At ten o'clock this morning, I stood outside in a heavy rainfall, contemplating what was simultaneously happening across town at Recompose.life. There the bodily remains of my firstborn, Tig, were beginning their transformation to human compost, the oldest and most earth friendly method of body disposal.
This morning at 10:00 Pacific Time, Tig's brothers and I took a few minutes to honor the beginning of the process that takes an average of two months. We were together emotionally, not physically, present as each of us honored Tig from afar with a few minutes of contemplative silence.
Tig's wishes were explicit regarding what they wanted after death. They extracted a promise from me to choose composting for them instead of cremation. As willing as I was to make the promise and commit to fulfilling their last wishes in this regard, I had no idea how I would feel when the time came. Now I can say that, in addition to being eye-opening, it is an oddly comforting process, too. Realizing that Tig will be replenishing soil in southwestern Washington to nurture the rebirth of forestland is an oddly satisfying reality. It doesn't seem final or finite when there's a plan in place for physical rejuvenation of life forms.
After a few minutes of silence, I chose to play the original orchestration of Pachelbel's Canon in D from my phone to my blue-tooth hearing aids. I stood in the rain with the magnificent music flooding in, looking at the greenery within proximity and imagining this sixty-year-old person, my firstborn, becoming soil to nourish new life and help it flourish.
My blog post from December 8, 2010 (which can be accessed by clicking over the link) explains why I chose that particular piece of music. Canon in D still triggers all the hopes and dreams of motherhood held in that moment of first hearing it in 1979, as well as the intervening forty-five years.
May you rest in peace, dear Tig, aka Andrea Grace Glerum. I will always love you.
