How do we mortal, life-loving humans entertain the idea of death? When I read leading New York City funeral entrepreneur Amy Cunningham’s blogs, I’m reminded of the power of poetry and music to offer common ground with others, both contemporary and from centuries past. I met Cunningham in 2012 when I trained in home funerals with Jerrigrace Lyons in Baltimore in the US. A woman of like mind, Cunningham was on a journey to create out of the ordinary funerals. She’s now a thought leader in the field, and directs Fitting Tribute Funerals. I thought of this post of hers today because my early summer poppies, button daisies and Johnnie jump ups are so utterly gorgeous! So here’s the pleasure of poetry, meticulous research, and sheer Eastern seaboard refinement.

The poppy is no pre-planner

Morbid poet or Canny Pre-Planner? It’s inspiring to note that America’s most death-preoccupied poet (known for writing “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,”“Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me;” and “I was always attached to mud”) died in her own sunny bedroom 129 years ago this week, was then placed in a white casket on a pine bier in the parlor, honored with a 130-line obituary in the local newspaper, and was lovingly buried with two heliotropes in her hands at a gorgeous graveside service that involved other May-blooming flowers she had studiously reared (when in better health) in her own garden. Who gets an end-of-life roll-out like that any more? Mostly only those who think a lot about death in advance.

She’d be pleased with us, sitting here, talking about her funeral. “We do not think enough of the Dead as exhilarants,” she wrote. What a soul, what an intellect. She shocks and enlightens us today with her death-inspired insights. For example, she said any death, all death, reliably comes as a “stupendous” surprise (even when that death is long-awaited and anticipated). This is certainly true to my experience. She wrote, “All other Surprise is at last monotonous, but the death of the Loved is all moments–now.”

For her funeral May 19th, 1886, Dickinson’s pall bearers walked her casket from the parlor to the cemetery in Amherst, Massachusetts, as her grave lay just beyond the fence line of the elegant home where she lived all her life. There, her friend Thomas Wentworth Higginson read Emily Bronte’s poem “No Coward Soul is Mine,” a piece which could be interpreted as slightly more religious than Dickinson was in her final years, but you can decide for yourself when you read it, and start thinking about what poems you’d like recited when you too are dead, when “subterfuge is done,” and when the temporary and the eternal “Apart–intrinsic–stand.”
Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson in the flower

No Coward Soul Is Mine

By Emily Bronte

No coward soul is mine,

No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:

I see Heaven’s glories shine,

And faith shines equal, arming me from Fear.

O God within my breast,

Almighty, ever-present Deity!

Life – that in me hast rest,

As I – Undying Life- have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain;

Worthless as withered weeds

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by Thine infinity;

So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love

Thy Spirit animates eternal years,

Pervades and broods above,

Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though Earth and moon were gone,

And suns and universes ceased to be,

And Thou wert left alone,

Every Existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,

Nor atom that his might could render void:

Thou art Being and Breath,

And what Thou art may never be destroyed.