Amicus Mortis Posts

February 14, 2021 /

 

Softly, softly, stealing through time,

Softly, softly, hearts entwine.

Softly, softly, crossing time and space,

Softly, softly, two hearts embrace.

 

Through death’s doorway I catch your breath … no more in life!

My lament echoes through the ether … no more in life!

No more can my fingers touch your face.

No more can my arms clasp in heartfelt embrace.

No more!  No more!  For I dwell in one world,

you now another, separated, divided, yet united by grief.

 

Oh, what great cataclysm divides!

Oh, what great and unutterable sorrow enmeshes!

Oh, what encompassing darkness now enshrouds you, you,

whose heart is married to mine; you, now gone, now dead.

I keen!  I keen!  My heart is rent, my world bereft.

You my harbour, you whose blood flowed in mine, you whom I love.

I keen!  I keen!  Oh, what calamity is this!

 

Softly, softly, stealing through time,

Softly, softly, hearts entwine.

Softly, softly, crossing time and space,

Softly, softly, two hearts embrace.

 

But wait.  I see you.  There.

There you lie prostrate in your grief as I do in mine.

Our grief has woken the slumbering and transcended time.

Your heart is broken … I cannot bear the grief; it surely cannot be borne.

It fills my soul to overflowing.

I am drowning, I am drowning without you my love, I am drowning.

 

But I am here.  I have come like the dawn unto the moonlit sky,

I have come, I have come to you.

You feel me, you know me, yes, it is I.

You feel me, you know me, come from on High.

Ah my heart, my heart!  My love’s sweet desire!

Your soul quickens as my love enfolds you and you know, you know, I am come.

My love enfolds you and you know I am here, enabled

to come from the evermore, enabled to love you from beyond death’s door.

 

And then the rent once again, the sharp divide, the familiar

anguished gasp of breath and waste of soul.

Not again!  Not again!  No, my love not again!  Don’t leave!

I will die a thousand deaths, I will die a thousand deaths, no, not again.

Our grief becomes the plaintive shrill of unbearable separation

and I feel our sorrow echoing in a fathomless void, and amidst the

resounding darkness of our torment I hear our words; “Stay”, she says, “Come”, he says.

 

Softly, softly, stealing through time,

Softly, softly, hearts entwine.

Softly, softly, crossing time and space,

Softly, softly, two hearts embrace.

 

… stay … come … stay …

… come … stay … come ….

… stay … come … stay … come …

Here now.

Here. Now.

 

January 30, 2021 /

 

The afflictions of this dark night of the spirit are many.  One feels helpless as though imprisoned in a dark dungeon, bound hands and feet, and able to neither move, nor see, nor feel any favour from heaven or earth … When one feels safest, and least expects it, the darkness returns in a degree more severe than before …

St John of the Cross

 

Life can be challenging in often unexpected ways, and at times the individual can experience an overwhelming sense of despair and anguish which can darken the days and nights.  We can also feel a profound sense of loss but in truth, it is life which is showing us the reality of a particular situation.  We mourn the loss of what we thought was real, of what we thought was the truth.  We mourn the loss of the fact that we were unaware of that reality, of those circumstances, of that person, as we do perhaps the reality of the loss of our innocence, our good, our naivety; this is the price we pay for the truth.  Truth is merciless and will cut like a sword, but it has a purpose and we need it if we are to grow.

But there is another way to look at this period of emotional, psychological and spiritual disorientation and destabilisation.

St John of the Cross, a 16th Century Spanish poet and Roman Catholic mystic monk describes such periods as ‘the dark night of the soul’.  This ‘dark night’ represents a time when the individual undergoes a  profound and powerful transformation, during which previous attitudes, understandings, belief systems and ways of being are literally cast off and replaced by a deeper understanding of life, of certain aspects of reality and of themselves.  It is an intensely painful process from which emerges a changed, more aware and more civilised human being.

The dark night of the soul represents a period of inner purification and spiritual growth of the individual.  During this time, external life is barely tolerable because of the profound internal crisis of meaning which is evoked.  Such an existential crisis has its use; it enables us to live more meaningfully and more fully in the world, and it helps us find our purpose in life.  Most importantly, it makes way for the ingression into us of something of a higher nature, and that is a blessing.  That is the gift we receive when we are shown a truthful reality.

December 23, 2020 /

Death, grief and loss surround us at all times, however this year has been one of extremes.  Amidst a record-breaking heatwave stretching from mid to late 2019 and into the early months of 2020, Australia suffered devastating losses to habitat and wildlife due to raging bushfires.  And according to Filkov et al (https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jnlssr.2020.06.009), by March 2020 the fires, known as the Black Summer fires, had burnt approximately 19 million hectares, destroyed over 3,000 homes and killed more than 30 people.  The rains eventually came, as they always do, however the loss was profound and was felt deeply by all Australians who collectively mourned and grieved.

Following this devastation, we then watched COVID-19 unfold.  Spreading globally, it raged through communities, cities, countries and before long it arrived on our shores, as we knew it would.  It was an unwelcome visitor to a country and nation already grieving a profound loss.  As a nation we sprang into action, mobilizing, just like we did when the bushfires raised our landscape, to support, to calm, to learn, and to understand.  As with the Black Summer fires, we all watched in despair as the virus spread around the country, claiming lives and leaving sorrow and desolation in its wake.  And we also watched the global impact of the virus, grieving with our international friends and neighbor’s their loss and despair and frustration.

But in the midst of this loss something else began to take place; a closeness, a coming together of strangers, a solidarity in the midst of profound sorrow, and a mutual reaching out from one human being toward another to comfort, to help, to be present.  We saw the strength of our humanity and though our burden of sorrow was great, this mutual outreach touched the heart and lifted the spirit, and even if at times it was only momentary, it was enough.

November 1, 2020 /

If it – learning to live – remains to be done, it can only happen between life and death.
Neither in life nor in death alone.  What happens between two, and between all the ‘two’s’
one likes, such as between life and death, can only maintain itself with some ghost, can
only talk with or about some ghost [s’entretenir de quelque fantome].
Derrida, 1994, xvii, (emphasis in original).

What is it about ghosts and spiritual apparitions?  Why, particularly in the West, are we fascinated with either trying to prove or disprove their existence?   Why does the eternal battle between science and spirit continue, with social scientists, social anthropologists, physical researchers, parapsychologists, mainstream scientists and sceptics continue to play out in research publications and journals, conferences and on social media platforms?   Why do so  many of those who have the lived experience of other worldly phenomena feel they have, or that they want to, prove that such a phenomenon exists?  What is it about the afterlife, and the visible deceased, that is so difficult for so many to come to terms with?

I have hundreds of articles and books written by researchers and ‘lay’ folk about ghosts and the afterlife.  I’ve spoken about the afterlife at conferences.  My PhD explores the afterlife by way of bereavement and after death contact.   For me, there is nothing to prove, there is no argument to be had, there is just a reality to be shared. The afterlife exists, as do its denizens who continually herald its presence in diverse ways, and if there is one thing that life has taught me it is that we are not born just to die.  Death is the putting off of the physical body.  It is an event which allows us to live as spiritual beings in the spiritual universe.  Death does not diminish or extinguish our existence, it only changes it.

One of the things that the existence of ghosts appears to suggest, is that for various reasons they can linger close by, either to still embodied loved ones or to particular locations, and that they form a collective of sorts by way of being a body of spiritual beings who can make their presence known in various ways.  Edgar Allan Poe captures this engagement in writing stating that the boundaries which divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague … who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?   I wonder if perhaps this is because the boundaries overlap?

There is a purpose in our being born, as there is in our dying, which is the greatest transition of all.  Our existence continues after our death.  In our newly disembodied state we are not bound by the constraints of linear time and space and accordingly, we experience life differently.  This is the great adventure, and it is here that the best is yet to be.  As Derrida observes, “In this mourning work in process, in this interminable task, the ghost remains that which gives one the most to think about – and to do” (1994, p. 98).

My question is this, why do we continue to seek approval and validation for the afterlife and its heralds from mainstream science?  Why does the existence of the afterlife need approval from mainstream science in order to be ‘true’, in order to be ‘real’?  Life is the greatest university of all, and when one has had the lived experience of the infinitesimal, in whatever its manifestations, there is nothing to prove, there is nothing to be debated.

September 27, 2020 /

When I was completing my PhD, and during the time I was undertaking data collection, many participants or ‘co-researchers’ reported, amongst other happenings, dreams of the deceased which were of a helpful and reconciliatory nature.  These dreams all had distinct elements and were of a type and nature which according to those who experienced them, different to other dreams they usually experienced.  They were different because they were experiential in that the dreamer felt they were not ‘dreaming’ at all but instead were involved in a participatory event which allowed them to communicate and engage with the deceased in a profound and meaningful way.

For example, Ruth* experienced a number of dream visitation engagements with her partner Tom* during which she was able confront and work toward resolving a painful issue which had come to light after his death.  In addition to engaging with Tom, Ruth  was also reunited with her father (whose death had followed six weeks after Tom) during which he provided much needed advice.  Ruth describes these dreams in terms of “there’s a sense of being in them and being in that place” and “there’s a sense of being able to be conscious about what you’re doing and where you’re going”.

Heather’s* dream visitation engagement also appeared to be one of resolution.  Having experienced disturbing and distressing dreams for many years which featured her deceased father, Heather experienced yet another dream during which he threw carrots at her.  Upon waking and being particularly perturbed by her father’s behaviour, she spoke out loud to her mother requesting clarification for the carrot episode, and possible intervention. “I said out loud … would you mind asking why he was throwing carrots at me”.  She believed the intervention worked because, “it never happened again”.

Mary* reported her first dream visitation engagement with her husband Mark* as something which she “remembered as if it was in front of me”. Mary heard Mark say to her “I’m okay and its okay and it’s not your time but I’m here waiting”. Mary has experienced subsequent dream visitation engagements where her interaction with Mark has been less direct and relatively more subtle. In these dreamscapes, Mark always appears to be hovering quietly as a silent presence in one of the corners of the bedroom.

June’s* dream visitation engagements with her father, which occurred during a period of extreme professional and personal stress and anguish, provided welcome support and encouragement. During this very difficult period June came to the conclusion, “that dad was working for me to help me with this
situation”.  Sally* relayed that she had had many dream visitation engagements with her father who “always seems to be telling me something”. As for June, Sally’s dream encounters conveyed positive messages of assurance. “It’s almost like he’s saying you’ll be right you know”.

Rebecca* experienced a number of dream vitiation engagements with her husband John*, not all of them pleasant, while Monique* reported that after experiencing a crisis of meaning and direction, she had woken from sleep with the feeling that her grandmother had “given me a talking too in my sleep and said, look love, here’s what you’ve got to do”. This experience provided meaningful direction for her and helped her to realise that if she wanted to be happy she had to, “be true to myself”.  Simon’s* dream visitation engagement with his close friend Brendon* involved a long journey during which he acted as a guide for his friend in the spirit world, while Anthony’s* dream engagement with one of his grandmothers provided the opportunity for specific instructions to be conveyed concerning familial responsibilities.

These experiences cannot be reduced or explained away scientifically.  Indeed, for all participants who reported them in the study, the impact of their ‘dreams’ was such that they served as an invitation for them to re-evaluate the meaning of their existence as a human being, to re-evaluate the meaning of life, and to re-evaluate the meaning of their relationship with the sacred or the spiritually infinite.

*Names changed.

August 29, 2020 /

The following exert is from my contributing chapter, “Ways of Seeing: Bereavement and After Death Contact” in the edited collection, Death Down Under (Cambridge, 2019)

ADC researcher and author Sylvia Wright observes that while dealing with death can be shattering, dealing with survival of the spirit after death is a learning experience, which can compel or drive the individual to, “rethink and perhaps to reshape their life” (2002, p. 211).  Not only does bereavement have the potential to impact each person’s “unique existential situation” (Kessler 1987, 229), it “reaches to the heart of what it means to be human and what it means to have a relationship” (ibid, 13).

These observations by Wright and Kessler were reflected in the findings of [the] my study, which suggest that ADC can result in post-traumatic psychosocial and psychospiritual growth outcomes for the individuals experiencing them.  Participant’s comments substantiate this and suggest that ADC was a catalyst which not only enabled them to ponder on the context of their lives, it resulted in psychosocial and psychospiritual growth in new directions because it generated new trains of thought in the mind and because it facilitated new understandings.

For example, comments from a number of participants revealed they had not considered themselves as anything other than material or corporeal beings.  After experiencing ADC however, they realised they were something other than their material selves, as were the deceased.  Consequently, how they defined and understood themselves as human beings, and how they defined their existence before and after death, changed.

For many participants, the narrating of the story of their bereavement and ADC was a journey of self-discovery and as they shared their experiences, thoughts and feelings with me they constructed their own bereavement narratives in terms of what death, life-after-death, the dead and ADC meant for them.

For some, guidance and reassurance was given, for others, encouragement, support or simply validation of what they either suspected or already knew.  Some felt they were being taught, educated or instructed in some way by the deceased.  Others believed that death did not make post-mortem reunion unattainable because their ADC had provided the assurance, and validation, that this was possible.  For those who had a sense of an alternate non-material reality existing, “over and above” material reality as they perceived it, ADC provided them with tangible experience which underpinned the existence and presence of a non-material reality.

This non-material reality was positioned within a spiritual context and variously defined as “God”, “being in the presence of the infinite”, “the universe” (as a metaphor for a living/higher intelligence), “heaven”, “the vastness that’s available to us all as spirit beings”, “the Gates of St Peter”, “the other side”, “a place where individuals are no longer bound by physical reality”, “something”, “that beautiful place”, and “a place where we live on [where] our souls, our spirit, our energy our life-force enjoys eternal life”.

These narratives revealed that the impact of ADC challenged how participants understood the deceased, how they understood themselves as human and spiritual beings, and how they lived in the world.  They also revealed that narratives can change over time as a result of changing understandings or perspectives.  This reflected how participants grew psychosocially and psychospiritually as a direct consequence of the lived experience of their bereavement and ADC, and of their inward reflections on what had happened to them.

Anthropologist and theologian Douglas Davies notes that “talking about death has never been more popular” (2007, 48) an observation that in contemporary Australian society certainly bears some testament.  Publicised events facilitating death education populate social media platforms, death-dedicated websites, blogs and Facebook pages dot the online landscape of the world-wide web, workshops, seminars, conferences and MOOCS (Massive Open Online Course) offer information sharing and professional networking opportunities for those working in an end-of-life context, hard and soft copy journal articles and books populate library and book store shelves.

Within this dynamic milieu of becoming “death literate” (Noonan et al, 2016, 31) how might ADC experiences and the narratives they engender for the bereaved contribute toward death understanding and death awareness in Australia?  For those already familiar and accepting of the phenomenon, these narratives will fit comfortably in an already established world-view which incorporates and accepts other-worldly experiences.  For those unfamiliar with such experiences, it will raise awareness and extend for them current social and cultural understandings of the intersectionality of bereavement, ADC and notions of an afterlife.

Narratives also have the potential to add new and positive dimensions to the human services workforce.  Persons participating within such an environment need to be familiar with the social and cultural diversity of their client population and the different understandings of bereavement accompanying them.  In doing so, they are better placed to more effectively deliver care and support to those who have experienced ADC.  Finally, findings from the study can foster and encourage national and international community awareness of bereavement and ADC from a uniquely Australian perspective as, “an outcome of people’s experiences of and learnings about, death and dying” (Noonan et al, 2016).

June 30, 2020 /

 

“Beyond our life we meet our life.  We cannot turn in any other direction.”

Maurice Nicholl

The ancient Egyptians had an intimate relationship with the afterlife, and long past the demise of their civilisation evidence of this relationship can be found on the richly decorated walls of their temples and buildings, and in their manuscripts and papyri. For them, death was a doorway which when entered enabled the spirit to live eternally.  The welfare of the soul was of prime importance, and spells and spiritual texts accompanied the deceased, as did scrolls which were a copy of the Book of the Dead.  They believed that the death of the body was not the end of life, rather, it heralded entry into another kind of life which would never end, a life full of opportunities for growth.

All of us, at some time or other, thinks about life, death and the afterlife.  We ask ourselves such questions as, “Why was I born?”, “What happens to me when I die?”, “Is there an afterlife?”.  It is hard to find reliable answers to such fundamental questions about the reality of existence, especially when we have a need to understand the meaning of life and why we exist.   We know we die, but then what?  And what are our lives for?

How do we define our future?  Is it time-based, or timeless?  Can science provide us with the answers we need or are they to be found in a higher doctrine of knowledge?  How do we learn about life, consciousness, mind, and spirit or soul?  Is the universe merely clumps of molecules and atoms, or is it a cosmic system, governed by meaningful laws and levels?  And how do we form connections with these levels and understand these laws?

Self-understanding and self-mastery turn us inward and help us realise that life cannot be engaged with in a light-hearted manner.  The ancient Greek term, “Know thyself” not only reminds us of our cosmic duty but the spiritual destiny which awaits us after the death of our physical body.  When we search within we are in truth searching for Reality, and that is the greatest journey of all.

 

May 10, 2020 /

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.

Out, out brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.  It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5.

 

Why are we born, if seemingly only to die?  What is that vague sense of disquiet which hovers like a shadow on the fringe of our waking lives, and which in turn can quietly disrupt our day?  How can it touch us in our quiet moments and when done, leave us with the sense of a void in our life which we can’t quite describe yet nonetheless can feel?

Despite our successes, our attainments, our notoriety, why is it that they don’t satiate us, that they don’t dispel the feeling that something is missing, that they don’t quell it?  And what is the relationship between that feeling within and that sense of sameness which accompanies each day is it dawns and then climbs into the darkness of night, only to dawn again with repetitive emptiness?

Shakespeare felt it, and in his mastery clothed it with words which resonate across time.  What is ‘life’?  Why do we feel that there is more to life yet are unable to articulate quite what that is?  Why do we wonder at the purpose which drove our existence into being, which we tell ourselves surely cannot be for naught? Why do we repeatedly clamour for worldly attainment and acknowledgement, without realising it is at our own expense?  And why do we not know that we impersonate Shakespeare’s idiot, who struts and frets vainly fighting against the sameness overshadowing our lives, as we exist day after day after day.

Our life is a walking shadow, but it doesn’t have to be.  There is a sameness to the day’s dawn and to the day’s end, but there doesn’t have to be.   We live our lives full of sound and fury and rather than that signifying nothing, our lives can become something.  Life doesn’t have to be a walking shadow and we don’t have to participate in it asleep, but we have to know, before all things, that that is what we are.  And it is in that process of awakening from sleep, that the sameness falls away, that another way of being in the world feeds something within us and satiates us in a way we never dreamt was possible.

We are all idiots, but we can change how we live as we can change what we live for.  We can change such that the tale told by our lives will signify something, instead of the nothingness which imprisons all of us and of which we are all unaware.  It is the ever subtle and pernicious state, of sleep.

April 28, 2020 /

 

“ … it has a unique meaning for each of us.  It can’t be prescribed.  It can’t be injected … it’s hard to define.  It’s easier to tell a story about it.”

Jevne, The Voice of hope: Heard across the heart of life, p. 8, 1994

Sometimes it can feel as though life is stretching us to ‘be’ in a new way.  Finding oneself in a new landscape with unfamiliar terrain can be difficult to navigate because new ways of seeing, new ways of understanding, are required.  We suddenly feel uncertain and unsure because the usual landmarks don’t exist anymore, and we feel a little lost as a result.

Life often presents us with challenges which we feel we simply cannot bear, and sometimes they can seem overwhelming, and staying the course can seem just too hard.

But it has to be hard, otherwise we wouldn’t grow.  We all have something within us that can grow, and it is ‘life’ that demands this of us, that wants this not for itself, but for us as individuals.  It is in our trials and tribulations, in whatever form they take, that the fashioning of our soul takes place.  It is here, within, that we are humanised and taught about ourselves and about life; the greatest teacher of all.  Many years ago a wise man I once knew told me that life was the greatest university; his words have proven true.  I hold several degrees and a doctorate, am qualified as a Social Scientist, but it has always been ‘life’ which has been my greatest teacher.

What is hope in the maelstrom of life?  How does it help us to navigate unfamiliar landscapes birthed by the vicissitudes of life?  In reflecting on hope in the sense that it has a unique meaning for all of us, what is it that I hope for; the desire for travail to pass, or the strength to endure it?

 

 

March 16, 2020 /

 

What is it about a cemetery?  Why, if they are ‘gardens of repose’, a term I heard in conversation many years ago, are they as Australian researcher Philip Bachelor OAM observes in his wonderful book Sorrow & Solace: The social world of the cemetery (Baywood Publishing, 2004), such hives of social activity?   Why are graves and tombs of the famous and the idolised tourist attractions and meccas for mourners?   Why do we visit graveyards, especially those with lichen-covered tumbling headstones, with such enthusiasm?

I’ve been visiting graveyards since I was a child.  In fact, the first graveyard I visited was the Bomana War Cemetery in Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea, where I spent my childhood.  My father had taken the family on one of his famous weekend outings and the cemetery was where we ended up for the day.  However it wasn’t just the perfectly manicured lawns and white headstones running in orchestrated rows, or the excitement of doing something different with my family on a Sunday, it was the silence, the stillness, that I most remember and have never forgotten.

Of course people visit the graves of those close to them who have died, and those of others, for a whole host of reasons, including for example to maintain a sense of emotional and/or spiritual connection, or reconnection; it really is quite personal.

But what about cemeteries in general?  And why do colonial graveyards excite such a sense of anticipation? (well they do for me).  Are they a link perhaps to our historical past, which help us understand our social, political and cultural present?  Do they serve as reminding factors of our tenuous mortality and the transience of our lives in the flesh?  Or do they serve as metaphorical portals or doorways which gently nudge our minds, encouraging them to engage in existential thoughts about how we live our life as embodied beings, how we die, and what happens afterward?

I’ve always loved cemeteries … it’s the silence I think.

Most of the people I know, myself included, lead busy, noisy lives which at times make finding moments of solitude and reflection difficult.  But in a cemetery it’s usually always quiet, and still, and you generally won’t find too many people wanting to strike up a conversation with you.  I wonder if that’s perhaps because people who visit them appear to have an innate reverence for the dead, so they speak in hushed voices and walk lightly and with respect between each grave, only exclaiming now and then if they chance across the headstone of a baby or child, or relative.

… there is indeed, something about cemeteries.