A House for Life and Death

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The home where I live with my family has seen a lot of life. More family dinners, holiday events, birthdays, and celebrations than I can even remember completely. My husband and I brought our tiny humans to live in this house in September 2009. We have welcomed new kitties, baby birds, flowers, as well as an array of humans near and far.

Of course, there has also been death. Not always within the walls of our home exactly, but standing between the walls of this space we have heard the news of more than a handful of loved ones passing on. Numerous critters have met their end at the jaws of our cats right on our living room floor. And 4 beloved cats have died here.

There have been nuanced “deaths,” the moments when we’ve had to let go of ourselves in some way, and the deaths that we’ve imagined experiencing when one of us comes closer to the edge than we were prepared for in the moment. Recently, one of these rang the doorbell in the form of a completely unexpected health scare for my husband. Are we ever prepared for the news that sneaks in through the back door of our lives?

The morning prior to discovering my husband’s health scare, I watched as two barn swallows supported one another in building a nest against the stone wall over our front porch. Just above our front door, these two have made a home for their eggs that will hopefully become new babies, new life that will literally cling to our home.

When I’m reminded that someone I love is finite, time suddenly feels compressed into the exact space of a breath. In these moments, I suddenly see the way that life clings so precariously.

What else do I see? The birds take turns, one flying into the nest with more building supplies and to rest a moment, while the other hovers nearby making a host of noises to alert their companion of dangers and to dissuade predators. One keeps guard so the other can do the work of creating life. They are a community to each other with the kind of support that allows one to experience safety and reassurance. Or at least this is what I imagine for them. I think, cloud of witnesses, as I watch.

When our family and local friends and church community heard the news of my husband, we were surrounded quickly by a hovering flock of loved ones. Each person who reached out wanted to offer their particular resource and love so that I could nest into my husband and support him in recovery. They were like a network of veins leading into and out of the heart of us, pumping some miraculous life force.

This is the way with a body of support. A home for life and death is what we live in. Not only the structures we build around us, but the body we live in that’s been built for us (or perhaps in spite of us). All the while, as life ticks on, workings are happening that we know little of. Some bring births. Some deaths. It is fragile and resilient, filled with both delightful and overwhelming surprises. The polarity of it feels confounding even on good days. I am forgetful. Most days, I’m just noticing the living, until I’m reminded that some parts of me and of the body’s around me, are also dying.

Perhaps it’s not forgetfulness at all, but is the persistence of noticing life. Those swallows are taking turns now sitting on their eggs. Their determination to do what it is they set out to do, even with me coming and going along with my two tabby cats and the blue jays and who knows what else, astounds me. It’s almost as if they, too, are forgetful. It is precarious and somehow just enough solid for life to grow.

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A class, more slow build to flexibility and strength to get your circulation going in an accessible way: Adapted Yoga with Christa