Death Only an Illusion

 

Asparagus... Dead or Alive?

Winter, and the world around me appears lifeless. 

However, that is an illusion. Beneath the surface of the soil roots of perennial plants continue to pulse slowly in their winter's rhythm. They even grow a little. Bulbs and rhizomes of daffodils, crocus, iris and others unhurriedly prepare for their spring appearances. Leafless trees continue their lives within the soil, in their broad roots that reach deep and wide. Even high in the cold air, branches and twigs tentatively form buds that gradually swell.

While annual plants that grow, flower and set seed in a single season are truly dead, they still continue to live, in a fashion. They've scattered seeds -- tiny little plants wrapped in a coat that hide in the darkness of the soil, patiently waiting to sprout when conditions are right, Life.

Grass roots dig deep.

Death at winter is merely an illusion. Roots and seeds thrive.

I find it fascinating that for most plants, especially perennials, at least half of their mass remains unseen, in the roots beneath the surface of the soil, where they survive apparent death. These roots can connect with the roots of other plants, sometimes directly, more often through fungal mycelium that lives in symbiosis with them -- connection and communication.

I believe that humans are the same. Most of what we are exists beneath the surface, our roots, in the realm of spirit -- or whatever you wish to call it -- where we can connect. And even once we no longer exist in the material plain, we continue on in the unseen realm. Our roots remain.

Roots continue to pulse slowly, regardless of appearances... Spirits remain, regardless of appearances.

My family begins the new year looking a little different. My father died in early December, at 100 years and one week old. He took his last breath in the same house, and likely in the same room where he took his first breath. As a final poetic touch, it was also his mother's birthday.

Three of my four siblings, a niece, and a sister-in-law, my mother (of course), and I surrounded his bed. Because my parents always said the rosary before bed each night, Mom insisted that we pray the rosary while he still breathed. So we did. I have not practiced any type of Christianity, in decades, yet I held a rosary and prayed. It was an honor and privilege, a sacred act. Not long after we finished, Dad took his last breath. 

A beautiful, holy moment.

My dad's roots ran deep. Mom was surprised at how many people showed up at the visitation the evening before the funeral. The women who served the post-funeral meal told her that they had never served that many people at a funeral dinner. So many connections. His roots had spread wide; he had scattered many seeds.

Deep roots helped my dad survive and persevere. The Great Depression hit during his adolescence. He later served in the Army during World War II, seeing fierce battle. His best friend was killed next to him. He was nearly executed before being taken to a German prisoner of war camp, where he survived until the end of the war.

He persevered. His roots ran deep.

Once a soldier, always a soldier, it seems. Even though he came home from war to become a farmer/rancher, to marry and raise five children, the war stayed with him in dreams that caused him to scream in the middle of the night. He finally found respite in his 80s by speaking about his experience to students in area middle and high schools, as well as during gatherings of an organization for those who were in service during the Battle of the Bulge.

Even though he had not been a soldier for 80 years, the local American Legion honored him for his birthday, presenting him with several plaques. They honored him again at his funeral, lining the sidewalk to the church with flags and veterans of other wars at attention. At the burial, the U.S. Army Funeral Honors Details gave a 21-gun salute, and the flag that had draped his coffin was ceremoniously folded and given to my mom.

We leave our tracks through life.

When he had his stroke at the end of October, my only prayer was that he live lucidly until his 100th birthday. That prayer was answered. 

Once I notified my husband that Dad had breathed his last, he lit a candle by a photo of Dad. We kept a candle lit, day and night, for more than two weeks. When the last candle died, I felt sad. So I lit another candle for a short time. I needed one more farewell. 

I still feel his presence. His roots ran/run deep. I am like him in many ways, and keep digging my roots deeper. I hope that his spirit within me will inspire the strength to persevere through whatever difficulties come. I have been awed at the way his grandchildren, even my own son, viewed my dad as their hero. His legacy lives on within them, seeds sprouting. 

In a way, I do not feel that my father has died. It seems I have come to know him better in death than I ever did in life, by seeing him through the eyes of others. He continues on, unseen, but not unfelt.

Like the browned and crisped leaves of the purple coneflowers outside my back door, his roots and seeds survive; his death only an illusion.