Until I read From Here to Eternity by Caitlin Doughty, a wonderful little book about death rituals, I had no idea I practised thanatourism. 

Thanatourism is a rarely used term and therefore rather broadly defined, but basically it refers to death or grief tourism. I didn’t know there was a word for what I do.

Kevin can attest that one of my favourite things to do whenever we land in a new country is to visit the cemetery.

 

 

My visit to Mexican cemeteries during Day of the Dead is one of my top travel highlights.

 

 

And one of my favourite cities in the world is Varanasi, because of its holy association with death and the endless cremations taking place on the ghats at the side of the Ganges.

I am also big fan of memento mori, liking nothing better than some skulls and bones tossed around the house.

 

 

 

Growing up I attended many funerals. It was the thing to do in our Mennonite world. The whole congregation was invited to almost every wedding and it was also understood that you paid your respects at every funeral too.

Additionally, I have attended a Death Cafe and a Death Dinner. I am a volunteer with hospice. I’ve held vigils and been bedside when people have died. My art, no matter how hard I try to start out with bright and happy colours, tends to finish with dark blues and blacks (in my defence there is often one hopeful bright spot).

I can still very easily picture my mother, yellow gloves sunk in the soapy dishwater, paused, her head slightly tilted, while she listened to each name on CFVR’s Funeral Announcements. They came on every day right after the hog market report.

Clearly, not only did I grow up quite familiar with death, it is quite obviously a thing with me. Most definitely, a thing.

So, given that I am eminently well-versed in death, you would think I should know better than anyone that planning anything is bordering on the foolish.

 

 

Then again, what else can we do? We have to act as if no one, including ourselves, is in imminent danger of dying. How else can we add something to our day-timer?

Except, now, we have all been plunged into a state of suspended animation.  If death is not directly apparent within our own community, we only have to check the news to see the devastating effects around the world.

The world is still spinning like it always has, but most of us…are not. We have staggered to a stop, paused in a large collective breath while our world grinds to a halt.

It is clear now as to why purgatory is a punishment. You are neither here nor there.

Previous to the pandemic, and quite like everyone else on the planet,  I had made some plans.  Specifically this was a grand plan for my 60th birthday. This, of course, is also rather ridiculous since it’s obvious I’m still in my twenties.

Still, the plan was good.

I had pondered what to do for quite some time. Finally, I decided I wanted an artistic solo pilgrimage. I would drive from our home in Kimberley, BC, down through Montana and onward to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I would stay in Schitt’s Creek style motels en route and I’d booked a little casita close to the town of Santa Fe for my arrival.

 

 

I was registered for an encaustic workshop at the Encaustic Art Institute, the only art gallery in the U.S., that is solely-dedicated to encaustic art.

I would bring my bike along too. The trail along the river would be my cycle path into my classes and for the subsequent days of exploring art galleries, writing in coffee shops and generally soaking up atmosphere, baby, so much damned art and atmosphere. I even made plans to see a friend I’d never met in person. We’d connected online and I was looking forward to seeing her and her art in real life.

 

 

This was going to be a big fat gift of art and time. Happy birthday to me.

It strikes me now as kind of funny, the absolute surety with which I made these plans.

Now, even if the U.S. border were to open by June, I would not even consider driving 27.5 hours (thanks Google Maps), while staying in little motels and eating in diners, all while trying to dodge a highly-infectious virus in a country that has too-many stupid citizens waving guns around for their right to get a haircut.

Not a freaking chance.

That, my darlings, was so then.

And this, this is so now.

Doesn’t it already seem like such a different time? I watch TV shows and find myself observing the crowds, the hugs, the blowing out of birthday candles, the sharing and touching and breathing on each other. It is as antiquated as watching Humphrey Bogart smoking cigarettes in black and white.

In the grand scheme of things, I have lost nothing. I didn’t have this trip before I imagined it and so what has been taken from me? The answer is nothing and the beauty is, I don’t feel particularly bothered by it.

Truly, if this is the biggest hardship I can come up with, well, puh-leeze.

It is a good reminder to plan loosely, remain open to varying conditions, and don’t hold tightly to how anything is ‘supposed to be’.

Life is a force, we only have to watch the emergence of the bright greens of spring to know it’s a powerful dynamic.

So here’s what I know right now: I’m here. You’re here. We’re alive this minute. That’s enough.

This is our new plan-free world. This is our new way of living. We are to hang in the question.

This is the longest most of us have ever been on hold.  It’s strange and disorienting in a world that has dedicated itself to moving forward…always and forevermore, we are taught to go forward.

We are told, and mostly believe, that life is a highway, a linear path that we must always attack in a full-throttle mode.

On your mark! Go! First this! Then that! Then this!

It turns out that life is not linear. It never was. There is nowhere to get to. There is no goal.

Kicking and screaming, this pandemic has pushed us into the depths of our lives. We are finally learning, it’s okay to simply be.

Staying alive. That’s our job. We are doing the Bee Gees proud.

And the sooner we fully immerse ourselves in that thought, the easier this will be.

What a strange way to finally take in the lesson.