me to be a real dilemma of our time. Seen through the prism of the imagined funeral where spirituality and community would traditionally have been the same thing, there’s an invitation here to begin re-imagining community so that we are held and resourced at the most critical times in our lives. I don’t have answers to profer here but I am mulling on what I need to do to bring the richness of community into my life more fully. It’s making me more curious about the people around me and more willing to show up authentically. What’s interesting about the funeral scenario is that the imagined community gathers in absentium! Reflecting on death, dead being my role in this rehearsal, is opening up in me greater depths of acceptance for all that has been lost and for everything that will ultimately be lost.
If you would like help to imagine your own funeral and address what arises from this introspection, please feel free to check out what I’m offering.