Post on: December 12th, 2009
What is Sacred?
Since my husband Drew’s untimely death…
(which was very inconvenient and against my direct orders, I might add) I have spent an inordinate number of hours pondering what, indeed, is truly sacred. Perhaps it was because he died at Christmas. I mean, it is difficult to reconcile the death of your soul mate with the simultaneous celebration of the birth of a man whose press release says he is the Son of God. Then you throw Santa Claus and mistletoe into the mix…and you can start to imagine why a woman would need to do some serious pondering in regard to life, love, death and religion. And what is deemed hallowed…and inviolate.
Society holds certain things as sacred. But when your reality shifts…when you experience an event that propels you out of the ordinary, and into the extraordinary…when someone tears up the rules to the game you’ve been playing since you were born, everything changes. And there is a payoff waiting for you that you don’t expect. You are set free. You think you have been sent to Monopoly jail to serve out a life sentence for a white-collar crime you didn’t commit…but, instead, you have gotten the “get out of jail free” card. There is a silver lining.
Being an intimate witness to death does one wonderful thing for you…it gives you permission to not only buy a new game board…but to create your own new rules. Because you have been there. Done that. You know what death is. The horror…and the beauty. And you are left with something more awe-inspiring than any church sermon. A sacred glimpse…into the unknown. I didn’t see Moses with the stone tablet of the Ten Commandments…and I wish I could say I was witness to the whole parting of the Red Sea thing…but I did watch the man I love take his last breath. That is real for me. That is sacred. I went through a spiritual transformation, as a partner in Drew’s illness and death. I sat in hospital rooms with him and I ate seaweed for breakfast (that would have been our macrobiotic diet phase) with him…and I suffered with him. I was pretty sure I would die along with him…but, surprise!…I got to hang around afterward and plan the funeral.
Like many people, I have lived through heartbreak and devastation. Like many people, I have prayed and waited for that miracle that never manifested. It has made me reexamine my values…my religious leanings…and my entire belief system. I stood barefoot atop a layer of hot, flowing lava for a number of years. I got blisters on my feet. And I’m sure I will always have scars. Only now is that lava cooling and solidifying. Only now do I feel as if I can walk again, without having to worry about falling in and not being able to climb out. Only now am I certain my own passions have not died along with my husband. Living each day on shaky ground and having no safety net is much like living inside of Aunt Edna’s lime green Jell-O mold. The one with tidbits of pineapple and cream cheese in it. Everything looks blurry and is tinted an unnatural color. Every day feels…”icky.” I do not have an advanced degree in the study of grief…and I have not attended Harvard Divinity School. Although I’m sure they’d love to have me. What I do have is credibility. Because living through death and grief is infinitely more profound than studying it. I am sure I have earned my doctorate a few times over.
And so, after continued pondering, I would like to say that I believe the sacred lies all around us…and within us. The sacred is not something that needs to be in Webster’s dictionary…the sacred is intimate…and different for each of us. Whether worldly objects…or memories…we each hold onto that which is sacred to us. We each place it atop our own altar. Be it a bookshelf…a box under our bed next to the dust bunnies…or our mind. We reflect. We remember. We honor and cherish. We cry sacred tears…of pain, and of joy. Sometimes out loud…most often, in the silence and safety of our own hearts.
While on the topic of the sacred…I have a confession to make. Since being widowed, I have developed a dirty little habit. I cannot get enough. Of cemeteries. And don’t even get me started on old headstones. I love to run my fingers over the words…to study their designs and their beautiful decoration. I long to photograph them. My children have had to endure many stops along many roadsides in many quaint New England towns while mommy snaps pics of lichen-covered pieces of granite. I have a man in the UK who waited patiently for approximately two hours…while I wandered through St. Andrew’s last year…taking photos of the tombstones of dead Scottish people. No wonder he never dated me. I can’t help it. I just have a need to be there. I like to believe Drew has something to do with it. That my appreciation of the world of the dead amongst the living has something to do with him. That the sacred fascinates me because he has become sacred… now that he is gone from this earthly existence. Of course, it could also just be some psychological disorder that more than one therapist would be happy to address for me. I think I’d rather just use the money for a hot stone massage…and believe that I am evolving into a more spiritually attuned human being.
When you have been close to death…when you no longer fear it…your knowledge of the ephemeral changes. You know that even those headstones won’t be here forever…that even those chunks of granite and marble are going to be gone one day. That only our dreams…only our thoughts…only our memories are eternal. The things that seem fleeting are actually the only things that are “real.” The only things we can hold on to…the only things we take with us. From childhood to adulthood…from nursery to dorm room to apartment to condo to house to nursing home. They accompany us. Our favorite sweater from our Freshman year in college may get lost along the way…but our memory of the boy who let us wear it on that chilly autumn night when we were on our first date doesn’t get lost. Barring a terrible disease such as Alzheimer’s…that memory will accompany us until the day we die. Possibly beyond.
I have a multitude of objects and rituals that are sacred to me. Some live in my mind…some live in the top drawer of my lingerie bureau. Objects that mean as much to me as the cross. The tiny tote bag I carried with me as I boarded the school bus on my first day of kindergarten…my Brownie uniform…my grandmother’s breakfast dishes…the first gift my future husband gave to me when we were in college…my engagement ring. The list goes on. I am a sentimental saver by nature…so the list actually goes on…and on. And on.
Note: This might be a good time for those of you who are deeply religious to start praying for me…just in case the following
questions are off base and they go on my permanent record, along with the “D” I got in Algebra 2 my junior year of high school. I’m sure I’ll be paying for that for all eternity, also.
Okay…let me say upfront that I am not suffering from some sort of psychosis. I do not think my husband was the Son of God…and I am not starting my own little cult. But, is the death of a loved one less sacred than the death of a man named Jesus? Was my husband’s suffering less painful for him and those who loved him? Did his life mean less? Did his contribution to the world hold less significance? Did he love less deeply? Was he loved less deeply? Don’t stop reading yet…there’s more! I can’t be the only person who ponders these things.
Does the communion ritual at church on Sunday hold more meaning than our own personally meaningful rituals? Does the champagne I sometimes drink on a Friday evening, in memory of my Friday night champagne ritual with the man I promised my life to, mean less than the silver chalice of (usually bad) red wine? Does the gumball I eat from the vintage gumball machine I gave to Drew when we were first married mean less than the wafers they offer at the church altar? Happily, for me…the answer right now is no.
It’s not even that I don’t believe in a God…I just don’t believe that there is such a chasm between the holy and the everyday. Between a church with a choir singing… and a sandy beach with dancing waves crashing. The holy IS the everyday. We are it. And heaven is, indeed, right here in front of us.
I realize that in 60 years I could be writing a compilation of short stories entitled “Optimistic Essays from Hell”…but I think it is worth the risk. I know that God has a sense of humor…the same way I know that hell, if it does indeed exist, is filled with minivans. Humor is a gift. A sacred gift. And, if God does exist…I’m certain He is happy that I’m using His gift to the fullest. And if He doesn’t exist…well…then…we’d best just keep laughing.
© 2007 Sandi Amorello/Silver Crayon Studios, Inc. All rights reserved. The Irreverent Widow, Silver Crayon Studios and the
SC Studios mark are all trademarks of Silver Crayon Studios, Inc.
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