The Google Lunar XPRIZE, and Offerings for the Moon

Moon Dance

Have you heard of the Google Lunar XPRIZE? XPRIZE is a foundation that creates incentivized prize competitions "to bring about radical breakthroughs for the benefits of humanity, thereby inspiring the formation of new industries and the revitalization of markets." Google created its Lunar XPRIZE to stimulate a grassroots generation of low-cost space exploration and entrepreneurship. Thirty privately-funded teams from all over the world have entered the race, which requires extreme feats of engineering. To win, the teams must create a spacecraft that can escape the Earth's gravity, travel 400,000 miles on a precise trajectory toward the Moon, slow down at just the right moment to enter its orbit, and successfully touch down on the Moon's surface. Then the robotic craft must travel 500 meters, and initiate a "mooncast" to deliver new images back to Earth. The winner gets 30 million dollars.

Planetariums across the country recently began showing Back to the Moon for Good, a film about the Google Lunar XPRIZE that chronicles our interface with the Moon, and proposes future scenarios of space enterprise. Tim Allen narrates this film, which features an epic musical score and over-the-top graphics that echo a prize so big they put it in CAPS. The film evokes a mix of inspiration and exasperation. On the one hand, it fosters awe of space as a frontier and of our technological capabilities. On the other, it propels a shortsighted and hyper-masculine approach to exploration.

While Back to the Moon for Good does not necessarily speak for the 30 teams that have applied for the prize, the film itself advocates a new colonialism. Colonialism differs from co-existence in that it depends on a set of unequal relationships. The film starts by listing the resources available on the Moon--water, aluminum, iron, gold, platinum--and explains how they "can help us out." Another scene shows the investigative missile L-Cross crashing headlong into a deep crater to see if the Moon has water. (It does.) The film says we can use this water to breathe, grow food, and make fuel. The film then presents the debris we have left on the Moon as "relics" for the delight of future astronauts. As sophisticated as our wreckage might be, it is essentially garbage. Not only does the film skew the way we perceive our impact on the Moon, but it suggests that we have no plans to clean it up.

Respectful space exploration is not a new idea. Senior research scientist Margaret Race of the SETI Institute has made it her mission to protect the planets. She especially likes to work with people to "develop materials about complex, controversial issues in space exploration and environmental protection." Work like this is crucial because no one has jurisdiction over the Moon or the planets, so we must cooperate globally to create policies that ensure respect.

The Moon enables our very existence, so a simple acknowledgement of reciprocity seems only natural. Our ancestors have honored the Moon for millennia. Attention to symbolism does not undermine scientific advancement, but rather allows us to participate with greater respect and awareness. Historically, anthropocentrism has yielded destruction and depletion on massive scales. We already know the outcome of this narrative. I do not mean to detract from the glory of outward expansion or scientific discovery. Respect and discovery go hand-in-hand, as do sustainability and entrepreneurship.

Think of it this way: When we go to someone's house, we show up with a gift. So far, our modern exchanges with the Moon have been to stake a claim on it, leave our trash on its surface, drill into its crust, and bomb it with a two-ton kinetic weapon. Talk about heavy-handed. Where is our finesse? When we broaden our sense of life to include all elements of a whole system, we understand that our actions on the Moon initiate a cascade of measures in the system's attempt to self-regulate. How much do we want to tinker with the Earth's satellite?

Without a doubt, we demonstrate respect for the Moon by devoting years of effort and expertise to exploring it. But this is not enough. We have the opportunity to give back. Giving is the highest form of innovation. What better way to express the playful generosity of our genius than to literally bring an offering to the Moon? It is the gesture itself that changes the story.

I would like to invite the participants of the Google Lunar XPRIZE to create a new narrative by answering some or all of the following questions, which will positively alter your course for the Moon. Replies can be sent to offeringsforthemoon@gmail.com, and will be published upon receipt. This is a great way to generate enthusiasm and funding for your team.

1. How would you like to show respect for the Moon in a way that gives, rather than takes?

2. If you could bring an offering to the Moon from your culture, what would you choose, and how would you deliver it?

3. How can you build respect for the Moon into your design?

4. a) How do you propose, theoretically or actually, to retrieve your craft after it has fulfilled its purpose? b) How can we reduce our impact on current and future space expeditions?

5. How can you show respect for the Moon another way, here on Earth or out in space?

I propose that XPRIZE modify its mission to benefit not only humanity, but life as a whole. The final images of Back to the Moon for Good give the film's title an ominous ring. We see a lunar surface littered with buildings, cars, satellites, and settlements, expressions of our drive to "gather resources to help us live and work, or explore further." The Google Lunar XPRIZE entices us with a new frontier, and offers us a choice in how we explore it. An offering for the Moon may seem like one small step, but it is a giant leap for humankind.

Remembering Our Ceremonies with Respect to the Elders

Erin Langley

What an interesting time to be alive. Most of us are post-diaspora ancestral mosaics, lumped together under national politics, our tribes and homelands forgotten, colors replacing heritages, compartmentalized into tiny boxes. (I will not check "white," the box that ignores Celt, Anglo-Saxon, Frank, Ashkenazi Jew, Norse, and Cherokee, not to mention the unending backbone that connects me with all of life.) 

It is also a wondrous time to be alive. Google exists. Self-selected families can create beauty on staggering scales. We have relative freedom to choose our paths, as long as we aren't upsetting the NSA, as long as we have privilege, etc. We live among people from all over the world.

We still have so much in common with our ancestors. We are born, we die, we breathe in, we breath out, we dream, we mate, we eat, we eliminate, we emote, we think, we observe. We create ceremony. 

After a weekend of attending the powwow in Berkeley, California, and the Gathering of the Ohlone Peoples in Coyote Hills, I feel strong in my commitment to remember the ceremonies of ancient Europe. In October of 2011, before Mexica-Toltec elder, Sundance chief, and timekeeper Tlakaelel became an ancestor, I told him that we had lost our ceremonies, and asked for his advice. He said, "You must must do a lot of research, keep looking with your heart. If you still do not find any ceremony, then you must create it. You must create it from your heart, with respect to the elders." He held my hand while saying this, and emanated pure love. 

me with Tlakaelel in 2011

I have done my best to take his advice. I have kept an open heart and mind as I move through life. I have read the Celtic sagas, folktales, and books on the alignments of our sacred sites. I have been recording my dreams every single day for 9 years so that I can contribute my waking and dreaming records as a body of work when I meet other people working toward the same end. I know you are out there. 

I look at the European people around me who create ceremony, and I have trouble connecting. In respect and kinship with the participants, I see a lot of substance abuse, and I wonder about the origins of their practices. Don't get me wrong; I'm not a purist. I know we can't make things the way they once were, and I wouldn't want to anyway. I'm just trying to find my place. Tlakaelel said to create new ceremonies only after we have looked, within and without, with respect to the elders. Where are the European tribal elders? They must be in Europe. I am looking here in America, and I am finding only the passage of time, and I am wondering if we are the elders, slowly growing up together.

I look to my friends who are immersed in Lakota ceremony, or Maya healing traditions, or curanderisma, or Hopi, or Hindu, or Chinese cosmology. I am happy for them, especially when they are fortunate enough to have access to their own unbroken ancestral traditions. I do not deny that we can be called to another tradition or that we all share common ancestry, because we can and we do, but it is always good to know who we are first. 

At one time, I would have eagerly attended any ceremony, with a nose-to-the-glass desire to become whatever I witnessed before me. Now I attend strong in myself, as a guest, and thank God for those who are able to have continuity with their homelands and ancestors. It is beautiful.

I am a person of many European clans, a fluid embodiment of bygone tribal eras. What do we do when we are a beautiful, confusing patchwork quilt of cultural expressions? When we are not born on ancient inherited land that stores millennia of ancestral memories? What would a ceremony even look like today? 

Ceremonies were given to the people by the land, the ancestors, and the spirits to create reciprocity between the worlds. They are like a set of instructions that keep communities healthy, that keep our relationships good. We can gauge our relative health by what happens during the ceremony. If things don't go well, that says something. It's a form of divination. If they do go well, that bodes well for the tribe, for the world. 

Ceremonies accumulate power and momentum over thousands of years, especially on our sacred sites, where people would gather. This is why when we go to the special places on our homelands, we can still feel the power there, and can experience awakening very quickly. We are basking in the ceremonial residue of harmonious intent. 

I look around and wonder, "Am I the only one who misses them?" I can't be. This is why thousands of European-descended people flock to powwows, identify so thoroughly with their 1/28th Cherokee heritage, become initiates in other traditions, create new ceremonies the best we can together after generations of colonization, disconnection from our lands, and painful forgetting of our own stories. 

So what do we do? For me, it started with a prayer. My teacher and elder Apela Colorado instructed me to make a traditional offering of mead (honey wine, a common European offering) and say a simple prayer to connect with my ancestors. It worked. This prayer opened a door that a thousand ancestors wanted to step through simultaneously (which can happen if no one in the family is consciously listening to those who have come before us). 

Dr. Apela Colorado (center) with Roger Marty, traditional Occitan Healer, and Voodouin healer and M.D. Erick Gbdossou in the South of France

Our ancestors speak to us in waking life synchronicities and through our dreams. Apela taught me to pay attention and record the things that happen after I made my prayer. I also continued with traditional genealogical research. It all works together. Ancestral remembrance is much easier when we rely on the support and momentum of a circle whose focus is remembering. (But don't let that stop you. You can start out working with just yourself and some guidelines. And, you'll always have unseen help. Do have a stable support system in place to help you through the transformative path of ancestral remembrance.)

Apela was among the first to reawaken to our European indigeny and offer her revelation as a gift for the Earth and we who are walking on it. She grew up identifying with her Native American (Oneida) heritage, but then one day she realized that her Frank ancestors (from France) were just as important as her Oneida ancestors. Luckily for us, she opened a school to help people from any background to reconnect with our native traditions. 

I entered this ceremony of remembrance with a group of people from nearly every continent. We have worked together over many years to remember who we are, our global tribe. We're creating a new way with respect to the old ways. We have seen remembrance become easier for each successive group of students. Our efforts pave the way for each other, like our ancestors paved the way for us. We have also noticed, as the motley crew that we are, that when we keep clear boundaries with our prayers, our lineages speak in turns, very manageably. I learned how to tell the thousand ancestors who wanted to speak all at once, "I'm here. I'm listening. But you gotta form a line."

The ancestors who speak most clearly to me and through me are the Celtic people of Ireland. I am at home in the stone circles. There, I can breathe. The pre-Celtic Neolithic people really understood the relationship between land and sky. They made their observations available to us by building sophisticated stone monuments, which also functioned as ritual centers. 

This weekend at the powwow, the Aztec people (Tlakaelel says their ancient name is the Atlan) explained that their ancestors were sky watchers, too, who embedded their observations in dance. The dancers were not spinning and bouncing at random; each move embodies a relationship between the Heavens and Earth.

I thought about Irish dancing. Although far younger than the Atlan dances, surely the Irish dances I know and love didn't appear out of thin air. I wonder about their stylistic precedent, or if the content reflected the heavenly motions. In Ireland, star charts are everywhere. Each mound is a precise archive of our heavenly dance. The petroglyphs, too, record lunar, solar, and stellar patterns. The River Boyne is said to be a reflection of the Milky Way.

Ann Marie Sayers, photo by thecaliforniamissionride.org

Yesterday at the Gathering of the Ohlone, I saw elder, Tribal Chair of Indian Canyon, and storyteller Ann Marie Sayers, who I have admired for years. I walked up to her and told her so, and also mentioned that I was working toward the recovery of my people's native ceremonies. She looked at me with a twinkle in her eye, and said, "They're coming back!" 

This was one of the first times I'd heard this from an elder. It was music to my ears, and I know it's true. In fact, Apela just returned from a ceremony in the caves of Dordogne, France, conducted by an indigenous elder of the (European) Occitan culture. She offers this picture and words about her experience:

photo courtesy of Apela Colorado

"In the presence of shamans from around the world, Jean Paul Amanieu, member of the ancient Occitan indigenous people of southern France, calls to Ancestors and for their help in renewing the indigenous spirituality and traditions of his people. The Occitan culture has survived a thousand years of oppression from the Romans and Catholic Church Inquisitions, and in modern times, French government policies aimed at destroying the language and any vestiges of culture. This moment marks a renaissance and is a beacon of hope for the entire western world."

I dream of participating in such an event. I already am, in my own way. Every effort counts, and before we know it, our lifetimes of effort have contributed to something beautiful. Bringing authentic European ceremonies into a modern context might sound like a lot of work, and it is. But it's also fun. I'm living my dream. It is an honor to help pave the way for the growing movement of remembrance. 


. . .


A huge thank you to Apela for all you do and have done, for my circle of friends who are walking the path with me, and to my ancestors, who make all of this possible. 

Go raibh maith agaibh! 

Herbal Medicine on Its Own Terms

image unattributed

I have seen many articles making the rounds lately that discuss the "active chemical constituents" of herbal medicines and whole foods. And why not? This is how we create and analyze western pharmaceuticals, and how we describe their mechanisms of action. Curing Chemophobia: Do Not Buy Alternative Medicine by Michelle M. Francl takes this method of distillation a step further by using it to compare ancient herbal medicine with modern western medicine. (Read her article to get the nuances of her opinion, and I'll summarize my understanding of it here.)

Ms. Francl compares one molecule of methotrexate, a western pharmaceutical that can treat arthritis, with a molecule of quercetin, present in the Chinese formula Four Marvels Powder (Si Miao Wan), which can also treat arthritis. She asserts that each of these toxic molecules can have a litany of adverse effects on the body, but at least methotrexate has been studied (by western science) and dosed with precision. Why should we place more trust the more benign-sounding substance, especially because we do not know its exact dosage, and because it is not in our western medical canon? 

Francl's analysis is based on the assumption that breaking down these two medical systems into isolated constituents is an accurate or equitable way to compare them. But quercetin does not equal Four Marvels Powder, just as antioxidants do no equal blueberries. This modern metonymy is not poetic. It is an expression of our limited perspective. Maybe it is even a symptom of not feeling whole. In any case, I am calling into question this popular method of analysis.

I agree, of course, that dosage and precedent are crucial. I agree that nearly all known phenomena have a chemical correspondence. (I am excluding quantum weirdness, and leaving an openness for mystery.) I also want to emphasize that I love western science for what it can offer. Western medicine can be straight-up miraculous. Without it, I'd be blind for certain (thank you, scleral buckle, cryopexy, and general anesthesia), and perhaps dead from asthma or anaphylaxis (thank you albuterol; thank you epinephrine). 

However, I disagree that subjecting a science borne of holism to the rigors of reductionist Cartesian philosophy, so recent in the grand scheme of things, is a fair means of weighing the two medical traditions against one another. Ms. Francl describes herself as equitable skeptic and pragmatist. I would like to offer some ways to help us all be more equitable and practical in the ways we discuss and compare holistic and modern medicine. (The right doctor can make these two terms interchangeable.) Let's widen our lens out beyond the confines of the modern western mythology of scientism, a term coined by Liu Ming to describe our religious adherence to a mentality which disproves itself continuously as we measure and deduce each newest "truth." 

quercetin

We can draw a molecule of quercetin, which is found in Four Marvels Powder, but this tells us little to nothing about the formula. Breaking down an herbal formula into its "active chemicals" only displays our tendency to reduce and isolate. In the context of herbal medicine, this approach just does't make sense. Singled-out and de-contextualized, yes, quercetin and achyranthine can be damaging to the body when ingested. Western medicine tends to want to extract such compounds from their symbiotic environments to create very potent substances. Don't get me wrong, these substances can be just what the doctor ordered, as it were. 

But don't mis-extrapolate this technology to denounce the ingredients of Four Marvels Powder. They are NOT quercetin, berberine, and achyranthine; they are phellodendron tree bark (huang bai), atractylodes root (cang zhu), and ox knee root (huai niu xi). If you google any of these, you will see pictures of beautiful plants before you. These are dried and decocted by traditional recipes that have thousands of years of research behind them, on willing human participants. When purely-sourced and skillfully blended, these whole substances are synergistically formulated to bring out the best in each other, like old friends. There is no such thing as an inactive ingredient when we are dealing with whole beings. Every "single" "part" plays a vital role. This is what it means to be whole.

Methotrexate was created in a laboratory in the 1940s by a man studying chemical responses in isolation, tested on non-human animals that were deliberately given cancer. He believed that by blocking folic acid absorption, he could prevent cancer cells from spreading. (This mechanism is also what makes methotrexate the "abortion pill.") So, you can see the difference in approach. He studied chemicals, cells, discrete things on unwilling participants with nonhuman physiology fewer than 100 years ago. This is a new way. 

I myself feel that science is absolutely capable of reflecting and respecting living reality. Fortunately for adherents of western science, we don't have to convert to a foreign (i.e., Daoist) or indigenous way of being to embrace a holistic way of participating in phenomena. We have General Systems Theory! Rediscovered and refined by Ludwig von Bertalanffy in the 1930s, systems thinking describes open systems (like bioregions), as alive and self-regulatory, comprised of whole parts. Any terms that try to touch on the implications of animate interdependence is bound to distance us from the dynamic warmth it describes. Systems thinking can be applied to any discipline, including medicine. (I recently spoke with a research analyst who told me that systems thinking is changing the field of data analysis.)

My ubergeeky friend Erin Vang, the "Principle Pragmatist" of her software firm, introduced me to Michelle Francl's article and asked for a response, which you are reading now. She then offered a wonderful example of real-world systems thinking: "Western nutritionism demonized eggs because of the high cholesterol content of yolks, only to learn at least a decade later that the cholesterol was not generally problematic when the yolks were consumed at the same time as--oh, gosh, who could have seen THIS coming?!--egg whites." 

Lastly, I want to address Francl's emphasis on the naming of things. I myself love the art of naming, and believe that a name can bestow great power or simply reflect the nature of phenomena when accurately done. Francl and many others suggest that a medicine's name can affect our perception and willingness to consume it. Chinese herbal products and formulations tend to have more innocuous-sounding names, therefore some people can wrongly consider them to be inherently safer as a general rule.

She explains that if western drugs had pleasant, pronounceable names, we would (and do) feel safer using them. This is why we take "Celexa" for depression, rather than "Citalopram Hydrobromide." However, changing the name of methotrexate to "spirit of feathers" (Greek meth: spirits; Greek pterin: feathers) as the author suggests, does not change its origin story, or, in my opinion, reflect its nature. The names of the natural plant substances found in Four Marvels Powder undoubtedly used to vary by region, and reflect their respective natures. This clear relationship between signifier and signified can still often be found in the Chinese characters or, for non-Chinese speakers, in the pin yin. For example, phellodendron bark, or "huang bai," simply means "yellow fir [bark]."

In the end, I jibe more with tree bark than I do with methotrexate, and not because of their names. There is a classical Chinese maxim that says something like, "If you wait until a person is sick to treat [her], you are not a very good physician." I argue that our interconnectedness with such an imbalanced world makes us all more susceptible to illness today. Perhaps in this time, we may also require more potent medicines. Fortunately, I have not been in a position in which methotrexate or Four Marvels Powder are appropriate treatments. Honestly, I am not sure what I would do if I or my daughter had an illness serious enough to warrant strong medical measures, but I might use either treatment if the proper context arose.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Every March 17, the familiar dichotomy of Patrick versus the snakes raises its controversial head. Some people enjoy the holiday's reverie with a simple appreciation for Irish heritage (or a simple desire to have fun), while others believe that St. Patrick's Day condones colonization and drinking to excess. Of course, each view contains truth. A day that used to elicit division and dogma in me now inspires openness and enjoyment. In my opinion, we have a lot to celebrate on St. Patrick's Day. 

Several years ago, I met with Irish elder Kevin O'Kelly over a couple of late-night discussions at Newgrange Lodge in County Meath. He was the first person who suggested to me that perhaps the Christian teachings of St. Patrick dovetailed quite nicely with the Celtic animistic worldview. Paul does not identify himself as Christian. In fact, he leads pilgrimages to the Neolithic sites of Ireland (and preferably on foot, he adds). He knows how to make offerings, and why not to take rocks from sacred sites. He seemed to me a living archive of the land, knowing every inch and all the lore, with respect and sensitivity to the aliveness of it all. Gracefully, he bridges two perspectives I believed were distinct. 

Ireland is one of the only Christian places where people revere the land in a spiritual sense. Never was Patrick able to subdue the snakes to the extent that holy wells are not associated with goddesses, that hills are not embodiments of hags or "paps," that standing stones are not phalluses [sic]. The landscape lives, right along side Christian ways. This is not a problem. In the words of Patricia Monaghan, "In Ireland, Christianity arrived without lions and gladiators, survived without autos-de-fe and Inquisitions. The old ways were seamlessly bonded to the new, so that ancient rituals continued, ancient divinities became saints, ancient holy sites were maintained just as they had been for generations and generations."

I do not condone imposing beliefs on other people, no matter the scale. I take this statement to heart. Please don't believe what I say; investigate your own hearts, dig into the Celtic sagas, consult your dreams. If the controversy surrounding St. Patrick's day exists because we are attempting to honor our indigenous ancestors, then perhaps we need to examine our methodology. Our anger is an irony, an "us" against "them," a continuity of colonial karma. Anger and dogma do nothing to serve the ways we seek to honor and evoke. Facing my own feelings waives my ability to blame, and frees me up for sincere, inspired offerings. This, I believe, is so helpful in the movement of human-beingness. Not only are we more likely to listen to each other, but we are more likely to inhabit our hearts, which is essential to remembering who we are.

To overlook the colonizer in ourselves is to deny a painful part of our human experience, akin to how many of our own ancestors wanted to forget about the pain of their respective "old countries" as they emigrated to America, or other parts of the world. I understand the refusal to discuss a painful past with our progeny, as I am less likely to talk about my personal trespasses and traumas than I am other experiences. However, denial does nothing to preserve the continuity of our stories as a human race, which I feel is so important to a rooted understanding of self. 

To deny St. Patrick's Day is also to deny my history, including the positive impact that Christianity has had on my family. My mother's family is Catholic, and my father's is Southern Baptist, and I respect and value that. But even indigenous customs have survived through hundreds of years of suppression to make their way into St. Patrick's Day festivities. This may sound like a paradox, but hear me out.

First and foremost, our ancestors loved to celebrate. I am certain that the Earth, which cued our causes for celebration, became used to humanity's rhythmic galas. I imagine our ancestors longing to sing, dance, eat, and drink through us, together in community. "When's the next party?" I hear them ask.

In the investigation of my own heritage, I have found some correspondences between the ways of the indigenous Irish and the modern manifestation of March 17. (There are bound to be some anyway, as many modern people carry the same blood as those who lived in Ireland before Patrick.)

One can claim that drinking is a recent substitute for "actual culture," or a modern symptom of colonization (and this wouldn't be false). However, when we read the Celtic sagas, we find that drinking plays a big role in social life even in ancient times. Men and women alike are drunk to the point of belligerent absurdity in the satire of Bricriu's Feast. Many other tales describe similar drunken exploits. Indeed, having to drink water was considered a last resort. (I myself am not a drinker. I'm just telling you what I've found.)

And of course, the color green can be traced back to old Eire as having special significance. We need look no further than Ireland's moniker "Emerald Isle." Ancient Celts also knew that green was the preferred color of faeries, so many people would actually avoid wearing it out of fear or respect for the "Good People," especially among the tribes of Scotland. 

In the oral and subsequently written tradition, we find that humans with green hair possess some sort of gift. The Tain Bo Culainge describes Cuchulain, fiercest warrior in all Ireland, as having green hair when he enters his "warp spasm," or battle fury. In the Destruction of Da Derga's hostel, we meet a well-loved seven year-old boy, "the infant son of Conare, Le Fer Flaith," with tri-colored hair--green, yellow-crimson, and gold--denoting his sensitivity and special nature.

Finally, for me, wearing green approximates wearing a cultural costume, as we have donned together on special days for as long as we've been wearing clothes.  In fact, now of the only times I get to see my people in some semblance of traditional dress occurs on St. Patrick's day with the bright, elaborate frocks of the beloved step dancers. 

The music and dancing that we find on St. Patrick's Day require less historic justification. Yesterday, someone who came to see me dance asked, "How did you get into such a thing as Irish dancing?!" Over the course of the night, I began to wonder how he had gotten "out of" the custom of folk dancing, which we have practiced forever as a people.  

Since millennia of sanctioned singing, story-telling, dancing, and yes, drinking, are condensed into 24 hours every 365 days, it's no wonder the day gets rowdy. Yet I know of no other time when the community at large gathers together in celebration of my ethnic heritage. I choose to embrace the unique opportunity to celebrate with my friends and ancestors, and not without consideration. But having considered these things and more, I feel able to fully relax into the innocent joy that arises when I begin to dance the High Caul Cap, for all of us. 

My Old Friend

My grandma died. A feeling of comfort welled up in me as I kneeled over her corpse. I can't say why. There was something about seeing her body completely devoid of life that reassured me. I don't know of what. 

As I looked at her, my mind began thinking of the employee who must have glued her lips shut to prevent her mouth from gaping open. Later, as we were puting her in the ground, green golf course-looking material carpeted the dirt, even down inside her grave. Men came and peeled it back to reveal the earth, and we each got to sprinkle a handful of it on top of my Grandma. I gave her my necklace. My Uncle Elroy sang her a song in Nez Perce. I am very thankful for this song; it enabled my dad to cry. 

I couldn't stop my mind from thinking about how my grandmother's body would look in a week, two weeks, three weeks, down there inside that coffin. It was made of beautiful wood. Would her fluids leak onto the clean, white lining? I do not know how maggots work. Can they spontaneously hatch in there? Are these thoughts disrespectful? 

So far I have not been able to celebrate Grandma's life. I have only been able to think about death and its implications. How do we so solidly form concepts of ourselves? How do we achieve the continuity that enables strength of identity without becoming rigid? Everything is always changing. My physical form is changing, the thoughts running through it are changing, the environment around me is changing. Change moving through change moving through change. . . 

Still there is a spark, or maybe it is a fluid, that makes me who I am, makes you who you are, even after we have surrendered to all this change. After we pass through the shock of losing our egoic minds, something new arises in their places. Something wiser and better, something that is not afraid of losing its life because its life is fundamental. This is a subtle state, I'd imagine. Is my mind ever quiet enough to even recognize it? This fundamental awareness? 

My seventh grade English teacher, Mr. Long pulled me aside in class one day to say, "I enjoy your poetry, but have you noticed it's all about death?" I had not noticed. The trend started long before this. When I was just a little girl, I'd lie in bed thinking about everlasting life in heaven. This is what the Southern Baptist faith had said happens when I die. The thought shook me to my core. I would have to live forever? Forever? Forever?FOREVER? My stomach turned; I felt sick with fear. Living forever in an unchanging state terrified me. If I let my mind think about it today, it probably still would. 

So, if forever terrifies me, and not-forever terrifies me, then I'd better reexamine this "me" thing. Terror is not a fundamental state. It requires effort to linger here. Can I witness my own slow death, the death of the thoughts I hang on to, the me that is not me? I suspect the feeling of comfort I felt looking on Grandma's body came from meeting death face-to-face. Finally, here it is. Here is death, Erin. It's real. It's here. Oh, thank God. Thank God you exist, Death. Thank God you claim us all. Thank you for your incessant labor. I can finally breathe again.