Natural Burial

I started 17th Century Metaphysical Poetry this week with my classes, and yesterday one of the poems we discussed was "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne. It goes like this:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

The poem is one of Donne's Holy Sonnets. He had unenthusiastically entered the ministry at the insistence of King James, and his quick wit, his flair for the dramatic, and his rolling intellect had established him as the mega-rock star preacher of his era. In the poem, the speaker condescendingly confronts Death and personifies him as a tool, a cocksure pawn of Fate, Chance, and desperate men. For the believer, death is really a peaceful little nap at the start of eternal life. Yet he runs around like a bluffing bully. The cacophonous couplet at the end reveals that the joke is on Death. While we wake eternally, death dies.

I'm not sure about all that, but what I do know is that I dig the gist.

So naturally, I had a dream last night about my death. It wasn't a morbid or a disturbing dream. It was one of those dreams where I was thinking, sort of awake. I was contemplating my own little nap and how I hope it goes down. Here's what I dreamt:

When I die, dig a hole in the woods about two meters deep in Newton County, Arkansas or in the Blue Ridge somewhere, 20 or 30 yards away from a waterfall or a bluff or a big, old tree where woodpeckers hang out. Wrap my body in a linen shroud and place it in the hole. No embalming fluids, no incineration, no concrete vault. Cover me up with some soil and relocate a dogwood, a wild blueberry bush, blackberries and raspberries for the bears, some dwarf lilies, mayapples, and ferns. I love ferns. Or just spread some rich duff and fallen leaves; it doesn't matter. One short sleep past, I'll wake eternally and death shall be no more. Visit the waterfall, the bluff, the tree and see what I become.

I'll send you off with a tune in your head if you know the Dave Matthews Band:

Gravedigger,

When you dig my grave,

Could you make it shallow

So that I can feel the rain?

--David John Matthews