When our colleague and friend died two weeks ago, we hoped he didn't know what had happened. We hoped it was quick, and if not quick then easy. But what is death if we are not aware that it's happening? The eyes' static fade, the final -hale as the heart's drum stops, as the ears pound with sounds of a world still breathing all around us. At what point did he let the thread of his consciousness unravel from the body? Is it like dreaming, the mind-body becoming a wisp of warm sight that moves freely? We hoped he didn't know what had happened, but I hope he did. I hope for the bright clairvoyance of planes beyond this one because in this one death is treated like disease and the deceased like meat. In this one, the body's a slab, bagged and hauled away. Only the spiritual light candles for his soul. Only the mystics make offerings to ease his transition. Only individuals, not the cultural as one, believe death is transition. Only the believers figure the spirit, soul, essence, consciousness, the anima--of this man, of all men--lives on. Now, his body bagged, hauled away, examined, and burned, he might know. He might not.
