Many years ago I briefly knew a man who was dying. Having no family he’d speak of, my friend and I brought him to the country that he might know some community and peace in this life before his next. Clumsy and uncertain, I asked him questions I’d want to be asked were I standing in his shoes, Death helping to untie his one last time. I asked him about his life, what he remembered most, what he’d miss the most, what he was most present to now, in the quiet moments. I scribbled a few notes. I listened to his stories of the plans he had for his life, the people he met along the way, and the stories of what happened too. I heard him speak about what brought him joy and what caused pain. I asked him about his family, from where he came, and to where he’d go to. After all, everybody comes from someone. He withdrew in the face of such questions as old wounds seemed to mix with a certain kind of opprobrium yet he held no regrets. His singular request was not to be buried in Potter’s Field. I promised. At the time, I just thought “Potter’s Field” was some olden days expression, not a real place on a real island where the unclaimed are actually buried typically by prisoners. As our time in the country gave way to a hospice stay in the city, I gently peered around the edges of his fear which made for a crowded room. Undaunted and softly, I asked him if was afraid. “Not of dying, just of being buried in Potter’s Field,” he replied. Blissfully unaware at the time of some life’s harsh realities, again I solemnly promised. Maurice exhaled. I well understood that it’s the fear of being forgotten woven into the pall of death which might make a shroud heavy.
I met Maurice while working at a wonderful organic restaurant in the East Village run and created by a few of the most stunningly beautiful souls I’ve ever known. This delightful cozy place had outstandingly delicious seasonal home cooked food that was reasonably priced and boasted one of the first juice bars in the city. He quickly became a regular and we called him “Cayenne Pepper Man” because he asked for said spice in conspicuous overabundance. Maurice mostly didn’t speak much, but my friend in her generous and gracious way, gradually learned of his troubles with pancreatic cancer. Over those few months, we learned something about Maurice’s life and, when the time came, about how we are built to remember for each other. I was there to witness his passing and prayed for his numinous transformation. The nurse gave me his keys and what little he owned and told me about Potter’s Field. I am grateful for the lessons Maurice taught me. The few notes I took provided practical guidance, offering names and towns, hints of where I might find his people so I could keep my commitment. I was there to remember him heartily to his people, and walk with them through their thick reluctance so he would be claimed. I was there to share with them his stories as they gathered his memories and belongings from his tiny room. Maurice was buried with his family.
I remembered Maurice this morning when I read about the number of unclaimed people being buried in Potter’s Field this week.. The grief of it is heartbreaking. Many will read the same story and try to shake it off, uncomfortable and unaccountable. But this kind of grieving and the willingness to engage in a deeply unpromising circumstance is the way of love.
In the Age of Kondo where we keep only those things that spark joy, we are reminded that there is more to the story. Originally for the burial of twenty Union Army soldiers, Potter’s Field now holds the remains of more than one million people reportedly with about 1,500 burials a year. In the last week, hundreds more have gone to the earth of Hart’s Island, lives claimed only by Covid19. Now I’m no statistician, but in a city as dense as New York, the chances are high that each of us might know someone who knew someone who crossed paths with some of these people, if we haven’t crossed paths with at least one of them ourselves. Just think of the volume of nameless faces any of us might see in an hour long commute. Maybe you shared a smile, gave a dollar or a blessing, maybe you became a little more grateful for your days. Maybe they served you coffee or made you laugh or forced you to slow down or nudged you to think a bigger thought. In all the ways we don’t know we are connected and for all the reasons we are, let us fearlessly claim those nameless in Hart Island as fellow humans, that they may be remembered and gathered in by their ancestors. Let us light candles with regard their lives as valuable as every life. Let us be grateful for the earth they now namelessly nourish. Let us do this as humans, BEing.
THE GREAT TURNING
by Rowan Mangan*
My sweet darlings, how did you stay afloat for so long
and never suspect you were built to breathe underwater?
Why did you never toss thoughts around in three dimensions
never loose them like dragonflies into the deep sky.
How could you fear falling?
Didn’t you see the spiders stringing safety nets
across the earth every day just in case?
Instead you look at this world and I watched,
I felt the air’s grim thickening the waters rise.
You were huddled at the precipice,
at the very brink, my loves
and still bellowing for more. What crucial inspiration turned you at the last?
I’ll never know what broke over you
and with what calamity clamor or grace.
But when you knelt as one it was a mighty sight.
You placed your hunger on the ground
and left it to lie among the gadgetry of old logics
beside the corpses of cruelty and greed.
You were exquisite to me then. Long legged and bright eyed,
build of gravel and star dust. Oh my sweet funny loves, my unfurling galaxy
my pebbles scatter of promise.
And so we came to the age of the great unbuilding
where everyone’s name is Stillness.
Here, day gathers you into the deep magic of play.
Here, night ponders you in the ancient magic of rest.
It’s a time of dragonflies. So be soft in your hearts dear hearts.
For we are all cast shining and short-lived into the sky
Allow your face to take the shape of wonder
when your children ask again to tell the tale of how you almost broke the world.
(*Note: I had the great good fortune to hear this exquisite poem orally. Any mistakes in the printed words including punctuation are solely mine)